I am not that brave.
The brave I am is leaving,
choosing to be alone and isolating myself,
even though I'm pretty sure I actually hate it.
The brave I am is choosing me,
instead of fighting on and drowning in the ashes
for the greater good of everyone else.
The brave I am is doing things scared,
because I know the fear is trying to protect me,
but it won't make me happy.
The brave I am is feeling the hurt,
listening to what it wants to tell me,
knowing that that is how I will heal.
The brave I am is opening my heart,
at the risk of getting it broken,
so that it can fill up with love and softness.
The brave I am is having hope,
in a world that is determined to disappoint me,
because it is the only way I will survive.
The brave I am may not be yours;
it is searching for flashes of light
in a dark and damp place,
and it can be lonely,
and sometimes it looks a bit like self-sabotage.
But it is what I've got,
and that has to be enough.
Monday, 11 November 2024
A random man at a club in Amsterdam once sniffed me (it was as weird as it sounds) and asked, "Why do you smell like that? Not like sweat or soap or perfume or anything, just like... you."
When all I did was shrug and go "Uhhh", his follow-up question was "Wait a minute, are you Asian??!"
"Yes..."
"You must have that gene that makes your sweat not smell."
And that's how I found out about the ABCC11 gene.
It's a thing I did not yet know about, but does explain some aspects of my life I don't think about.
Thanks, guy.
When all I did was shrug and go "Uhhh", his follow-up question was "Wait a minute, are you Asian??!"
"Yes..."
"You must have that gene that makes your sweat not smell."
And that's how I found out about the ABCC11 gene.
It's a thing I did not yet know about, but does explain some aspects of my life I don't think about.
Thanks, guy.
Monday, 4 November 2024
Standing on the mountain of everything I've accomplished and gone through and overcome, I am strong and tough as nails and, oh my lord, so fucking resilient.
At least, that's how it can feel on the outside.
My insides, though... They are soft and squishy, a sticky mess of unhealed traumas and hurt and shame and disappointment.
It goes deep, because I have carved out a comfortable, thick cocoon for myself within which I can hide it all away. But that doesn't stop the moments when it bubbles up to the surface and my insides spill out through my ears and my mouth. Or maybe it comes from the heart.
It ends up all around me and, suddenly face-to-face with everything I've been purposely and unknowingly avoiding, I do an awkward dance between quickly shoving each piece back inside in one big gulp, and releasing it into the great wide open as a fiery rage that I have spent decades nursing and feeding and keeping alive.
But seeing it in front of me, swallowing it whole is difficult. I want to shout at everyone instead; a misplaced(?) anger at the world and all the people in it.
People I've known and could never have known.
People I love and care about, and people who couldn't give a shit.
Myself.
Then I think about little me, and all the times she needed protection but was ignored or not believed or pushed aside or excluded or even punished. She never learned how to say what she wanted or needed (because it was greedy), and she never learned how to stand up for herself (because it was rude).
After I had the almost-burnout a couple years ago, my therapist asked, "Who protects you?"
I didn't have an answer.
Or the answer was "Nobody".
I did cry about it, though. It was painful to realise, because even then, there were some people I was counting on to look out for me who I felt let me down. So in the end, when I was exhausted and broken and angry and sad, I was forced to reckon with the reality that it's me... Only me.
Alone again, like 5-year-old me who spent hours at a time on her own because she couldn't finish her dinner or because she accidentally knocked the toilet roll into the toilet or because her anxiety meant she didn't dare say the prayer at meal time.
Or her at 3 years old with a broken leg that was dismissed despite her tears and cries of pain because fathers are busy and imperfect or something.
Or older, at 13, awakened in the night and staying very still, pretending to be asleep, wishing she hadn't woken up because not knowing what was happening seemed like the easier option.
All of them waiting for someone to save her.
There were times an angel would come, but many times, they did not.
So, anyway, I forgot there was a third option besides fight or flight. I'd been afraid to hold it and actually look at my gooey inside mess. But I had a peek. And maybe I'll have another peek later on.
For the time being, some key takeaways now that I'm an adult who makes her own choices:
At least, that's how it can feel on the outside.
My insides, though... They are soft and squishy, a sticky mess of unhealed traumas and hurt and shame and disappointment.
It goes deep, because I have carved out a comfortable, thick cocoon for myself within which I can hide it all away. But that doesn't stop the moments when it bubbles up to the surface and my insides spill out through my ears and my mouth. Or maybe it comes from the heart.
