I turned 25 years old 3 weeks ago, and it seems to me that my relationship with ontology of time, or temporality, has transformed. Actually, it has always been changing--time never "flowed," "steadily." But I've begun to notice the fluidity of my time.
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When I was 9 years old, my reality consisted entirely of the milieu of elementary school; my desires, pains, boredom, frustration, knowledge, sustenance, communication, and growth were dictated by the normative time and space that were assigned to me as a 9-year-old boy in a small town in Japan. I lived in a small world. It's not that I was ignorant of the "outside world," or the "adult's world" because those were still part of my reality. I hated school, yet I believed I had to go, even though my parents told me that I didn't. Days went by slowly, and I looked forward to my favorite TV shows on Fridays. I thought 12-year-olds were infinitely more mature than I was.
I turned 12 years old, and I started attending middle school (which is technically translated as junior high school). I loved every day, despite tremendous emotional pain that I was going through. I no longer looked forward to any particular day of the week. The "adult's world" became a slightly bigger part of my reality. I thought about my future, how I was supposed to live with dignity as a Queer person, how I would be able to have a career in music. I was filled with hope and anxiety. I desperately hoped to maintain my friendships for the rest of my life. Time began to accelerate, and three years of middle school felt as quick as the final year of elementary school.
When I was 16 years old, I was more uncomfortable with the society than ever. I had more money and freedom, but I was feeling constrained, especially at high school. My sexual exploration had already begun by then. I started working among people of various generations; I was teaching swimming to kids, from toddlers to youth, and my colleagues were from my age to my parents' age. I learned so much from everyone, regardless of their age. I respected all my students and never treated them as kids. My work was a refuge from the superficiality of high school. I had some people to talk to, but I didn't really have any friends at school; I couldn't seem to learn anything from my classmates. It was around this time when I decided to do my undergrad in the U.S. because I had no illusion about Japanese educational ideology and no hope for universities in Japan. I wanted to learn Queer studies and gain experience in activism. I really wanted to focus on learning. I listened to a lot of English music and read Harry Potter in English. My reality encompassed this imagined place in imagined future: a college in the U.S.
I turned 20 years old 3 months after I arrived in San Francisco. Everything was new and exciting. I wrote about my sexuality on my blog and explained why I came to the U.S. I had been open to a few friends at work, but this was when I stopped strategizing who to tell or not tell. I was tired of doing so. Yet every time I went back to Japan, I felt silenced again. It felt like I had two entirely separate realities, an exciting college life in San Francisco and an awkward time in my hometown. I was growing so much from living abroad, but there seemed to be only minor changes in the landscape of the small town. 16 hours of time difference, yet the speed of time wasn't the same. 11 hours of flight over the Pacific Ocean somehow demarcated these two worlds, and I was always blissed out to land in SFO.
My 25th birthday happened in the middle of the Ph.D. application process. It was a daunting process that required a tremendous amount of emotional and spiritual work. I was working on my personal statement one evening, with some wine. Because my research interests are very close to my personal background, I had to reflect a lot on my life. I thought of my ancestors who made me who I am today despite their sufferings. I started crying. I begged them to stay with me by my side so I could get through, and eventually I came to realize that they have always been there. It was me who had chosen not to acknowledge their presence, and various external influences had also interrupted our relationships. Thus, I reached out to my ancestors, and I felt powerful again.
*****
As a 25-year-old, I have a new relationship with time. I have gained some life experiences; I can draw on them to inform my thinking. These past experiences also haunt me; mistakes I made, people I hurt, emotions I suppressed. They belong not only to the past, but in fact I need them in the present tense to make better decisions. I also have different views of what's about to come; I face the future with slightly thinner fogs. It's all in my imagination, yet I aspire to actualize it, while it continues to fear me like no other. I have a better sense of who I have been and who I wish to become--two aspects of my life that guides me to know who I "am." Thus, the present is no longer simply what I consider to be "now" and "here," but it's become entirely contingent upon so-called "past" and "future." It's not as static, rigid, or stable as it seemed before. It's no longer about simply "being," but it's all about constantly "knowing" and "becoming." The borders between "the present" and everything else, as well as "presence" and "absence" have become incredibly ambiguous.
The partial stories I wrote above seem to be in chronological order, from the age of 9 to 25. Yet they take particular shape as I re-construct them as my past, and I wouldn't have know how I would write them when I was living those moments. I wrote them with particular set of words, precisely because I am not in those moments. As much as my "past" influences my "present," my "present" creates my "past." What does it mean, then, to write down my imagined future? I've been thinking about new year's resolution. I think I'll try to eat more beans next year. But as soon as I write it down, or even as I think of it, it becomes my "present" and my "future," and immediately my "past," all at once.
