Poetry, Uncategorized

A People Person

 

I have come to realize that I am no longer an introvert, and perhaps I never was.

I like being alone sometimes, but not too much.

I need time, to recuperate, mend and think; a pause from the noise and filling it with my own music.

But I love people.

I love their faces, mind and bodies, all varying and authentic.

I love the words that pour from the mouths, some vulgar and others gentle and pleasant.

And my friends whose minds are like an open book,

Whose jokes make me choke with laughter

Whose closeness sometimes too close, I become irritable when I see their faces too often.

Even the people I do not know, with fluorescent signs above their heads reading:

“Enter with caution”

and

“Interpret gently”

They are a cog in a machine that begs me to ask how it works.

All of these people, and these people places.

Like my apartment, marked by the habits of those whom habit it

and marked by those who came before.

A lecture hall, with students dozing off, eyes glazed to screens

while their professor goes on tangents about their daughter.

Or at the back of a party in a cloud of smoke, hands grasping red plastics cups

filled with liquid that greases our gears, making it easier to open up.’

How I wonder what I could learn with their lips on mine, like my questions did their minds.

I am an extrovert.

A sieve, straining through people’s goodness and people’s badness, sitting on the shore of their lives

letting each wave crash over me.

~

Image: yannic_vom_kanal

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Uncategorized

My Response to Charlottesville

(Feature Photo: News2Share via Reuters)

Have you read the news lately?

To be quite honest, I was at loss for words when everything went down in Charlottesville this week. But one thing I wasn’t, was surprised.

Racism is as American as apple pie. The country was built by the sweat of slaves and the genocide of indigenous peoples.

Somehow, the moment Obama was elected in 2008 we suddenly existed in a post racial world. Racism ended. No one saw colour.

But, of course, we know that was far from the truth.

In Trump’s America, racism can be uncloaked and confident. It can spill into the streets carrying torches, bearing flags with mythical histories, and recycled symbols whose messages have murdered millions.

I’ve allowed myself to mull over everything the last few days; I’ve straightened out the facts as well as my anger over the entire debacle. I’m still angry, but now I can actually form some coherent thoughts.

1.Terrorism is the unlawful use of violence and intimidation, especially against civilians, in the pursuit of political aims. Charlottesville was a domestic terrorist attack, by definition. A car sped into a throng of counter protesters, killing one and injuring nineteen others during a scheduled gathering called “Unite the Rally” by a group of white nationalists, supremacists, Neo-Nazis, and KKK members.

2. President Trumps rhetoric during the election empowered white nationalists and his ambiguous morality after the attack has empowered them even more. Neutrality helps the oppressor, and instead of calling terrorists for what they are, he claimed there was fault “on both sides”.

3. White supremacy is not native to America, it does not exist in a vacuum. It has existed since European powers started colonizing the world, and has left its prints everywhere they went. Charlottesville was not a solo act. It would not be surprising if we witness a rally on Canadian soil as our history is not as nearly as untarnished as most people would like to think.

My initial reaction to the news was a sense of hopelessness much like I had felt when Trump was elected eight months ago. It feels like we’ve been peeling back layers of the world and finally seeing its true colours. But I realize that I’ve been able to silently neglect this reality because of who I am, how I look, and where I grew up that has allowed me to live in a comfortable little bubble.

People of colour have been living this reality each and everyday, they have lived with constant disappointment, that the colossal disappointment that occurred in January wasn’t a surprise.

So I refused to let this surprise me and let the disappointment hit me full force. I spent hours the past few days, watching footage, reading articles, and personal accounts of what happened on that day. I’ve been flooded motivation to do something though I’m not sure what.

While we could all focus on pointing fingers, calling out the racists and problematic behaviours, we should have been doing this before.

I think what all of us, but especially us white folks, need to do more self reflection. Ask ourselves, why does talking about race feel political? Why is it so hard to say white supremacy? Why can’t I call white terrorists for what they are? Why is your response to “black lives matter”, “all lives matter”? Why do I let my friends and family continue to say and do problematic things?

And mostly, ask ourselves what more we could be doing.

It’s so easy for those with privilege to not look at the headlines, go for a walk and live your life just as you had been living it before.

There’s not more time for inaction. It’s time for us to see the broad spectrum of colour and do something about it.

In the meantime, if you’re looking for something you could do, here’s a very helpful resource that can help you catch up on some very necessary reading:

 

Syllabus for White People to Educate Themselves.