It ends up all around me and, suddenly face-to-face with everything I've been purposely and unknowingly avoiding, I do an awkward dance between quickly shoving each piece back inside in one big gulp, and releasing it into the great wide open as a fiery rage that I have spent decades nursing and feeding and keeping alive.
But seeing it in front of me, swallowing it whole is difficult. I want to shout at everyone instead; a misplaced(?) anger at the world and all the people in it.
People I've known and could never have known.
People I love and care about, and people who couldn't give a shit.
Myself.
Then I think about little me, and all the times she needed protection but was ignored or not believed or pushed aside or excluded or even punished. She never learned how to say what she wanted or needed (because it was greedy), and she never learned how to stand up for herself (because it was rude).
After I had the almost-burnout a couple years ago, my therapist asked, "Who protects you?"
I didn't have an answer.
Or the answer was "Nobody".
I did cry about it, though. It was painful to realise, because even then, there were some people I was counting on to look out for me who I felt let me down. So in the end, when I was exhausted and broken and angry and sad, I was forced to reckon with the reality that it's me... Only me.
Alone again, like 5-year-old me who spent hours at a time on her own because she couldn't finish her dinner or because she accidentally knocked the toilet roll into the toilet or because her anxiety meant she didn't dare say the prayer at meal time.
Or her at 3 years old with a broken leg that was dismissed despite her tears and cries of pain because fathers are busy and imperfect or something.
Or older, at 13, awakened in the night and staying very still, pretending to be asleep, wishing she hadn't woken up because not knowing what was happening seemed like the easier option.
All of them waiting for someone to save her.
There were times an angel would come, but many times, they did not.
So, anyway, I forgot there was a third option besides fight or flight. I'd been afraid to hold it and actually look at my gooey inside mess. But I had a peek. And maybe I'll have another peek later on.
For the time being, some key takeaways now that I'm an adult who makes her own choices:
- Sometimes, things feel like a punishment when they aren't; I'm learning to tell the difference.
- As much as I believe in helping others and that humankind thrives best through community (don't worry, I won't stop doing that), I'm the only one who can really take care of me.
- But(!) showing up for myself also means understanding and expressing my wants and needs; I'm going to practice doing that better, just in case there's someone who can and wants to share the load a teeny tiny bit. :)
Sunday, 20 October 2024
Sometimes, a poem can spawn from moments that are not part of a huge existential shift.
Sometimes, it's just one random, inconsequential sentence that can inspire you (me).
This is what that can look like.
Everything Elusive
Sleep eludes me,
like all the sunrises I missed,
the wants and needs I pushed away,
the lips I never kissed;
like the younger me
I didn't mean to leave so far behind,
the hopes and dreams that could not be
each one that slipped my mind.
Sleep eludes me,
and a new day quietly begins,
before I have the chance
to find forgiveness for my sins,
to treat myself more kindly,
with gratitude and grace,
to balance between reaching out
and giving us some space.
Sleep eludes me,
but the nightmares do not cease;
the horrors persist through it all,
interrupt my inner peace.
They cling tightly to the darkness
that lives behind my eyes,
and though it stings, I try again,
to make "hello"s from "goodbye"s.
Sometimes, it's just one random, inconsequential sentence that can inspire you (me).
This is what that can look like.
Sleep eludes me,
like all the sunrises I missed,
the wants and needs I pushed away,
the lips I never kissed;
like the younger me
I didn't mean to leave so far behind,
the hopes and dreams that could not be
each one that slipped my mind.
Sleep eludes me,
and a new day quietly begins,
before I have the chance
to find forgiveness for my sins,
to treat myself more kindly,
with gratitude and grace,
to balance between reaching out
and giving us some space.
Sleep eludes me,
but the nightmares do not cease;
the horrors persist through it all,
interrupt my inner peace.
They cling tightly to the darkness
that lives behind my eyes,
and though it stings, I try again,
to make "hello"s from "goodbye"s.
Thursday, 29 August 2024
The Light Switch
The edges slowly peel away,
revealing a softness, warm and fragile.
Tender pink flesh, plump and hopeful,
almost form the creases of a smile.
Peering in through the looking glass,
it's clear that something here is broken.
An echo drifting in the wind
of words deeply felt but left unspoken.