Even from our daily experiences, we know that the flow of time is not homogeneous. Time at work passes very slowly. Hours in front of TV passes quickly. Days before the first date passes slowly. A year at the age of 22 passes more quickly than a year at the age of 13. Even the lengths of daytime and nighttime changes throughout the year. Why do we, then, stick to the idea that time flow is always steady and consistent? Why do we give so much power to our watches and clocks?
Western/Christian epistemology of time is driven by teleology, the study of the ultimate meaning and purpose of existence (which God had assigned). It's supposed to be that there is only one way, one path that all the existing thing will follow, in one direction, from the past to the future. Hence, there is of course only one reality, one truth, the truth, and only one way of knowing. In science, this is a paradigm called positivism. Knowledge exists as an entity out there in the world, and humans are supposedly able to own it by disciplining themselves through methodology, the study of the ways of knowing. The positivist historiography is marked by the concept of "progress," and anything and everything that are deemed as obstacles to this "progress"--nature, traditional knowledge, femininity, emotions, disabilities, queer sexualities, profanity, "uncivilized" ways of living--are to be enlightened by God's teachings, or destroyed altogether. Human life course is obviously comprised of a certain way of living: birth, growth, marriage, procreation, child-rearing, and death. Time is not only measurable but also a measure in itself. Time is a resource that one possesses as individual properties. This means that it's possible for me to waste your time.
Such a worldview does not have a room for my relationship with time. Such an epistemology of time to me seems androcentric, Eurocentric, and heteronormative. It doesn't have room for my coexisting relationships with my ancestors and descendants. Its unilateral direction doesn't account for circular and other fluid ways of relating to time, including menstrual cycles and reincarnation. There's no clear-cut expected life course for Queers. People with disabilities or chronic medical conditions may experience time differently from able-bodied people. What about people "doing time?" Such culturally specific, yet hegemonic temporality, ultimately, doesn't allow for my Queer sexuality and my cultures and traditions to coexist. My sexuality is seen as progressive, while my culture is seen as backwards.
When I was 21 years old, my mother told me that one of my uncles on my father's side is gay. I had no idea. I didn't remember ever meeting him because my father had severed their relationship a long time ago. The fact that I have a gay uncle (just like everyone else does!) made me think that perhaps some of my ancestors were also "Queer," although such conceptualization is both quite Eurocentric and presentist. It was a liberating thought; I no longer have to see myself at the end of a very long thread of heteronormativity, threatening what has been built over thousands of generations. As much as my ancestors and descendants are integral part of my existence, I am an integral part of their existence. I am not alone.
This new relationship that I have with time is enabling me to have an entirely different cosmology--one that allows for me as a Queer Zainichi Korean person in this historical moment to exist at all. I needed this knowledge to break away from the dominant system of knowledge about time, which dictates our epistemology quite pre-discursively. In other words, in order to "know" what we know, to view ourselves from alternative perspectives--to decolonize ourselves--we need a different relationship with time that is not so Eurocentric, androcentric, and heteronormative. Time does not exist out there in the world as an entity that we can somehow possess. Rather, time is relational, fluid, and complex, always experienced differently. Time, therefore, is embodied. (Well, duh!)
Influential Works:
-Clayton Dumont (2008) The Promise of Poststructuralist Sociology: Marginalized Peoples and the Problem of Knowledge, State University of New York Press.
-Avery Gordon (2008) Ghostly Matters: Haunting and the Sociological Imagination, University of Minnesota Press.
-Jasbir Puar (2007) Terrorist Assemblages: Homonationalism in Queer Times, Duke University Press.
-Linda Tuhiwai Smith (1999) Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples, Zed Books.
-Shawn Wilson (2008) Research Is Ceremony: Indigenous Research Methods, Fernwood Publishing.
Works that I think would have enriched this essay:
-Carolyn Dinshaw, et al. (2007) "Theorizing Queer Temporalities: A Roundtable Discussion" GLQ, 13(2-3): 177-195.
-Judith Halberstam (2005) In a Queer Time and Space: Transgender Bodies, Subcultural Lives, New York University Press.
-José Estaban Muñoz (2009) Cruising Utopia: The Then and There of Queer Futurity, New York University Press.
