The written word, after all the research papers I have produced, has become for me a ruined thing. I haven't created a thing in so long, that I have had to read my past works to verify myself that yes, I did once write, and perhaps yes, I may yet write again.
Join me in my quest to rediscover my touch, my love, and my self.
domenica, dicembre 23, 2012
giovedì, aprile 05, 2012
Traversing Social Distance
I’ve travelled between East and West perpetually with a rigidity of gait born of insecurity. At times accepted and at others rejected in both worlds, the cultures of my Chinese forefathers and my Mid-Western existence, I’ve been conditioned to tread hesitantly, feet shod in uncertainty. Memory flickers like a candle that illumines incidences in the dark archives of my history. As I examine the pages, I am made to relive events from my childhood.
One memory stands out from the few I have of kindergarten. I recall that a play-time was among the first activities, probably to get us used to each other. I spoke to the other kids at least partially in Mandarin; there was a slight gap in communication for a bit, and the world seemed to convulse. I think all of us, only recently removed from the womb, grappled to express and receive meaning however we could, so we recovered admirably—my peers picked up on what I meant and I adopted full use of English. I didn’t realize it then, but this event would be the first of the contractions that would deliver me from one world into the other.
The next contraction would occur a year later, in the first grade. I drew a self-portrait and chose peach for my hue. I considered peach “the” color of skin, and thought nothing of it until a classmate asked me, “Why are you using peach?” I must have given him an expression that showed I did not understand why he’d asked that question, so he persisted, saying, “Your skin color isn’t peach.” I was flabbergasted by this revelation—my eyes had been opened to race as a construct based on physical characteristics. Disappointment followed shock when I failed to find in the 24-color Crayola crayon set a color that better matched my hue than the color one of my peers had disallowed for me, the color I no longer was, the color he still was.
I was born, then, and like a babe, I came kicking and screaming. Over the next few years, each day of school was like travelling to hell and back—especially the third grade, when I had Mrs. D., who was a veritable witch. I knew, unarticulated, that I was ‘other’ to her: she’d often mix up me and my south Indian friend, Kushal. She’d call me “Kushal” and him “Ezra.” How one could fail to distinguish between East and South Asians, I’ll never know. That she did let me know that we were consigned to the out-group, lumped into a faceless group of the pigmented, and I felt that, deep down. I can’t ever remember a time she was happy with us or anything we did. The other children picked up on this general disapproval, and we were made pariahs. My kicks were feeble steps, and my screams miserable whimpers that died in my throat as I lay in my disheveled bed on lonely nights.
I was convinced then that I could never arrive. Every member of a minority group born in this country is born dangerously close to stillbirth, near death. To the extent his or her birth into wider society is handled with care, he or she will accept or “buy into” the ethos of this nation. In that era of my life, alienation characterized my social existence, and I marinated for years in a sorrowful rage that turned into a twisted ambivalence between a hunger to prove my worth and a thirst to avenge my wounds.
The words of my father rang ever in my ear, that I must work twice as hard to compensate for my ethnicity, yet the fruit of my labor weighed never sufficiently—by society’s standards or his. I shuffled about in limbo, unable to see any way to advance or to retreat. A part of me died then, and what was left was a shell of the boy I had been.
One memory stands out from the few I have of kindergarten. I recall that a play-time was among the first activities, probably to get us used to each other. I spoke to the other kids at least partially in Mandarin; there was a slight gap in communication for a bit, and the world seemed to convulse. I think all of us, only recently removed from the womb, grappled to express and receive meaning however we could, so we recovered admirably—my peers picked up on what I meant and I adopted full use of English. I didn’t realize it then, but this event would be the first of the contractions that would deliver me from one world into the other.
The next contraction would occur a year later, in the first grade. I drew a self-portrait and chose peach for my hue. I considered peach “the” color of skin, and thought nothing of it until a classmate asked me, “Why are you using peach?” I must have given him an expression that showed I did not understand why he’d asked that question, so he persisted, saying, “Your skin color isn’t peach.” I was flabbergasted by this revelation—my eyes had been opened to race as a construct based on physical characteristics. Disappointment followed shock when I failed to find in the 24-color Crayola crayon set a color that better matched my hue than the color one of my peers had disallowed for me, the color I no longer was, the color he still was.