Rolling down her cheek,
a sadness leaves a trail across her face.
It drips quietly from her chin
to find its final resting place.
Each breath she draws is heavy,
a weight that can't be quickly lifted.
Another her might have let it go,
but this one's rather gifted.
She's studied it so intensely
that the cracks have begun to show.
But the more she tries to fill the holes,
the more they stretch and grow.
If the road she travels only moves in circles,
how far will she eventually get?
Round
and round
and round she goes,
on a route that was long ago set.
She crosses the same streets time and again,
passing old familiar shadows lurking.
Not brave enough to switch on the light just yet;
why fix what's still working?
The edges slowly peel away,
revealing a softness, warm and fragile.
Tender pink flesh, plump and hopeful,
almost form the creases of a smile.
Peering in through the looking glass,
it's clear that something here is broken.
An echo drifting in the wind
of words deeply felt but left unspoken.
Rolling down her cheek,
a sadness leaves a trail across her face.
It drips quietly from her chin
to find its final resting place.
Each breath she draws is heavy,
a weight that can't be quickly lifted.
Another her might have let it go,
but this one's rather gifted.
She's studied it so intensely
that the cracks have begun to show.
But the more she tries to fill the holes,
the more they stretch and grow.
If the road she travels only moves in circles,
how far will she eventually get?
Round
and round
and round she goes,
on a route that was long ago set.
She crosses the same streets time and again,
passing old familiar shadows lurking.
Not brave enough to switch on the light just yet;
why fix what's still working?
Tuesday, 2 July 2024
June has been quite the month. Like most Junes before it, it started with the end of May. But then a difficult May. So, on what looked like a random Saturday (coincidentally the 1st of June), I did a workout. And another one the next day. And again.
It was all unplanned and just kind of happened, but at the end of the month, I'd done that for 28 out of 30 days.
Nobody cares, but this is what I did:
1 June: Run (5km), 25 mins + Bouldering, 2 hours
2 June: High intensity interval training, 35 mins
3 June: Weight training (back & biceps), 45 mins
4 June: Weight training (legs), 45 mins
5 June: Run (9.3km), 56 mins -> This one was a surprise, because I didn't want to run and it was 10:30PM, but it felt weirdly good and became my longest run in 1.5 years
6 June: Weight training (chest & triceps), 45 mins
7 June: Weight training (full body), 1 hour
8 June: Bouldering, 1 hour 55 mins
9 June: Run (6.5km), 38 mins
10 June: High intensity interval training (light weights), 35 mins
11 June: Weight training (legs), 50 mins
12 June: Run (11.7km), 1 hour 11 mins
13 June: Weight training (shoulders & core), 45 mins
14 June: Weight training (glutes & core), 50 mins
15 June: Run (8km), 52 mins
16 June: Bouldering, 2 hours 10 mins
17 June: Weight training (full body), 1 hour
18 June: High intensity interval training, 45 mins
19 June: Run (8.5km), 54 mins
20 June: Rest -> Attended an all-day conference 1.5 hours away
21 June: Weight training (full body), 50 mins
22 June: Bouldering, 1 hour 40 mins
23 June: Run (8.2km), 52 mins
24 June: Weight training (arms & abs), 45 mins
25 June: Weight training (glutes, hamstrings & back), 55 mins
26 June: Run (12.5km), 1 hour 18 mins
27 June: Rest -> Felt like shit
28 June: Weight training (full body), 1 hour
29 June: Bouldering, 2 hours 40 mins -> Hadn't done such a long session before, but I was taking it easy because Michelle was with us and suddenly it had been almost three hours
30 June: Run (6.6km), 41 mins
And now that June is over, what has changed?
Nothing, really. I'm a bit stronger now and a slightly better climber. I messed up my left wrist two weeks ago and am on the verge of messing up my right one. My knees are doing okay and runs feel mostly good. I weighed 62kg with 24% body fat at the start, and now weigh 60kg with 20% body fat, but it fluctuated between these values for the whole month so I expect these numbers mean nothing to me and will continue to rise and fall with every measurement. I'm craving sweet things, but I always do that. And those two days I took off were tough, because they were tough days (not because I took them off).
What is the message? Maybe that it's okay to do some things unintentionally. Or at least be intentional about being unintentional. Something wise and profound like that.
Okay, that's all. Bye.
It was all unplanned and just kind of happened, but at the end of the month, I'd done that for 28 out of 30 days.