Kalinda Sharma.
Who else is mesmerized by Kalinda Sharma (Archie Panjabi)? For two and a bit seasons she's been wearing short tight skirts, fitted leather jackets, knee-high boots. Her hair always tied back in a bun. Slightly darkened lips. Her eyes pierce like daggers and she always gets what's she wants. Except the girl.
Kalinda is guarded. Like so many queers I know. Hiding from herself or those close to her.
If you don't know who I'm talking about you should be watching The Good Wife. This legal drama, and my current favourite TV show, depicts sex scenes with utmost subtlety , the height of sexy. Kalinda hardly ever gets action but when she does, it's on. And for a few long breaths we see her soften at someone's lips but never in their arms.
At first I thought it was the writer's way of being liberal by writing in a queer character but not going all the way to develop her story and relationships. But we are into season three and I know the show better. It's subtle. All sexual relationships in this show are subtle, suggestive, slow to develop.
Kalinda has a dark past which it seems is constantly hidden from us. Her name was changed. She lived in Canada. There's shadiness. She's an investigator for the firm who always cracks the case and for this reason she needs to be nondescript, unknown.
But her character is also doing that dance which is so familiar to me, I see it in so may dykes of color. Too scared to get close to anyone. Too guarded to let anyone in. Too tortured to feel anything or act on desire beyond a sultry glance, a shared drink or a steamy kiss in a club.
She is that archetypal sexy, mysterious, draw you in and spit you out kind of dyke we might have all experienced as a coming of age.
Read more »
Who else is mesmerized by Kalinda Sharma (Archie Panjabi)? For two and a bit seasons she's been wearing short tight skirts, fitted leather jackets, knee-high boots. Her hair always tied back in a bun. Slightly darkened lips. Her eyes pierce like daggers and she always gets what's she wants. Except the girl.
Kalinda is guarded. Like so many queers I know. Hiding from herself or those close to her.
If you don't know who I'm talking about you should be watching The Good Wife. This legal drama, and my current favourite TV show, depicts sex scenes with utmost subtlety , the height of sexy. Kalinda hardly ever gets action but when she does, it's on. And for a few long breaths we see her soften at someone's lips but never in their arms.
At first I thought it was the writer's way of being liberal by writing in a queer character but not going all the way to develop her story and relationships. But we are into season three and I know the show better. It's subtle. All sexual relationships in this show are subtle, suggestive, slow to develop.
Kalinda has a dark past which it seems is constantly hidden from us. Her name was changed. She lived in Canada. There's shadiness. She's an investigator for the firm who always cracks the case and for this reason she needs to be nondescript, unknown.
But her character is also doing that dance which is so familiar to me, I see it in so may dykes of color. Too scared to get close to anyone. Too guarded to let anyone in. Too tortured to feel anything or act on desire beyond a sultry glance, a shared drink or a steamy kiss in a club.
She is that archetypal sexy, mysterious, draw you in and spit you out kind of dyke we might have all experienced as a coming of age.
Toronto's Ohbijou recently released a really hot album. Metal Meets is a beautifully layered combination of sounds which will soothe and make you move. I asked lead singer and personal friend, Casey Mecija, to answer some questions for Wiqaable.com.
RRK: Casey, as you know I am so so excited about Ohbijou's latest album Metal Meets. Thank you for letting me share this with the Wiqaable family. I know you've been traveling a lot in the past year or so and have spent time in rural parts of Canada. This album makes me think about Canada's landscape, which I have only recently begun to appreciate and admire. Do you write better music in the wilderness? Can you tell us about Ohbijou's music creating process?
CM:The city is full of distractions. Whether it be friends, family, relationships, technology; I think escaping to somewhere that feels isolated promotes focus. Ohbijou went to a little cottage in a place called Dyer's Bay. Everyday we focused on writing music together. I think because of this our writing for the album conveys a greater cohesion from our previous records. Running off to the woods, despite it being the proverbial band get away was the in the end the most idyllic and enjoyable way to write and arrange this record.
RRK: This album is bass and rhythm heavy, what has changed since your last album?
CM: With this album we were definitely conscious of trying to take on unique approaches to each song. The rhythm section worked at keeping the album moving. We wanted to develop our sound but still convey space and restraint so I think the bursts of drums and bass are exciting and creative.
RRK: A few of the band members are queer, however Ohbijou's music isn't overtly queer and the fan-base is a pretty diverse group. How does this aspect of your identity influence the stories you tell?
