"If I could choose, I'd have nothing to lose. But I'd be miserable then, so stay a while my friend. Never given a choice, always following the calling voice. Coming back for me again. And she says, "Jump!" And in the jump you remember the feeling. Maybe you'll never be reaching the ceiling but at least you're not touching the floor." Never O'Clock by Molly Nilsson
It will come. To unfold. Unravel. Reveal. Awaken. Transform. To recognize patterns. Habits. Behaviors seemingly passed on by shadowhand-like DNA wizardry combined with familial, physical and/or emotional blunt trauma. What is it? Bust through the "why?" The me. Investigate. Connect the dots. Make a hard left. Take a new path. The void. Complete darkness. The cacophony of consciousness. The feeling of being watched. The eyes of Shiva. Fentanyl x 2 as the guide. Six arms after twenty some odd nerve cutting attempts. Dislocation remedied by a white sheet. Darkness. Followed by Light. And more darkness. Habitual sadistic familial trauma in times of crisis. Homelessness. Abandonment. Victim blaming. Newlyweds. Financial ruin. Lawsuit. Self care survival strategies. Picking up the pieces. Navigate the in-law maze. Medicated. Sick. Broken. Sad. (Dis)ability. Jesus. Injections and realizations. Reiki. Acupuncture. Herbs. Massage. Wounded warrior. Hypermasculine. HSP. Empath. Self hate. Addiction(s). Anger. Rage. Rehab. Meditation. Cycling. PT. Yoga. Dance. Kettlebell. Pushups. Jungle gym. Walking. Stretchbands. Go Go. Pole Dance. Vitamins. Supplements. Diet. Ketos. Vegan. Pescatarian. Vegetarian. Meat. Chemicals. SSRI. MDMA. Therapy. Search. Seek. Find. Wolf pack. Tribe. Sangha. Connect. Brief moments of joy. Liberation. Sweat. Tenderness. Tears. Sometimes blood. Toil the soil. Add waste. Grinds. Peels. Tea. Stalks. Its decomposition fueling the life below. Sprouts allowed to mature to seed and re-bloom. A cactus stands erect flowering above and below. Baby broccoli hybridity. Watchful trees and Marlboro Black. Coffee and nicotine dreams awaken the fire within as I connect on a plane free from the murk. Detroit. Witness her. Controlling the elements. In a windstorm. Rain. Keeping on. Pulled the plug. Enamored. Looking. She knows. Synthesis. The mask. The monster. How did she come to be? Loom. The taxi. She's off. Amaze and wonder. That night. Awaken. Two men beside me on each side of the hotel bed. A black murky figure comes out of the wall. Grips hands and pulls me in. Scream. Go away. Awake. Contemplate. What is the grip? The twisted desire for drama? For pain? For familiarity? Understanding? Replicate and repeat the process until the soiled sheets shine albeit not nearly as new. Set the sheet on fire. Adorn colors. S.O.S. Social Media Savvy. Blossom in the night. Revisit the haunts called home. Seek solace in others. Lust. Long to connect. To be touched. Reap the physical rewards. Experience adoration from a distance. Connect without obligation or expectation. Resign hope. Resign desire. Totally immerse one's being in the physical space and find moments of joy within interplay and connectivity. The cherry blossoms have already bloomed. The flowering and withering of Jade plants coincides with body sculpting. New sensations. Look and touch. On the box adoration. Documentation. Praise. Repeat the cycle. Reach within the search. Make new objectives. Scissors guide and assist revealing elements. Alchemy in synthesis and desire. Transforming habits. Wrestling demons. Getting reacquainted. Witness her on the screen. Shouting in Japanese. Leathered up. Strapped. The sinister laugh. The slap. The power. The control. Patterns. Cycles. Sometimes predetermined. Craft excites. To mold. With or without volition. To be side by side. The byproducts of obsession. She. Scars. Imprinted. Homeless. Multiple. Musing. Creating. Creatrix. Peacock. Femme. Wounded. Mend. Flight. Witness. We explore the haunted. Grasping in the dark. Found in the wanderlust of spontaneity. Destination unknown. Vagabonds fueling up for another quest. Bumming around. They often go. Marry. Find home in the homeless. Often the lost of Israel. Neapolitan outcomes. Shift of priorities. Heteronormativity. Bowie betrayals. The box. Nuclear family dreams. Consumption. Vicarious living. Expectation gone wild. Her scar. Revealing. Kwan Yin. Compassion. Kwan Kung loyalty. Unspoken understanding. Working in concert. Finding home in each other. She glides her hands across the table littered with devices encased in ABS plastic and metal. Wires. Knobs. Twiddling. Noise. Craft. Vinyl. Gloves. Catsuit. Of German. Of Japanese. Chaotic musings disclosing fierce opposition. She of leather. Of vinyl. Stamped. Othered. Beyond. Rotate the dial. Tune in Tokyo. Realize the lost sisters. AWOL. Reemerge. Face the fear. Clip cut reassemble. Break back slug eaten leaves. Weed the garden. Reap the reward(s) manifesting out of the darkness.