Nobody cares, but this is what I did:
1 June: Run (5km), 25 mins + Bouldering, 2 hours
2 June: High intensity interval training, 35 mins
3 June: Weight training (back & biceps), 45 mins
4 June: Weight training (legs), 45 mins
5 June: Run (9.3km), 56 mins -> This one was a surprise, because I didn't want to run and it was 10:30PM, but it felt weirdly good and became my longest run in 1.5 years
6 June: Weight training (chest & triceps), 45 mins
7 June: Weight training (full body), 1 hour
8 June: Bouldering, 1 hour 55 mins
9 June: Run (6.5km), 38 mins
10 June: High intensity interval training (light weights), 35 mins
11 June: Weight training (legs), 50 mins
12 June: Run (11.7km), 1 hour 11 mins
13 June: Weight training (shoulders & core), 45 mins
14 June: Weight training (glutes & core), 50 mins
15 June: Run (8km), 52 mins
16 June: Bouldering, 2 hours 10 mins
17 June: Weight training (full body), 1 hour
18 June: High intensity interval training, 45 mins
19 June: Run (8.5km), 54 mins
20 June: Rest -> Attended an all-day conference 1.5 hours away
21 June: Weight training (full body), 50 mins
22 June: Bouldering, 1 hour 40 mins
23 June: Run (8.2km), 52 mins
24 June: Weight training (arms & abs), 45 mins
25 June: Weight training (glutes, hamstrings & back), 55 mins
26 June: Run (12.5km), 1 hour 18 mins
27 June: Rest -> Felt like shit
28 June: Weight training (full body), 1 hour
29 June: Bouldering, 2 hours 40 mins -> Hadn't done such a long session before, but I was taking it easy because Michelle was with us and suddenly it had been almost three hours
30 June: Run (6.6km), 41 mins
And now that June is over, what has changed?
Nothing, really. I'm a bit stronger now and a slightly better climber. I messed up my left wrist two weeks ago and am on the verge of messing up my right one. My knees are doing okay and runs feel mostly good. I weighed 62kg with 24% body fat at the start, and now weigh 60kg with 20% body fat, but it fluctuated between these values for the whole month so I expect these numbers mean nothing to me and will continue to rise and fall with every measurement. I'm craving sweet things, but I always do that. And those two days I took off were tough, because they were tough days (not because I took them off).
What is the message? Maybe that it's okay to do some things unintentionally. Or at least be intentional about being unintentional. Something wise and profound like that.
Okay, that's all. Bye.
Friday, 28 June 2024
Listening to: Love Myself by RONDÉ
Last night, I had quite a not nice dream in which I was walking across a bridge when the three people in front of me suddenly jumped over the side and splattered on the ground below.
I was horrified and really didn't want to look, but they were people in pain and they deserved to be seen. This is the harshness of reality and it's my duty to bear witness, even though it's difficult.
So, I looked over the edge and saw some brains being quickly swept up by street cleaners.
I felt relieved that they died immediately and didn't "suffer", but mostly I was in awe of how quickly it all went and disappeared. How quickly someone can be here and then not and then forgotten.
Then, I sat and cried.
It was pretty intense.
Last night, I had quite a not nice dream in which I was walking across a bridge when the three people in front of me suddenly jumped over the side and splattered on the ground below.
I was horrified and really didn't want to look, but they were people in pain and they deserved to be seen. This is the harshness of reality and it's my duty to bear witness, even though it's difficult.
So, I looked over the edge and saw some brains being quickly swept up by street cleaners.
I felt relieved that they died immediately and didn't "suffer", but mostly I was in awe of how quickly it all went and disappeared. How quickly someone can be here and then not and then forgotten.
Then, I sat and cried.
It was pretty intense.
Tuesday, 28 May 2024
Listening to: It's Far Better To Learn by Saosin
Why are you like this?
I wonder,
but would never actually ask.
Because it's probably
just me,
messing with my own head,
putting words in your mouth.
You gave me the right amount of
attention;
it was just what I was looking for.
The problem is
I was always going to make it
bigger than it needed to be.
Because I think the universe
is constantly talking to me
and leaving me messages,
when it is more likely mere
randomness
and coincidence.
I realise I love to mourn
things that never were
and never could be.
Because what would life be
without heartbreak and despair,
without a little moment
of feeling, imagining, wishing
you were important
to someone you couldn't matter to.