CM: The love stories on this record are queer love stories. I think an audience can relate to these emotions whether or not they are privy to this aspect of my life.
As a band we receive so much support from the queer community and we are truly humbled that our music can communicate to diverse groups of people. What more could you want?
RRK: Your parents immigrated to Canada from the Philippines. How does their journey and the culture or your relationship with the Philippines influence you as an artist?
CM: Being Filipino impacts my endeavors as an artist everyday. For this record especially, I was trying to communicate aspects of my culture, lineage, bloodline etc...in our songs. Music is an incredible conduit to expressing yourself. I wanted to relay gratitude to my parents for their sacrifices in creating opportunities for my sisters and I. I wanted to pay homage to their hard work and success at creating a life and love in Canada despite racism.
RRK: What was Casey the teenager like?
CM: Oh god. I was definitely confused as a teenager. At one point I was attempting to dread my hair. It's actually too embarrassing to think about.
Humour aside, I always had an interest in community activism and am glad that I used my years in highschool to organize activities and events that promoted an anti-racist agenda.
RRK: You're back in school, doing a masters in education. How does this relate to your music?
CM: Being in school, reading course material and participating in class discussions have inspired a more contemplative inquiry into our world and how it operates. I feel like I ask more questions now. With music I find myself doing the same. I have begun to really parse through each lyric, each melody choice to make sure the end result is thoughtful and is the best that it can be.
RRK: As someone who witnesses the connection you have with your partner I am constantly looking for her in your music. How much of the new material is inspired by your current partnership?
CM: My relationship with my partner is everywhere on this record. Metal Meets is a love story; our love story.
Here's the video for Niagara, the first release and one of my favourites from Metal Meets.
Read more »
RRK: Casey, as you know I am so so excited about Ohbijou's latest album Metal Meets. Thank you for letting me share this with the Wiqaable family. I know you've been traveling a lot in the past year or so and have spent time in rural parts of Canada. This album makes me think about Canada's landscape, which I have only recently begun to appreciate and admire. Do you write better music in the wilderness? Can you tell us about Ohbijou's music creating process?
CM:The city is full of distractions. Whether it be friends, family, relationships, technology; I think escaping to somewhere that feels isolated promotes focus. Ohbijou went to a little cottage in a place called Dyer's Bay. Everyday we focused on writing music together. I think because of this our writing for the album conveys a greater cohesion from our previous records. Running off to the woods, despite it being the proverbial band get away was the in the end the most idyllic and enjoyable way to write and arrange this record.
RRK: This album is bass and rhythm heavy, what has changed since your last album?
CM: With this album we were definitely conscious of trying to take on unique approaches to each song. The rhythm section worked at keeping the album moving. We wanted to develop our sound but still convey space and restraint so I think the bursts of drums and bass are exciting and creative.
RRK: A few of the band members are queer, however Ohbijou's music isn't overtly queer and the fan-base is a pretty diverse group. How does this aspect of your identity influence the stories you tell?
CM: The love stories on this record are queer love stories. I think an audience can relate to these emotions whether or not they are privy to this aspect of my life.
As a band we receive so much support from the queer community and we are truly humbled that our music can communicate to diverse groups of people. What more could you want?
RRK: Your parents immigrated to Canada from the Philippines. How does their journey and the culture or your relationship with the Philippines influence you as an artist?
CM: Being Filipino impacts my endeavors as an artist everyday. For this record especially, I was trying to communicate aspects of my culture, lineage, bloodline etc...in our songs. Music is an incredible conduit to expressing yourself. I wanted to relay gratitude to my parents for their sacrifices in creating opportunities for my sisters and I. I wanted to pay homage to their hard work and success at creating a life and love in Canada despite racism.
RRK: What was Casey the teenager like?
CM: Oh god. I was definitely confused as a teenager. At one point I was attempting to dread my hair. It's actually too embarrassing to think about.
Humour aside, I always had an interest in community activism and am glad that I used my years in highschool to organize activities and events that promoted an anti-racist agenda.
RRK: You're back in school, doing a masters in education. How does this relate to your music?
CM: Being in school, reading course material and participating in class discussions have inspired a more contemplative inquiry into our world and how it operates. I feel like I ask more questions now. With music I find myself doing the same. I have begun to really parse through each lyric, each melody choice to make sure the end result is thoughtful and is the best that it can be.
RRK: As someone who witnesses the connection you have with your partner I am constantly looking for her in your music. How much of the new material is inspired by your current partnership?
