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.
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