Because I am a teeny, tiny blip
and despite my ego,
the world does not revolve around me.
Too bad, huh?
What is my body worth?
Why are you like this?
I wonder,
but would never actually ask.
Because it's probably
just me,
messing with my own head,
putting words in your mouth.
You gave me the right amount of
attention;
it was just what I was looking for.
The problem is
I was always going to make it
bigger than it needed to be.
Because I think the universe
is constantly talking to me
and leaving me messages,
when it is more likely mere
randomness
and coincidence.
I realise I love to mourn
things that never were
and never could be.
Because what would life be
without heartbreak and despair,
without a little moment
of feeling, imagining, wishing
you were important
to someone you couldn't matter to.
Because I am a teeny, tiny blip
and despite my ego,
the world does not revolve around me.
Too bad, huh?
What is my body worth?
Friday, 19 January 2024
Listening to: Slow Burn by Infinity Song
I had a pretty tough double shift at the shelter last weekend, when we had to ask two visitors to leave. That is always really difficult, because it means they will most likely be spending the rest of the night on the streets. And everything about it just makes me sad for everyone involved.
The hard truth is (involuntarily) living without a home is dangerous and the vast majority of people I know who have died were from this community. It's heartbreaking because they are caring, and sweet, and helpful, and smart, and talented, and beautiful, and hardworking, and selfless, and gentle, and kind, and funny, and complicated... And really, really screwed badly over by life. And nothing is fair.
Anyway, the following poetic feeling bomb was inspired by true events.
Who's Counting?
He only wants to take in
as much positivity as he possibly can.
Sit down and savour the blessings
that make him a happy man.
But he doesn't know where he'll sleep tonight
or when he'll get his next meal.
How much good do you need to do, I wonder,
if someone's counting,
if karma is real?
What is the price of having a home or going on vacation,
and why is it so much higher for people like him,
unlucky enough to be born with all the wrong qualifications,
and only one choice:
Sink or swim?
He heats up leftover food given to him by a stranger,
over an illegal fire he started to keep warm,
grateful for the shepherd's pie propped into a can
so he could,
for a little longer, weather the storm.
On a harsh winter morning,
the canals freeze over,
and sometimes,
beautiful, talented people do, too.
The sun stops rising for them,
a star disappears,
just because the points they stacked up and sent in to
a corrupt, unjust system
weren't enough to fill the void
between the found and the lost.
And I wonder,
if someone's counting,
if karma is real,
how much does a life cost?
I had a pretty tough double shift at the shelter last weekend, when we had to ask two visitors to leave. That is always really difficult, because it means they will most likely be spending the rest of the night on the streets. And everything about it just makes me sad for everyone involved.
The hard truth is (involuntarily) living without a home is dangerous and the vast majority of people I know who have died were from this community. It's heartbreaking because they are caring, and sweet, and helpful, and smart, and talented, and beautiful, and hardworking, and selfless, and gentle, and kind, and funny, and complicated... And really, really screwed badly over by life. And nothing is fair.
Anyway, the following poetic feeling bomb was inspired by true events.
Who's Counting?
He only wants to take in
as much positivity as he possibly can.
Sit down and savour the blessings
that make him a happy man.
But he doesn't know where he'll sleep tonight
or when he'll get his next meal.
How much good do you need to do, I wonder,
if someone's counting,
if karma is real?
What is the price of having a home or going on vacation,
and why is it so much higher for people like him,
unlucky enough to be born with all the wrong qualifications,
and only one choice:
Sink or swim?
He heats up leftover food given to him by a stranger,
over an illegal fire he started to keep warm,
grateful for the shepherd's pie propped into a can
so he could,
for a little longer, weather the storm.
On a harsh winter morning,
the canals freeze over,
and sometimes,
beautiful, talented people do, too.
The sun stops rising for them,
a star disappears,
just because the points they stacked up and sent in to
a corrupt, unjust system
weren't enough to fill the void
between the found and the lost.
And I wonder,
if someone's counting,
if karma is real,
how much does a life cost?
Friday, 10 March 2023
Uuuuuhhhhh...
I wrote something. :)
Inner Child
Hello, little girl.
It’s been quite a while
since I last saw you
and that crooked smile.
Where did you wander off to?
Were you in hiding,
or did you get lost?
Did something scare you?
Were you double crossed?