CM: My relationship with my partner is everywhere on this record. Metal Meets is a love story; our love story.
Here's the video for Niagara, the first release and one of my favourites from Metal Meets.
Religion didn't dominate my upbringing. My parents are from different backgrounds; my father Parsi and my mother Sikh. At the age of ten I was reluctantly baptised a Parsi. I had no understanding of what the religion stands for and no real connection to the ritualistic practices or community. My mother was not religious so Sikhism didn't touch me till later when I was spending more time with my Naniji and Nanaji, my maternal grandparents. Mornings in their house began with the recitation of a passage from the Guru Granth Sahib, the Sikh text. I didn't understand what was being said but I do remember feeling still and calm and engaged.
I carried this with me as a teenager and more willingly attended kirtan with my grandparents. A community of people singing hymns, reciting prayers, learning and sharing. Langar, the community meal following kirtan always excited me because who isn't excited by homemade Indian deliciousness? I enthusiastically performed seva, or service. In this context it meant distributing plates or roti or dhal to the seated congregants. This might be where my commitment to community was born.
My grandmother was a remarkable woman who perhaps instilled in me a sense of social justice among other things. She shared many stories of being a young woman fighting for India's freedom from Britain, being displaced during partition and refusing to leave the newly independent India when her father was offered work in Canada. The family stayed. I remember distinctly having a conversation with her about how America was trying to patent basmati. We felt robbed.
I cherish these memories but specifically all the stillness we shared in prayer at the Gurudwara. We rarely talked about religion but some things really don't need to be said.
I don't feel like a religious person but I do feel spiritual and I am moved when I participate in Sikh ceremony. As an adult, and with the passing of my grandmother I have made more of an effort to learn about the history of Sikhism, what it stands for and my connection to the religion is reaffirmed; equality, justice, truth.
From what I know Sikh teachings do not say anything about queerness. It is the culture with at times upholds heteronormativity. In this article, Sonny Singh describes briefly the history and the values, and why Sikhism teaches Sikhs to stand up for queer and trans rights.
I never came out to my grandmother verbally, but I think she knew and she understood. She expressed her acceptance during a conversation about Deepa Mehta's Fire by describing the relationship between the two sisters-in-law as, "something that has always happened in our history."
Religion is a solitary and private experience for me so I don't venture to change the practice of Sikhism or influence what happens within Sikh organisations. But I continue to gain strength from my Sikh identity when I work in communities, when I advocate for social justice and as I walk the world as a racialised queer woman.
Read more »
I carried this with me as a teenager and more willingly attended kirtan with my grandparents. A community of people singing hymns, reciting prayers, learning and sharing. Langar, the community meal following kirtan always excited me because who isn't excited by homemade Indian deliciousness? I enthusiastically performed seva, or service. In this context it meant distributing plates or roti or dhal to the seated congregants. This might be where my commitment to community was born.
My grandmother was a remarkable woman who perhaps instilled in me a sense of social justice among other things. She shared many stories of being a young woman fighting for India's freedom from Britain, being displaced during partition and refusing to leave the newly independent India when her father was offered work in Canada. The family stayed. I remember distinctly having a conversation with her about how America was trying to patent basmati. We felt robbed.
I cherish these memories but specifically all the stillness we shared in prayer at the Gurudwara. We rarely talked about religion but some things really don't need to be said.
I don't feel like a religious person but I do feel spiritual and I am moved when I participate in Sikh ceremony. As an adult, and with the passing of my grandmother I have made more of an effort to learn about the history of Sikhism, what it stands for and my connection to the religion is reaffirmed; equality, justice, truth.
From what I know Sikh teachings do not say anything about queerness. It is the culture with at times upholds heteronormativity. In this article, Sonny Singh describes briefly the history and the values, and why Sikhism teaches Sikhs to stand up for queer and trans rights.
I never came out to my grandmother verbally, but I think she knew and she understood. She expressed her acceptance during a conversation about Deepa Mehta's Fire by describing the relationship between the two sisters-in-law as, "something that has always happened in our history."
Religion is a solitary and private experience for me so I don't venture to change the practice of Sikhism or influence what happens within Sikh organisations. But I continue to gain strength from my Sikh identity when I work in communities, when I advocate for social justice and as I walk the world as a racialised queer woman.
I just absolutely love their work, and y'all have to watch the videos!!