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Nearing my arrival as Jihad Spice (2014)
Darren. Uncertain. Etymological. Origins. Great. Gift. Bewitched. Darren. Nerrad. Bok Fu. Max. Mr. Brown. D. Dare. Dare-bo. D-bo. Darewon. Brownie. Charlotte. Klenderfender. Bing Bing. Chong Chong. Space Prince. Jihad Spice. Creatrix. Peacock. Eva Braun. Names. Markers. Nicknames. Recreations. Reimaginations. A reclaiming of the self post-birth free from the genetic code that binds with an intent keen on perpetuating the self-fulling prophecy of a society adrift in a sea of suffering - the process - procreation and offspring. Birth. Categorization. The box. Four enclosed walls and vicarious living. Maternal desire and aspirations. Secrecy. Clandestine maneuvers. We roam. And find. Among the gallows imaginations intertwine offering glimmers of light in the darkness - opportunities to lessen the grip through strategic sharing, insight and transformation. Petals fall. As do leaves. And snakes shed their skins. Together, Yet apart. Techno soirees aid communications dreamed and discussed years before - premonitions of the future realized. Similar struggles. Navigating the systemic maze of capitalistic care, we fall deep within an abyss of self-questioning. We are diagnosed. We are stamped. Something is wrong. On the pharmaceutical hamster wheel of production. Produce and contribute. Or die. Legs twisted in the wheel. Limbs mangled, we emerge and recount the stories of surviving the complexes of the world. Realities cross and sometimes run parallel. Gazing at the wheel, we recognize the myth of meritocracy - and split. We take control. Cryptic comforts litter the binary landscape posing anarchic arrivals of identities suppressed. Slowly we emerge as we transform ourselves. Sensory overload as emotions once hidden emerge as machinery rebrands and crafts a new self anointed to fight, love and fly - treasures found beneath the oozing blood. The we. Careering. Multiple hats. Performing. Smiling. Assimilating. Slow death. The rot. Mind mush. Take another. Have another. Feed the emptiness. The closet of the mind. Mental arsenal inventory. Various ingredients chopped, slow cooked and stirred; its alchemy a result of combination. We don our wares and emerge. We arrive. The craving and the resultant carving - we find space. Attitudes, moods and broods. Praise, shades and disses. We outdo each other. Learn. Share. Get better. Morph. Like "Jap girls in synthesis" we confuse and offend. Outrage documented on celluloid for we inhabit a site of resistance in motion - we confound history. Out of the muck our wings flap as mud dirties the lens. The camera man wipes and we are gone. Home, we take off the mask. Shower. Observe the mirror. Question who we are. I am anarchic. Switch. Shift. An object. Pay me. To feel and absorb the sensual possibilities of crossing the bridge. And the bridge is me. Come down. Revisit the self. The third eye aided by the screen. Electronic documentation. Photos of movement. Global praise. It's all "1's" and "0's." Repeat the process as the singular yet multiple I - now inhabiting a space of cyber-reality. Express the suppressed. The longing to connect not just within ourselves but with others. The carving becomes tiring. To constantly carve. To search. To belong. To feel. To feel beautiful. We whittle. Our crafts a result of percolation. We reveal. We hurt. We emerge. Recreations become a declaration, a testimony to that hidden part of ourselves we are in battle with. Our movements beyond rhetoric - a purging of the mundane - an openness to spontaneity in which we find home outside the confines of the four enclosed walls. Inertia ceases as we find brief moments of liberation. In movement. In concert. We search. We arrive. "One of the first things an empath must learn is how to protect their own heart without shutting it down. It is a lesson in discernment and love." Feelings. Emotions. Stories. Sharing. Insight. Premonitions. And more feeling. Spirits. Ghosts. Demons. The void. A voice reminds me, "don't throw litter in black holes." Having a hypersensitive personality (HSP) or emphatic qualities is one of the markers of living with (C)PTSD. Multiple layers of trauma manifests in a hyper aware body that easily absorbs the pain of others in a knowing fashion. My abilities are heightened by the "supernatural" - seeing ghosts, leaving the body, feeling various energies in objects, people and places; however isolation has presented an obstacle - an ever reoccurring one - seekers in search of guidance and/or comfort. Providing comfort is an immediate response for an empath for they have been helping others most of their lives. In my case taking on adult responsibilities at a young age, living the death cycle coupled with delayed experiences in regards to milestones (i.e.., losing one's virginity, multiple "graduations" and accomplishments ignored) erected an invisible faulty defense system. Seekers seek and always find. Those in pain seek the sensitive for the light. For guidance. For a shoulder and an ear. For commonality. When the commonalities are so similar excitement is the result. The empath knowing the void so well enters the space of another constructing in the dark stacking building blocks of possibilities on an empty canvas of white shining in the darkness. Getting lost and found in the dark - similarities clung to as old friends. Bad habits. Fall deeper into the abyss of disenchantment. Longing and desire. Captivated by synthesis. Intoxicated by possibility. It has happened before. Empathic sisters walk by my side although apart - our thoughts intertwined. They knew. Didn't know the specifics and knew. My energy was pouring out into an empty well. Flowers spilling over the brick. Possibility. The body morphs as the soil beneath the bountiful garden springs forth its fruit. Sisters raise their hands and reach out electronically and exchange wisdom. To psychically ground. To return home. To leave the dark castle. The pleasure palace constructed with divine intent - masculine / femme - syncretic synthesis offering complete openness. The condominium of vulnerability. Before it led to mass extinction. Self loathing. Self hate. Drinking all the time. Powdery substances. Nicotine. Leaves. Food. Junk food. Anything to dull the pain. The familiarity of understanding. The pain that binds. The collective longing and insatiable thirst for something more. Collapse inward in the mind space. Neglect the body. Literally die. "You deserve all the honeys," she said. Process. Ride the bike some more. Watch the water. Observe the planes coming and going. Lift off! Flight! New possibilities. New directions. Locating that wonder. Finding that pulse and seeing it through. I will buy a motorcycle and ride it alone. Flickers of light along the journey captivate the mind. Thai body work on a "fit brother," Krishna cat-callings, peacock fierceness and octopus tenacity. On the box a myriad of lights showcase my wares - the contours of a body once beaten emerges in an incandescent glow announcing my arrival as I scan the crowd. She sits in her hat. Eyes a glimmer in admiration. The side glance opposite stage right. She dances. She speaks. We "Fade to Grey" as we reminisce. "Change Your Mind" croons Gary Numan behind a cake of makeup as we dip before the mirror - opposites side by side. Alcoholic lubrication alongside a sober peacock finding its pulse as multiple hands grab or slap its behind. I scan the crowd to a sea of open eyes a dazzled. Admiration. Connection. Strangers. Possibilities. Conversations. So much excitement I forgot my hogtie rope as I dressed and jumped off the box for the front room exit. I was greeted by Stevie Nicks. The first woman I ever thought was a "witch." I'm reminded of my blood sister and her affinity for Fleetwood Mac. I recall Prince crafting the song "Stand Back" as I lift my backpacked burdened muscled arms skyward to the angelic chorus: La, la, la-la, la, la, laaa, la-la La, laaaa Dance at the bike rack. Connect with a Bay Area Native cat. Suit up. Ride the humid night air in my vest. The air soothing my steaming pits. The quiet before the El Nino storm. My new ink exposed in more ways than one. Shedding skins and taking in. No more playing in the darkness for now. Empathetic love is priceless. It is a gift. Don't let it kill you. "Two different voices constantly call to us. One comes from within, the other from without. The one from without is one’s daily duty. If the part of the mind that responded to duty corresponded exactly with the voice from within, then one would indeed be supremely happy." - Yukio Mishima, Sun & Steel Happiness. Desire. Hope. Longing. Fulfillment. Such states are commonplace for those with (C)PTSD gnawing underneath the skin percolating to the surface in a sweat of frustration, anger and/or rage. The silent scream and the resulting sadness. Unheard. Unseen. Invisible. One may utilize a variety of approaches found in the proverbial "toolkit" acquired from afflicted fellows, therapists, spiritualists, and/or health professionals. A multi-prong approach is most effective; however, I have found one practice extremely suitable in my recovery - Go Go Dancing. I have been dancing since I was a child; however, such "feminine" activity was not encouraged for I was crafted and molded as a soldier and martial artist at a young age. Being referred to as the next Bruce Lee and absorbing a barrage of violent films extinguished this fire leaving my innate desire to dance sequestered in a tomb of apprehension and fear. As a young child afflicted with hyperarousal, I easily became aroused by music. Music videos, Solid Gold and Dance Fever mesmerized my young eyes. Dancing seemed like the ultimate