Poetry

Sea Glass, a free verse poem

This poem just came to me, and its super chaotic with absolutely no structure, but I hope you can look past that and enjoy what I’ve written. Tell me what you think: 


The beach is sprinkled, tossed with shapes

Swallowed by the mouth of the ocean and licked by its waves

The shards of glass are softened, smoothed down, worn down

Now spit up and gargled, sitting

On the billion-particle lip of the Earth

 

Here one sits in the palm of my hand

Its coin sized and shapeless and olive green

Cloudy in texture, like artist erased its sharp edges

In which she pressed and frictioned every last bit

Of the glass’s sheen

 

It is a missing piece, maybe a puzzle piece,

The nose of some bottle

Broken

Perhaps if I let it sit there a little longer

Then it would no longer be

It would’ve rather been broken down in in the belly of the sea

Grated down to a pulp that nature had foreseen

 

In my palm the shard sits and I imagine

a person in a factory

Sweating

Blowing the bottles soon filled with blood red wine

And drunk by a pot bellied man who stained his lips

Pink and fat like a swine

 

Or perhaps it was a pastor at the step of a church

Filling the void with blessed words

As the people are prodded, swaddled, poked like a herd of sheep

Sipping each word like a sacred nectar

As the glass, picturing their saviour at the steep

Breaks their faces into different hues

 

Or perhaps it wasn’t anything extraordinary

Perhaps it was a glass in some nice cabinetry

 

But still in my hand it sits and I imagine other hands

From their hands sewn

In Earth’s sweltering heat, the lime, the soda, the sand

A creation she could not do on her own

Still a story, unwritten and unravelled

 

While standing at shore, water pestering my feet

I place the piece of glass down beneath

The bed of rocks, and shards, and shells

Back to land, the molten Earth, where it came to be

Uncategorized

Life Updates from a Twenty-Something

Long time, no see.

When I started this blog I told myself that I would write one blog post a week. And I did do that… for a little bit. There’s no such thing as excuses, but life definitely got in the way the last two months.

This summer I planned to be as financially independent as possible. After moving to a new apartment, starting two new jobs, I realize that it’s really difficult. But, I knew it would be.

May and June were tough. My summer class in Stats was demanding in effort and time. Nearing the end of the course, I spent 5 hours in the Carleton library, my head inches from the screen of my laptop, attempting not to cry. I cursed myself for dropping out when things got hard in this same class during the fall. But, I asked around for some tips, and after receiving help from a few individuals I ended up with an A-. I most definitely surprised myself, and couldn’t have done it on my own.

On top of Stats, my two new jobs were demanding. Their schedules overlapped, and in late May I ended up with 45+ hours each week between both of them.

I hear about my friends working for the government, making double my wage an hour, getting weekends off, buying expensive things and going on trips. There’s been many times where I’ve felt kind of bitter about working full time on minimum wage. It’s hard not to be.

However, earning and saving my own money has been rewarding. While most days, I go home to my little apartment and all of its plants, I make dinner and keep mostly to myself. I still go out with friends, I still treat myself to dinner from time to time, I still buy what I need, and perhaps at times a little bit more.

IMG_1991 2

I find at the end of the day, when I do come home from work, my body and mind are too tired to write. While throughout the day ideas still flow through my mind, endlessly, about what I could write – from Bill Maher’s n-word debacle, to Philando Castile, to SZA’s new album that came out  a few weeks ago – by the time I sit down to actually say something about them, the stories are no longer newsworthy. In this age, writing isn’t just a challenge in itself, most of the challenge is found in the timing and relevancy of the things you choose to draw from. Being tired and overworked don’t go hand in hand with this.

In my free time, I’m still writing. I’m just focusing more on fiction, which surprisingly I find more personal than my own blog posts. Perhaps I’ll share a story when I feel as though it’s been manicured enough to put out into the world. But for now, it’s just for my eyes only.

On another note, in a matter of days, I’ll be turning 21. June 28th really crept on me this year, so I haven’t really had time to think about turning 21, or even time to plan something with my friends. 20 seemed like a much bigger deal. Now it feels as though just another year has passed.

Perhaps I’m being so nonchalant about this birthday because I’m kind of feeling a bit self conscious. Heck, the other day I was at a party where one guy was talking about his participation in a Think Tank, while the other was going on about his internship in Uganda. While they discussed world politics, I was left in my own head, thinking about my customer service position at this little natural food store at the mall near my house, dealing with grumpy vegans and picky customers with a gluten intolerance.

Excelling is overrated, I tell myself. But really… I think I’d rather go slow and steady, making my way up this ladder at my own pace so I don’t suddenly slip and fall down. As a plus side, I get to see what I pass along the way.

Anyway, if you are reading this, thank you for keeping up with my blog. Every reader is deeply appreciated. I hope to come up with a better blog post in the weeks to come, and by then I’ll be just another year older. But first, I’ve gotta figure this adult thing out.

[Feature Photo source]