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"[UN]SPOKEN is a new digital shorts campaign by the Asian & Pacific Islander Wellness Center uncovering the lives of real Asian & Pacific Islander guys with real sex stories, tangled in raw, unspoken situations. These narratives seek to provide tools for young folks to have safer sex by unsealing voyeuristic snippets of the lives of young men who have overcome real life sexual challenges." --from their Facebook page
How often do we see ourselves reflected in various media campaigns against HIV/AIDS as Queer API youth? Not too often, right? Plus, those campaigns have mostly been only against HIV/AIDS, and we have had few opportunities to talk about what we're actually for. I think these videos are very important because they can create a space where we can have that discussion. And here are some of the questions I'm interested in exploring with you.
What knowledge, skill, or experience do we really need to learn or have in order to talk about many different kinds of flexible and fluid relationships we have in reality?
What does it take to create a community where we can have a collective sense of support, respect, and love for each other?
How can we move beyond the narrative of "protection," "safety," "barrier," and "fight against," which demonizes the very people living with HIV and AIDS, and actually start talking about our real emotions and feelings around our sexual negotiations?
How do we imagine our relationships to be, not as the objects of public health interventions (as "at-risk," "MSM," and other statistical-epidemiological categories), but really as the subjects of our lives, as the agents of our communities?
These are not the easiest questions to answer. In fact, there is no right or wrong answer. Yet I believe the dialogue needs to happen. We have already begun, to some extent; let's keep asking more and more important, real questions. Together.
I am Indigenous. My ancestors were colonized, raped and had countless atrocities committed against them by conquistadors that soon followed Columbus' galleons of disease and death. I have spent most of my life trying to reclaim what little remained of my people's indigenous heritage after 400 years of occupation, subjugation and genocide, by men who looked very much like Christopher Columbus, or rather Cristobal Colon (yes, that is where the world "colonization" comes from.) I along with so many Indigenous Activists and allies have taken it upon ourselves to educate our communities, families, colleagues and friends about the root cause of our collective suffering and begin to address these issues from a decolonized framework.
But this is beside the point. Allow me to address the question:
Why do "some people" call it Indigenous People's Day rather than Columbus Day?
Simply put: Celebrating Columbus Day = Celebrating Genocide. Yah, I said it.
To me, Columbus and other conquistadors represent centuries of anguish, broken promises and the destruction of eons of tradition. So when people, especially people whom I consider respected colleagues celebrate him and his invasion, it hurts. It hurts on a very visceral level. My blood screams and the marrow in my bones burn. I do not know if this is the rage of my ancestors contained in genetic memory but I do know that to allow this affront to continue is plainly, unjust and spits in the face of those who came before us. As social justice activists, we cannot abide by this rosy colored version of history. In order for us to truly be holistic in our activism we must acknowledge the past as it pertains to the inequitable present and future, of all oppressed peoples. It is blatantly disrespectful to invalidate the genuine need (and movement behind it) to acknowledge one day, out of 365 to be identified as a day of recovery, reclamation and decolonization.
Although, I am generations and centuries removed from Ferdinand Magellan's invasion, I still deal with my own internalized racism and self hatred that was instilled within the "Indios" of the Philippines by their Spanish overlords. My people are still dealing with the ramifications of systematic genocide, resource extraction, cultural colonization and the death of our gods at the hands of the European "explorers".
I would like to call on all of you to use Oct 10th as a day to self educate, open up that old copy of Howard Zinn's "The People's History Of the United States", find a local event; a teach-in, a protest, or a celebration of resistance and join, in solidarity with people who are still struggling for their side of history to be told. Don't just let this be another "day off" make it a "day on."
I will never celebrate Columbus. I will never honor the accomplishment of those who walked with death close behind them. I will never let the fury of my ancestors become silenced. I will not stand idly by watching the terror and pain of the Indigenous People's of this continent get white washed and Disneyfied. I will never allow the dignity and legacy of Indigenous People's who came before, to be sullied by the lies of the conquistadors.
I will never forgive and I will never forget.
October 10th is Indigenous People's Day.
Read more »
But this is beside the point. Allow me to address the question:
Why do "some people" call it Indigenous People's Day rather than Columbus Day?
Simply put: Celebrating Columbus Day = Celebrating Genocide. Yah, I said it.