Is it my fault you vanished?
Did I push too hard
and too far away?
If I’d listened more,
would you have stayed?
...Or did I simply forget?
Were you always there,
waiting quietly,
wanting to come home —
or to be set free?
Is it too late to forgive?
Can we start again,
another good try?
Can we still be friends,
us both: you and I?
I should’ve realised sooner.
I miss you, sweet girl;
but hey, I’m here now.
I’m sorry I failed.
Will you show me how?
I wrote something. :)
Hello, little girl.
It’s been quite a while
since I last saw you
and that crooked smile.
Where did you wander off to?
Were you in hiding,
or did you get lost?
Did something scare you?
Were you double crossed?
Is it my fault you vanished?
Did I push too hard
and too far away?
If I’d listened more,
would you have stayed?
...Or did I simply forget?
Were you always there,
waiting quietly,
wanting to come home —
or to be set free?
Is it too late to forgive?
Can we start again,
another good try?
Can we still be friends,
us both: you and I?
I should’ve realised sooner.
I miss you, sweet girl;
but hey, I’m here now.
I’m sorry I failed.
Will you show me how?
Thursday, 9 March 2023
Saturday, 4 March 2023
"It was easy," I said, forgetting about all the difficult parts in between; the walking on eggshells and wanting to help but not knowing how to.
Forgetting about all the "You're so strong"s and "I'm here for you"s; how horrible and exhausting it actually was when we were in the thick of it and almost breaking each other and ourselves.
Yeah, I forgot. Or was I lying to myself like I do when I close my eyes and pretend everything is okay when it's not?
I don't know if I can do that all again.
Forgetting about all the "You're so strong"s and "I'm here for you"s; how horrible and exhausting it actually was when we were in the thick of it and almost breaking each other and ourselves.
Yeah, I forgot. Or was I lying to myself like I do when I close my eyes and pretend everything is okay when it's not?
I don't know if I can do that all again.
Tuesday, 30 March 2021
It is night time,
but the florescent light from the outside world
creeps in through the cracks,
illuminating the mattresses purring on the floor.
The sound of snoring fills the air,
like a symphony,
punctuated with notes of flatulence.
Haha. Farts.
I chuckle to myself.
The clock says it's five in the morning,
which means there's still an hour to go
before I start making the coffee,
refilling the tea,
handing out the breakfast packs we made the night before:
Twenty two little bags of two sandwiches each;
One with a slice of chicken, the other cheese.
Today, Ali asked for the vegetarian option,
John wants just the meat. No butter.
Seven o'clock:
I flip the switch, and the overhead lights flicker on.
The room shifts and moans awake.
One by one, they make their way to the freshly brewed coffee.
"Good morning."
"Not yet."
Some of us are not morning people.
Half past seven:
We do a round to gently wake up whoever was lucky enough
to have been left undisturbed by the lights.
There are thirty more minutes before they have to leave,
one hour before I can sleepily bike
through the empty streets of Amsterdam on a Saturday morning,
to the place I call "home",
where I will crawl into bed.
"15 more minutes."
There are still a few unclaimed sandwiches,
so now they are free for all who could use some extra.
I hand over the discarded loaf ends to the one who calls me "sister".
He seems grateful he can spend some time with the birds today.
"5 more minutes."
I collect the rogue glasses that didn't make it back to the bar,
throw the remaining drink and cigarette butts in the bin,
give them a rinse in the sink,
start the dishwasher.
Somebody opens the door,
and the cold air from another winter morning rushes in.
With everything they own on their backs,
the visitors step into the sunless, sometimes unforgiving day,
thanking us for our help,
as we close the door behind them,
wondering if they will be okay.
Thursday, 20 August 2020
Feeling: Confused
I'm having a weird, unpleasant week.
Let's start with a concept: I believe that nobody should be forced to sleep on the street. I think shelter is a human right. And I am a woman of action (sometimes), so I volunteer at a local homeless shelter.
Is that racist?
Does my desire to help people come from a place of white saviourism? Is it because I feel guilty for having things that I assume others may not have? Do I think I am better than these people? And if yes, what else am I supposed to do? Is not engaging in charity work better?
I am really struggling to find my place in the world right now.