escape - a stage on which anything could happen. My favorite video of the time was "She's Fresh" by Kool & the Gang. The video featured a modern day black Cinderella in futuristic silver attire ascending a staircase complete with smoke and mirrors. I was enraptured. It felt like fantasy realized. Creation. Fun. A wonderland. I would soon attempt to recreate this feeling in my bedroom with the radio blaring. My body gyrating. Two songs in particular come to the forefront - "Cuts like a Knife" by Bryan Adams and "Tarzan Boy" by Baltimoro. "Cuts like a Knife" felt similar to John Cougar Mellencamp's "Hurts so Good" only more dangerous. It also spoke to my pain and trauma thus resulting in sexual arousal. I would dance slow with myself touching my skin mouthing the lyrics. Alternatively, "Tarzan Boy" was explosive and I was hooked on the drummachine beat, jungle calls and storytelling. My liking of the song was met with disdain just as my penchant for the Culture Club. Baltimoro, a "one hit wonder," was one of the first mainstream artists to succumb to HIV/AIDS. It wasn't until I was a young pre-teen that I finally broke through the fear of moving to music in public. I went to my first dance in eighth grade. Looming as a wallflower wearing a trenchcoat and lacquered gelled hair, I watched my fellow classmates dance to the songs of 1988 with glee. I absorbed the experience in amazement and wonder. Peers dancing expressing their true selves as adult chaperones eyed the revelers. The announcement came. The last song of the afternoon - "Lean on Me" by Club Nouveau. I danced. I felt embarrassed nevertheless grooving to the cover song solo breaking a sweat. It was a temporary moment of release from the mind maze. The brain came to a full stop and my body took over. As a teenager, I attended the local punk rock industrial goth club -the Twilight Zone - every week. I broke through the fear of attending the club by listening to a close friend who questioned my assertion that going to such a place was considered "taboo." The first night I attended I sulked in my leather jacket. The owner Ray gave me a complimentary t-shirt to lift my spirit. It worked. As the last song reverberated through the club, I nervously sauntered on the floor and started swaying to the beat of Soft Cell's "Tainted Love / Where Did Our Love Go?" I left with a smile on my face. The following week I had my first dance with my dear friend to Soft Cell's "Sex Dwarf." I gyrated as if I was convulsing even before the kick drum began to laughter. Soon my attire became outrageous. I was a peacock. The rave scene had landed in the Bay Area via the UK from the likes of many transplant DJs. I attended gay clubs - the Mix, J.R.s among others - soaking up the "four to the floor" beat as well as the sights - Go Go Dancers! These ripped men would dance on the stage stripping down to nothing but a towel their members playing a game of hide and seek. Later I would encounter outrageous Go Go-ers wearing lavish outfits at the End Up in San Francisco. Soon I mustered up the courage to dance on the stage at Universe just as I had at the Twilight Zone. The space. To be carved. To exist. To be acknowledge. Not a "safe space" rather a "collective space" for which the tribe celebrates one's existence. The dance continued throughout adulthood but so did alcoholism and drug abuse. Soon, I did not like what I saw on the floor as I often glanced at my reflection in mirrors. I was fat. Bloated. Acne faced. Balding. I felt ugly. And so began a long spiral of self-hate and loathing. More booze. More drugs. A cycle of suffering - Samsara. When I approached my late thirties, I knew it was time for a change. A multitude of ailments persuaded me to buy a single speed bike and within months I lost eighty pounds. For the first time in my life I had defined abdominal muscles. I loved my physique and wanted to show it off by dancing on a box. Recalling the box at the Cat Club in SF, I took it upon myself to dance after my bike couriering shifts. I felt beautiful. Seen. Reborn. A sight to behold. A peacock in full bloom. Go Go-ing was short-lived though since I had suffered a serious accident; however, it took just a couple years to rehab my body and get back on the box. This time was different. I wasn't in the exact same shape and I was preparing for the Seattle to Portland ride. I didn't let this stop me. Weekly my outfits changed as well as my body - morphing into a slender muscled physique. I amassed plenty of colorful clothes - compression pants, tank tops, outrageous tacky socks, hats, bondage rope, handcuffs and gloves. I had broke free of the goth-mode of wearing all black by celebrating and showcasing the colors which are found throughout life. However things had changed. SF was no longer the SF I was accustomed to. The inevitability of change. The new clientele did not reflect the