To me, Columbus and other conquistadors represent centuries of anguish, broken promises and the destruction of eons of tradition. So when people, especially people whom I consider respected colleagues celebrate him and his invasion, it hurts. It hurts on a very visceral level. My blood screams and the marrow in my bones burn. I do not know if this is the rage of my ancestors contained in genetic memory but I do know that to allow this affront to continue is plainly, unjust and spits in the face of those who came before us. As social justice activists, we cannot abide by this rosy colored version of history. In order for us to truly be holistic in our activism we must acknowledge the past as it pertains to the inequitable present and future, of all oppressed peoples. It is blatantly disrespectful to invalidate the genuine need (and movement behind it) to acknowledge one day, out of 365 to be identified as a day of recovery, reclamation and decolonization.
Although, I am generations and centuries removed from Ferdinand Magellan's invasion, I still deal with my own internalized racism and self hatred that was instilled within the "Indios" of the Philippines by their Spanish overlords. My people are still dealing with the ramifications of systematic genocide, resource extraction, cultural colonization and the death of our gods at the hands of the European "explorers".
I would like to call on all of you to use Oct 10th as a day to self educate, open up that old copy of Howard Zinn's "The People's History Of the United States", find a local event; a teach-in, a protest, or a celebration of resistance and join, in solidarity with people who are still struggling for their side of history to be told. Don't just let this be another "day off" make it a "day on."
I will never celebrate Columbus. I will never honor the accomplishment of those who walked with death close behind them. I will never let the fury of my ancestors become silenced. I will not stand idly by watching the terror and pain of the Indigenous People's of this continent get white washed and Disneyfied. I will never allow the dignity and legacy of Indigenous People's who came before, to be sullied by the lies of the conquistadors.
I will never forgive and I will never forget.
October 10th is Indigenous People's Day.
It's been a week since I moved to London for grad school. It's a beautiful city, and the largest city I've ever lived in. I live in the school's student housing in south London, in a neighborhood with amazing diversity of brown people. Although I don't see many east Asians around, I feel instantly at home at a local supermarket because it's kind of like Lucky by Lake Merritt in Oakland. One of the more noticeable differences is that the cashiers are sitting in comfortable office chairs. Why didn't we think of that in the U.S. or Japan?
Inside the housing is also a diverse group of people from all over the world, or at least I assume so, given the student demographics of London School of Economics (I haven't had the chance to meet all of them yet). But meeting new people can be anywhere from creating some food for thought to nerve-racking for Queers; How "out" should I be?
With whom, whether or not, when, and how, will I clarify my sexual identity? This "clarification" is complicated because I'm not hiding anything. I'm not voluntarily hiding my sexual identity, but it's rather a matter of erasure--heteronormativity erases my Queer subjectivity, and it forces me to make this clarification on a daily basis, which non-Queers don't have to do, thanks to their straight privilege.
The situation is kind of similar for my Korean identity; with whom, whether or not, when, and how, will I clarify my Korean identity? But the significant difference is that it's much easier to "come out" as Korean when you're not in Japan. Japanese privilege doesn't disappear outside Japan, but I think it certainly lessens to some extent. Why? Because white privilege is the global standard in this particular historical moment!
And perhaps here's my internalized Western racist homophobia coming in, when I become more conscious and/or cautious with talking to people with non-Western cultural backgrounds (including Japan). Are all Muslims homophobic? No. Are all east Asians homophobic? No. But I take some time to evaluate and negotiate my relationships with them because sexuality is not so publicly debated in non-Western societies. I'd say it's much more nuanced.
Different bodies are read differently. And the bodies that are attached to a certain set of identifications and interpretations become normative. For example, the bodies that are attached to the word "gay" and what it's believed to mean are white, male, abled bodies. Of course, words are attached to the bodies, but then the bodies also begin to be attached to words. There was not even a concept of "homosexuality" in English until someone invented it. Now, there are many stereotypes regarding that word. But what I'm talking about here is larger than stereotypes--it's the power of discourse and normativity. If I were a flamboyant white man with tight-fitting clothes, I would be more accessibly read as "gay." But I'm not, and such normative bodies attached to the gay/homosexual/Queer identifications erase part of my identities and make it necessary for me to clarify. And yes, I am complaining.
I don't believe in Harvey Milk's philosophy that everyone should come out. I don't even believe in the universality of the closet. We all have different, nuanced, and fluid relationships with people we interact with, and we negotiate our identities continuously--not just one moment of disclosure that one can complete and get over with.
If Queer as a verb means to challenge anything normativized, my daily identity clarification is an act of Queering. Or even better, my whole being is an act of involuntarily militarized Queering against the heteronormative empires. And we fight by saying or not saying, out of respect and sincerity, "Oh, I actually identify as Queer" in the shared kitchen.
