We, as non-white, know too the reaches of injustice, but there are levels to its reach. It is Black people worse of all, whose backs have always been pressed against the wall, who are murdered in plain sight, that have felt its hold the most. And then in their fight for survival, they built their foundations anew and weaved a culture of beauty, laughter, art—from which we then take with abandon.
What have we given in return?
He could not breathe. Without the literal knee on their necks, there are still so many others that are constricted. Held down. They are barely breathing.
Injustice passes by some of us as words and pictures and videos.
For many others, injustice curls around them,
tangled at their feet, halting progress
clenched around their hearts—a heavy, persistent weight
wrapped at their necks, halting life.
Who are we to let it pass us by
Who are we to allow it to happen to others
19 years! I can’t believe I’ve held on to this for 19 years. And at 19 and 34, we are back. Lots of growth these past few years. Lots of losing, searching, finding, learning; lots of darkness and lots of light. But right here and now, on this sunny, perfect day in NY, I am beaming with happiness. Welcome home.
I feel bad for my mother. I think her children are stunted in the “showing emotion” department. We don’t show her the love and praise she deserves. We are stoic, though so is she. Sometimes I wonder if it hurts her.
She left us in the Philippines when I was 2 and Christian was 4. “She left us”—to put it that way is offensive. She sacrificed time with her children in their most formative years to lay the foundations for them in another country.
I sometimes wonder how much of that distance contributed to our independent nature. Physical distance sustained for 5 years, and when we were reunited, the distance of a mother working night shifts and sleeping through the day.
I don’t ever remember being angry about it. Don’t ever remember craving a mother’s tender love or guidance; I didn’t expect it so I never missed it. Did that hurt her too?
Looking back through the cracks of our memories, I wonder what she truly sacrificed to get us here: time, close familial bonds. Was it worth it?
Yes, of course it was.
Mothers are always a lesson in strength and sacrifice, and she–mine–was also a lesson in letting go. You can see in her face there is no bitterness and she smiles with that quiet pride. She knew how to forgive. She knew how to accept her children, as we are.
Words of love and praise are few and far between, but isn’t every fiber of me already a dedication to you?
Happy Mother’s Day, every day of my life.
I’m so homesick. Relationship-sick. Missing my friends and family-sick. Missing that bond that I’ve built over so many years-sick. Seattle has great and amazing people, but that sort of trust and companionship hasn’t settled in yet.
Not sure why it’s hitting so hard right now. Maybe the cold, maybe the holidays. Maybe something’s wrong that I haven’t acknowledged. Maybe coming to realize that time is an important factor, and that it’s not quite so easy building a community.
The people back home are doing well. Not just financially or with relationships, but they’ve grown to be better people. They’ve matured, they’re wiser and stronger, they are what I knew them to be-good people-but also so much more…and I don’t have to worry about them.
That’s the best I could hope for from anyone.
I miss you, I love you. And please don’t worry about me either.
Dear d30,
It’s been a very long while.
I am sorry that a lot of my past entries were lost due to time and negligence. I thought that the words I had written here were mostly insignificant and didn’t need archiving. I’ve realized that no matter how negligible I thought those ramblings were, they were still fragments of who I am. Sometimes it hurts(read: embarrassing) to read over the angst and confusion, but it is a very real part of adolescence; and a very real part of “growing up.”
I have come a long way since those first entries back in middle school. I pursued a career that I had never even considered, despite the fact that I spent all those hours, days and nights designing websites and layouts and graphics. I host meetups to bring the people I love together, because looking back on it, I realize how much I’ve always valued having people gathered in one place and just enjoying each others company. I have fought through the loneliness, the heaviness, and the darkness(those are not mutually exclusive to the teen years, though that is a conversation saved for another night), and am in a transitory stage of peace and understanding.
This is a place where I stayed true to myself, even if I didn’t understand the “what’s” or “why’s”. This is a place of expression, whether it was through words, pictures, design, or music. It’s been a very long while, but I hope that as I become more comfortable with who I am as a person, that I will again be comfortable with expressing myself.
xx, me
Experience is the meeting place of the heart and mind.
Memories are the remnants of experience; scenes from the mind and played out by the heart.
I try to capture in words and in pictures what I’ve seen and what I’ve felt, but as soon as I try to capture the memory, it becomes just a mere romanticization of experience.
I wish you could understand that feeling: rising along with the sun, when the air is still cool and the rest of the world still seemingly asleep. There were breathtaking views over a river and cliff-sides shrouded in mist—mist that disappeared with the midday sun and the view was as spectacular still. The humidity rose, but the road is shaded with green and where there was speed there was a comforting wind…
There is so much more….
but I’ll revel in what I’ve seen and what I’ve felt, half wanting to share its beauty, and the other half wanting to keep it all to myself.
Breathe. Reevaluate. Remember, and know, what’s important.
I don’t believe you can be genuinely good to others when you can’t be good to yourself.
Sometimes we just need to slow down. Stop thinking. Breathe. Reevaluate our actions. And just remember and know what’s important. It’s not easy because we have to put things down; maybe our pride, or the things we really want, or our egos, and even all three and more.
I really believe that the hardest thing to get over is ourselves, but once that happens, things are a little easier to handle. Things become a bit clearer, and the will to move forward is just a bit stronger.
But maybe that’s just me. If anything, just don’t ever forget who or what is important to you.
I love you (plural). And I miss you (plural).
I’m doing the best I know how. But you, how are you?
Y’all need to give me a sign if you still come around this part of the web ;’)
It’s quite cold in here. And this kitchen is as bare as when I first came.
My room’s gotten messy, but it always gets messy. Mhmm. I always clean ‘later’ though, so it’s ok.
This place has a lot of room with no TV to fill it with background noise, but I’m armed with a laptop and some DVD’s. That usually keeps me laughing – until I notice the time.
And then my showers are wonderfully hot and long.
Too bad my sleep is short and not very deep.
It’s easy to notice, and it’s also easy to not acknowledge, what’s there and what isn’t.
This pervasive sadness comes and goes as it pleases.
It doesn’t always need a reason, and it doesn’t always stay for long. It just makes everything a little darker, a little duller, a little more unsuitable.
Of course it’s never anything to dwell on because it comes, and it goes.
Everything gets so messy.