I wanted to work in the non-profit sector because capitalism can suck it and the world is messed up and I want to help and I want to learn how to help. But this field, I'm discovering, is flawed, like nearly all other human things. And it has bad roots, and many of these roots are still growing strong and producing new leaves today. And it goes so far back and has snuck its way into every single cell of how the world blooms and caves in on itself.
How can we make this better? How can we still provide a real service to people who actually need the service, without it being a bad thing?
Is the difference in "helping" without having been asked vs. yes? Is it based on an assumption that these people need to be helped? And that I am qualified to do it? Why do I think I am qualified? What qualifies me? And if I am not qualified, how can I help?
Does the world even need my help? How do I be a good ally? Is that even possible?
It's like the closer I look at it, the more of the skin I peel away, I just keep finding more and more rot and I can't see if there's any living tissue worth saving.
Ohhhh, I am enraged. At white people. At my ancestors. At myself. At the men who decided hundreds of years ago to tear apart communities so that they could develop their own universes at the expense of the Other and then say "Haah, not our problem," when those communities are left coughing in the ashes and dust of the calculated, manufactured, disgusting, blazing aftermath.
I'm having a weird, unpleasant week.
Let's start with a concept: I believe that nobody should be forced to sleep on the street. I think shelter is a human right. And I am a woman of action (sometimes), so I volunteer at a local homeless shelter.
Is that racist?
Does my desire to help people come from a place of white saviourism? Is it because I feel guilty for having things that I assume others may not have? Do I think I am better than these people? And if yes, what else am I supposed to do? Is not engaging in charity work better?
I am really struggling to find my place in the world right now.
I wanted to work in the non-profit sector because capitalism can suck it and the world is messed up and I want to help and I want to learn how to help. But this field, I'm discovering, is flawed, like nearly all other human things. And it has bad roots, and many of these roots are still growing strong and producing new leaves today. And it goes so far back and has snuck its way into every single cell of how the world blooms and caves in on itself.
How can we make this better? How can we still provide a real service to people who actually need the service, without it being a bad thing?
Is the difference in "helping" without having been asked vs. yes? Is it based on an assumption that these people need to be helped? And that I am qualified to do it? Why do I think I am qualified? What qualifies me? And if I am not qualified, how can I help?
Does the world even need my help? How do I be a good ally? Is that even possible?
It's like the closer I look at it, the more of the skin I peel away, I just keep finding more and more rot and I can't see if there's any living tissue worth saving.
Ohhhh, I am enraged. At white people. At my ancestors. At myself. At the men who decided hundreds of years ago to tear apart communities so that they could develop their own universes at the expense of the Other and then say "Haah, not our problem," when those communities are left coughing in the ashes and dust of the calculated, manufactured, disgusting, blazing aftermath.
Tuesday, 12 May 2020
Monday, 10 February 2020
Sunday, 2 February 2020
Listening to: Noone Would Riot For Less by Bright Eyes
Becoming a Woman
a girl,
bright-eyed and keen,
finding her footing,
barely fourteen.
trying her best
to grow up and be seen.
befriends a man,
who should have known better
than to give and to take
much more than love letters.
than to ignore the fact that she was
not quite ready.
to disregard her not knowing,
her trembling, her unsteady.
than to not care
that she was too young
for 20-something-year-old hands,
greedy and selfish,
forceful and crude.
for what happened when
her "no"s were
rejected,
ignored,
and quickly subdued.
for carrying the blame
all on her own,
and not telling a soul,
and staying
too long.
for life-long trauma,
and trust issues and shame,
and believing too easily that
this was her name.
that this made her ugly,
and worthless,
and less-than.
for breaking down at nearly-30,
half a world away.
because of the same
stupid
fucking
man.
Becoming a Woman
a girl,
bright-eyed and keen,
finding her footing,
barely fourteen.
trying her best
to grow up and be seen.
befriends a man,
who should have known better
than to give and to take
much more than love letters.
than to ignore the fact that she was
not quite ready.
to disregard her not knowing,
her trembling, her unsteady.
than to not care
that she was too young
for 20-something-year-old hands,
greedy and selfish,
forceful and crude.
for what happened when
her "no"s were
rejected,
ignored,
and quickly subdued.
for carrying the blame
all on her own,
and not telling a soul,
and staying
too long.
for life-long trauma,
and trust issues and shame,
and believing too easily that
this was her name.
that this made her ugly,
and worthless,
and less-than.
for breaking down at nearly-30,
half a world away.
because of the same
stupid
fucking
man.
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