Trikone Chicago is a group for South Asian/Desi queer and trans people with a long history in the US. They are affiliated with Trikone San Francisco which is celebrating 25 years of activism this year.
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(originally posted on facebook on Aug 7. sorry it's not really Queer)
Coming back to Japan this summer has been both disappointing and refreshing. Disappointing because people just go about their daily lives obediently saving electricity, as if the politicians' claim to denuclearize the country is appeasing enough. They don't seem to care who pushed for those nuclear plants in the first place (politicians and well-paid scientists), and how it was pushed (by the U.S.). If anything, this whole thing only proved that the Japanese politicians have no ideology to act upon. No vision, no ideal, no nothing. They'll change their minds for sure tomorrow, when another disastrous incident happens--or not.
Disappointing may not be the right word, for I had already known how people were reacting. It's more like disheartening, watching the nation uniting itself as one ethnic group on every occasion imaginable. Right after the earthquake, I wrote, "This havoc will no doubt transform the Japanese society more or less, but in which direction?" It has turned out, as I feared, to power-boost the disaster nationalism. Alas, nobody knows that Japan is trying to dump tons of nuclear waste into Mongolia.
Some newspaper explained why Japan, a country that had been devastated by atomic bombs, was promoting nuclear development so powerfully to begin with. A lot of those scientists have experienced the bombing themselves or in their family, and they really wanted to find ways for peaceful nuclear energy development. Perhaps they were eager to bend the arc of nuclear history towards peace. I can't totally blame them, for I might have thought very similarly. But this is the very point where academic scientific experts are required to have political insight. Who would be working at the plants? Who would be the one to sacrifice? What would be the transnational implications?
One day before the anniversary of the Hiroshima Bombing, a Zainichi Korean organization held a ceremony to commemorate the Korean victims and survivors of the attack. This is not a history taught in school, for atomic bombings must be a solely Japanese experience in order to construct the nation as a peace-loving victim who learned a lesson from the mighty U.S. The Korean monument was not allowed to be built in the Peace Memorial Park in Hiroshima, so it was erected outside it. I believe I don't need to explain why the Korean ceremony was on the day before.
I was disappointed, however, that someone from the organization expressed that north Korean nuclear development needs to be stopped. From the news article, it sounded like this person did not understand why north Korea needed to develop nuclear capability in the first place. It also sounded like this person regarded north Korea as an evil enemy. Is that really the productive attitude if we ever want Korean unification? Obviously, I would have to slightly disagree with them. If your country has been at war with the U.S. for five or six decades, of course you'll want a nuclear weapon to defend yourself, especially when that's the only card that's been truly helpful in bringing the U.S. to the table for peace talks. I do believe in denuclearization of the entire world, but we can't just believe what the bully tells us. We have to look at the history and think for ourselves. We have to check our assumptions.
It's easy to say you're against nuclear everything. But are you willing to do what it takes? Are you willing to cook rice in a pot instead of a rice cooker? Are you willing to ride a bike instead of driving a car? Are you willing to use a fan instead of an A/C? Are you willing to only eat locally produced foods? Are you willing to pick up a guitar instead of an iPod? Are you willing to study from both books and other People instead of a flatscreen TV? Are you willing to study at all?
I am, and I'm hopeful. I believe in human creativity. We are stupid, ignorant, and miserably destructive. But I am still here alive because of the Power within.
My homecoming has also been refreshing because of the people I love. I have grown up enough to recognize the beauty I have always been surrounded by. It's also because of the people I meet, who remind me that I'm not struggling alone. This summer, I am finally comfortable calling this place (a) home.
Inside Out, Toronto's premiere LGBT Film and Video Festival starts in a week! Visit their site to check the schedule and buy your tickets.
I am super excited about Together, With Love from Le(z)Banon and Pa(lez)tine, Cirumstance, Weekend and the Queer Video Mentorship Project
Last year I spent three (very queer-less) months in India, and arrived back in Toronto the day before Inside Out started. It was the festival that brought me back to my life here, made me feel a little more normal and re-connected me to the city and the queer community. Obviously I have a soft spot for Inside out!
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I am super excited about Together, With Love from Le(z)Banon and Pa(lez)tine, Cirumstance, Weekend and the Queer Video Mentorship Project
Last year I spent three (very queer-less) months in India, and arrived back in Toronto the day before Inside Out started. It was the festival that brought me back to my life here, made me feel a little more normal and re-connected me to the city and the queer community. Obviously I have a soft spot for Inside out!
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