I was born, then, and like a babe, I came kicking and screaming. Over the next few years, each day of school was like travelling to hell and back—especially the third grade, when I had Mrs. D., who was a veritable witch. I knew, unarticulated, that I was ‘other’ to her: she’d often mix up me and my south Indian friend, Kushal. She’d call me “Kushal” and him “Ezra.” How one could fail to distinguish between East and South Asians, I’ll never know. That she did let me know that we were consigned to the out-group, lumped into a faceless group of the pigmented, and I felt that, deep down. I can’t ever remember a time she was happy with us or anything we did. The other children picked up on this general disapproval, and we were made pariahs. My kicks were feeble steps, and my screams miserable whimpers that died in my throat as I lay in my disheveled bed on lonely nights.
I was convinced then that I could never arrive. Every member of a minority group born in this country is born dangerously close to stillbirth, near death. To the extent his or her birth into wider society is handled with care, he or she will accept or “buy into” the ethos of this nation. In that era of my life, alienation characterized my social existence, and I marinated for years in a sorrowful rage that turned into a twisted ambivalence between a hunger to prove my worth and a thirst to avenge my wounds.
The words of my father rang ever in my ear, that I must work twice as hard to compensate for my ethnicity, yet the fruit of my labor weighed never sufficiently—by society’s standards or his. I shuffled about in limbo, unable to see any way to advance or to retreat. A part of me died then, and what was left was a shell of the boy I had been.
venerdì, marzo 30, 2012
Recent Political Musings
I've been processing a lot of stuff lately. I've learned a lot, too.
I've come to the conclusion that America (the USA) is at a point where we've lost any sense of telos. "Telos" is Greek for "purpose," and in this case, I refer to the overarching purpose of existence. The question of "why are we here?" was once answered by Kennedy's likening of America to "the City on a Hill." Modernism and even Post-Modernism have come and gone, and we are left, collectively, with nothing to live for. We've "lost the plot," so to speak. We are all sheep gone astray. This development has grave implications on a variety of areas. Ever since Vietnam, we've been doubting whether we have any right to lay claim to what's "right" or "true."
Along with the degradation of our belief in any telos, the tangibles of materialism and hedonism have become our gods. To that end, so many of our companies and their executives have been willing to ship our manufacturing jobs overseas. This phenomenon has left a trail of economic and social devastation in its wake—formerly working neighborhoods have become crime-infested slums because of corporate greed. On top of this, those we've outsourced our jobs to and done business with, particularly China, have stolen our technological secrets. We thirst for the cheap fuel of the Middle East. These are national security threats; we strengthen the foes of tomorrow by the business deals of today. Yet, these American executives keep going back for more, as the cheap labor (greater profit margin) is too difficult for them to resist—because for them there is no tomorrow. These executives and businesspersons are traitors to the American nation.
Bear in mind that I have no illusions about identifying my patriotism with my faith. I realize that in Christ alone is our true telos found. America has been substantially better about most things than most other countries in the last hundred years or so, if we're going to be honest. I just think it'd be a damned shame for it to all go to waste.
lunedì, marzo 12, 2012
Reflections on Politics of Sexual Orientation
The problem faced by a gay, chaste Christian man is the same as by a straight, chaste Christian man: the "unfairness" of having been created thus and allowed no partner. The argument over the validity of any one orientation is therefore a struggle over the unfairness who gets to sin more and get less flak for it, because a straight Christian is held to the same standards as the gay one outside of heterosexual marriage. The fornicating "straight" Christian is just as bent as the fornicating gay one, and much more so than a chaste gay one.
We shouldn't stop opposing homosexual lifestyles, but we should also oppose heterosexual activity outside of marriage.
We shouldn't stop opposing homosexual lifestyles, but we should also oppose heterosexual activity outside of marriage.
martedì, febbraio 21, 2012
The Kingdom, Eternity
We stand together at the dusk of a clear May day and look toward the setting sun. The sun colors the sky and our faces golden with streaks of fuchsia, and bathes us in a gentle warmth to match our camaraderie. There are no obligations or pressures in the here and now, as we revel in the grace that has brought us here.
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