old demographic. Folsom was no longer Queer. Normals. Straights. Boring. As a result, Go Go-ing became as extinct as the Do Do bird. Taking it upon myself, I decided to reinject that energy into what I perceived to be a dying culture. As a result, I have grown accustomed to pointed fingers that are just as bad a being pelted by tomatoes. Ultimately this leads to the question of openness. To be open to experience. Regardless whether it is positive or negative. Relinquishing control. For when one lets go of desire or hope as to how things should be - love manifests. I inhabit love on the box as a peacock. Moments of disdain and praise or indifference are inevitable. However, I am seen. As I ride home alone by bike, I process the night's events. The conversations. The admiration. One night, Heidi - a young Vietnamese international student with bleach blonde hair and tattoos - bummed a cigarette from me as I unlocked my bicycle from the rack. She admired my "don't give a fuck" attitude. She said, "fuck them" to the haters seeing my beauty. She thanked me for the conversation and embraced me. I felt love. I found what I was seeking - acknowledgement, a connection and praise. I left for home alone. Processing. Dancing is a moment of liberation for liberation is not set in stone. One is never truly liberated. There are only moments. Sometimes I am captured on film and the resulting photos shared online. I marvel at onlookers admiration as I inhabit the peacock space. The totality of being. Of being me. For the dancefloor is the space upon which I am truly happy. I was born at 6am in San Leandro, California on James Dean's Birthday. Aquarius Rising. A Tiger. Born during Lunar New Year. I was a lucky baby.
I sit here typing recalling past birthdays forgotten by my family and loved ones. These forgotten days that many celebrate laid a dislocated foundation for years to follow compounded by various forms of abuse, injuries and neglect. The result: a bruised banana (香蕉) - yellow on the outside and white on the inside. Battered. Survival instincts instilled from the get go. I have survived. Now I sit and defrag memories which shaped my character. I am left alone. My creation feels as though I am a science experiment of good intentions. A product of the aftermath of the Summer of Love and the concurrent resultant revolutions rooted in identity politics - the Black Panther Party, the Women's Movement, Gay Liberation - the striking down of anti-miscegenation laws. An opportunity to create an ideal. The best of both worlds. A success. My arrival was celebrated in a superficial Chinese fashion. My father took it upon himself to dress me in Chinese clothing - an embroidered black coat with snap buttons and dragon designs, a Mao People's cap. A mandatory Chinese bowl haircut. My features though confounded. My hair was light brown. My eyes a variety of shades. Black, brown, blue. Black and blue to mirror the void and bruises. Brown as a marker of my identity bound to patriarchy. For Brown became my name. My name is Darren. My father calls me "boy." When I introduce myself to others, it is never quite heard. People think I say, "Darrell," "Dorien," "Derrick" among other names. The void deepens as I restate my name. Who I am. This ultimately leads to being called by my last name or as "Mr. Brown" in military fashion. Mr. Brown also has history within the context of multiracial heritage - not quite black - in between - the Middle Man. The Wailers song "Mr. Brown" adds a mysterious quality to my existence. Bob Marley - who was multiracial and an Aquarius - sings, "(Who-oo-oo-oo is Mr Brown?) Mr. Brown is a clown who rides through town in a coffin (Where he be found?)." He continues, "I'm the ghost catcher." "Where is Mr. Brown?" - speaks to the erasure of self. Of being of service. Of being available. Being "on call" and "at the ready" for those in need. There are many interpretations of Bob's lyrics ranging from a critique of religious ceremony and charlatanism; however, the lyrics also offer a different personal interpretation rooted in spirituality and the supernatural. Throughout my life people have sought me out to assist them in navigating their own. Bound by trauma, I take theirs on loosening rope as I unravel the bond. Eventually with sewing scissors, I cut through the rope freeing the captive and watch their true self emerge - a cataclysmic act of liberation. For this is my role. To guide. To reveal. To assist. To liberate. To be of service. Post-accident, I took part in experimental therapy that helped me overcome the trauma of the event. My therapist at the time - who is Hapa - suggested that I investigate the idea that mixed race people serve as a bridge between two disparate worlds. See referred to it as liminality. It spoke to my relative ease of integrating with a variety of communities - Euro American, black, Raza, indigenous, Queer, the Disabled, Asian, etc. The chameleon-like nature of my physicality. Like my eye color my skin changes tone in relation to the changing seasons. Thus ethnic (mis)identification is a cornerstone of my existence;however, such errors although painful also offer an opportunity for the construction of new identities free from categorization. For I am wanted. For I confound. Confound them more. I am a peacock. I am a creatrix. I inhabit a magical space. For here I am powerful. My makeup influences my design for life - syncretism in the face of fierce essentialism across the board. Like Bruce Lee, I take what is useful and leave the rest. A cornucopia of belief systems. A big old pot of gumbo. Offered to those in need. For those trapped in a cycle of death and suffering. For the lost. Being of service has its drawbacks. As an untrained empath, I take on incredible amounts of suffering and pain. Like a sponge, I absorb these traumas with intense understanding and sympathy; however, I rarely receive. Reciprocity is elusive for a giving person. "Mental illness" - I prefer to describe it as a different state of consciousness - complicates the puzzle through decoding the mind and/or (in)actions. The forgotten. Father never remembers my birthday. Extreme trauma occurred on my thirteenth birthday (fractured skull) and set the tone for birthdays to follow - often unattended to the point of not even having them. After recovery, I pleaded for a birthday. My father said, "why are you making it about you? Do you realize how much money we spent on you?" Money over the son. Always. Two friends came. We ate our slices of Blondies pizza in Berkeley, California's Telegraph Ave. - now called "Abes." If I recall correctly, my mother bought me a Bob Marley mirror from the Rasta metal jeweler. It accompanied me to wherever I moved until it shattered in East Lansing, Michigan during graduate school. My heart sank. My birthday this year is overshadowed by the passing of my aunt. A wonderful woman of service, my aunt was a nurse in New Jersey. I received the texts from my estranged sister the weekend before. My heart sank. It is a pattern. For whenever I celebrate, achieve, or accomplish, I am served a reminder that life is suffering and pain. As a result, nothing is celebrated just more trauma poured on top. Invisibility results. A longing. Grief. Despair. A void. So I sit here writing, pondering my existence in relation to others. Friends can't make it. Those who can know me well for they have been along the path for many years. I can't help but feel let down. To feel as if I am too much. A bitter burden. A sad song. People come and people go. For I am of service. Figuring out the puzzle as "Mr. Fix It," I often become enraptured by the experience of uncanny commonality. Synchronicity. Broken pieces overlapping excites, tantalizes and sets the stage for sympathy. Understanding. To be heard. To feel. To be seen and acknowledged. To be loved. The unknown. "Mr. Brown!" they say bound by sorrows blinded by grief, disappointments, struggle, abuse and all around suffering. I am always here with my shears at the ready to liberate fellow lost souls. The events of the last week in the Bay Area and the larger political landscape poses many questions regarding how I fit within the context of social activism. Taking part in the Queer Resistance Dance Party at UC Berkeley in opposition to Milo's Neo-Nazi speaking engagement revealed a number of questions and critiques of how I as a multiracial queer disabled person fit within the larger context of mass mobilization. New Year / S.O.S. (Same Old Shit) The Lunar New Year (Year of the Cock) preparations went as usual - cultural disconnect and more bad luck. My stripper pole broke through the ceiling. My spouse cleaned during the night. Nothing I can do about it. Call it superstition. I call it survival. This feeling of maintaining my existence through belief systems became reinforced with viewing Dragon: the Bruce Lee Story for the first time in over twenty years. An amazing film that highlights the intersections of race, ethnicity, class, gender and disability - Dragon also highlights Chinese belief systems for which provide a guide for "correct living." The demons handed down to Bruce and also his son Brandon speak to my experience. My mother attended her grandmother's funeral while she was pregnant. Chinese believe that this is an absolute "no no." I have a feeling my father's benevolence in combination with my mother's Chinese American mindset -juk sing - 竹升-(ignorance)- allowed the transferal of bad "juju" to their first born son - me. This has resulted in constant conflict and bad luck. This is something other Chinese are quick to tune into when they are around me. For example, on New Years Eve, the Cantonese neighbor across the street muttered loudly, "hak gwei (黑鬼) - black devil" as I sat on the porch smoking a Japanese Hope cigarette while squatting peasant style. My heart sank for I did not know if he tuned into my "bad luck" or was referring to my wife who is black. The remark sent my mind in a spin. Am I black since my wife is black? Who am I? Who I date? Who I marry? I felt like a puzzle. The fire burns. The thread sizzles. KA-BOOM! New Year, same old shit. Mobilize to maintain one's existence. To be seen. We are here. Critical Mass. Factions. Arguments. Signs. Firecrackers. Bricks. Explosions. Spray paint. Slurs. Slogans. Attacks. Bravery. Cowardice. Violence. Tear gas. What ensued afterwards infuriated me to the core - neo-liberal preoccupation regarding the destruction of property. This discussion littered Facebook newsfeeds - myself and other agents of change fell for the trap. The morning after, the City of Oakland destroyed the Village - an encampment with free standing homes built for the homeless in North Oakland. Who gets a "free pass" destroying property (as well as lives) - the State or protesters? To me the discussion was a bait and switch tactic and well thought-out. A massive protest will satiate surrogate activists to the point that they would not show up and defend the Village - the agent of change spread too thin having to choose their battles. As I passed the Village after therapy on Oakland's Pill Hill while riding my bike, the fire burned as I encountered a throng of smug police and bulldozers. The previous day I had dropped off clothing and spoke to a volunteer who provided a disability lawyer referral. She also has PTSD. She encouraged me to be on the line the following morning, but couldn't attend since people with disabilities have an excruciating time in the prison complex. That's where I disclosed my condition and immediately felt love and understanding. I had to choose my battle. I chose to survive. That night on UC Berkeley's campus, I felt energized. I was in the thick of it - among the Black Bloc Anarchists. I had an encouraging conversation regarding the lack of movement with two former SHARPS (Skinheads Against Racial Prejudice) - one a teacher - another an iron union worker. We discussed how state sanctioned radicalism is a rouse - a bunch of acting revolutionaries with good intentions stuck within the four enclosed walls of death circulating stories of resistance as if it is a static historical process. They read books and don't take it to the streets. Nowhere to be found except in their analysis after the fact - typical Valedictorian bullshit. They write about non-violence because their lives are never on the line since the state has propped up their lifestyle - allowed them offspring, a mortgage, a fancy car, benefits. They do not get involved because they have much to lose. How did we arrive here? Easy. State sanctioned radicalism is a move of appeasement to any "counterhegemonic" discipline within the academy be it rooted in gender, ethnicity, disability, sexuality, etc. "Counterhegemonic" is in fact an oxymoron since the modes of meritocracy suppresses collectivism through the reality of American individualism and capitalism. Thus, as I stated to a former mentor on Facebook when I left the academic complex during the start of the Black Lives Matter movement, "the only time a revolution will occur in a university is when the students rise up and hang their professor!" State sanctioned radicalism since 1968 with the founding of Ethnic Studies has resulted in a far-right minority hell bent on its dismantling. This fight has lessened over the years since the old guard was of a different cloth - mainly poor working-class folks. Now disciplines are filled with well-to-do "model minorities" across the board kowtowing to administrators for their next cookie crumb. I despise them for they never fight for me or my communities. Their involvement is dictated by neoliberalism. One only needs to see them "punch the clock" by taking a photo with their crafty signs at officially sanctioned events (i.e., the Women's March) as if a sign is going to change anything. Self-serving - "I did my part" bullshit as they return to the luxuries of the middle upper class lifestyle. Poverty pimps all. What we are witnessing is a heightened form of apartheid. By 2043 multiracials and non-whites will outnumber European Americans. This is hysteria. This is control. Liberal pleas of maintaining "free speech" is bullshit. Nazism is not free speech. Non-violence as an organizing tool against Nazism is not a valid tactic. Demagogues spreading hate encouraging the incarceration, denigration and outright elimination of minority communities of all stripes in face the coming reality of 2043 do not deserve a dialog. They deserve to be smashed. I am disabled. I am mixed. I am queer. I am poor. I exist. I will fight. Otherwise, I will die. |
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