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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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. "I never dreamt that I would get to be The creature that I always meant to be But I thought in spite of dreams You´d be sitting somewhere here with me." Being Boring by the Pet Shop Boys (1990) Broken. Damaged. Humpty Dumpty. Realized. Pick up the pieces. To reassemble what once was. An incomplete puzzle. And a constant desire to make the pieces fit. An exhaustive process. For those with (C)PTSD often wake to the nightmare that is life. Our very existence. Navigating this condition is akin to traveling with a map for a different destination. You asked for a map of New York City and a map of San Francisco is received. We are often left in a dubious state abandoned by loved ones. Too much to handle. Our actions constantly questioned. Our questions unheard. Our grievances ignored. Stasis. Inertia. An immense sense of loss and feelings of emptiness. Like a tank running on empty begging to be refueled in order to operate, our needs unmet. We seek and rarely find. I've been searching for normalcy ever since I was a toddler. The clinging to a perpetual chaos over peace and silence instilled a great sense of fear and wonder as a child. Many photographs showcase the dazzle of my eyes. The wonder. The wondering of why. The family practice of humiliation, fear, distrust and hate suppressed any blossoming of love. A very strict upbringing characterized by impossible tasks and chores combined with a laissez-faire attitude about my personal aspirations and accomplishments resulted in a "Mr. Fix It" mentality that carried onto adulthood. As a young adult, I was denied blossoming sexually for I was taking care of my grandparents until they died. Hence death was always at center stage. Climbing out of the darkness, I attempted to realize my desire only to receive the "friend-zone" and unrequited love. Working in the HIV/AIDS industrial complex did not help. I was emotionally dead starving for love. Looking back, I can see how my desire for love has always been tenuous. As the song by Foreigner goes, "I wanna know what love is!" My first love was in kindergarten. Her name was Katie Greaves. We kissed multiple times a day like spouses departing for work. Our lips inseparable. My relatives would inquire how many times I kissed Katie at family gatherings. I would exclaim, "one hundred!" Then something happened. She no longer kissed me and I became an object of ridicule. I was heartbroken. On the first grade playground Katie would get excitable and scream in my face, "Darren Brown." I would collapse further into myself paralyzed by wonder. Strangely enough our innocent relationship set the stage for future unrequited love adventures. The record repeating its groove. Acceptance is a cornerstone of my existence. As a young student classified with disabilities (speech impediments and colorblindness), I became aware of my difference within the elementary school complex. Furthermore, I was different. Mixed. The first generation of "legally" mixed race offspring born after the dismantling of anti-miscegenation laws despite my birth certificate claim that I am "Oriental." As news of my mother's bipolar disorder and suicide attempts spread throughout the school halls, I was placed in a group for troubled children. I was not aware what the group was for. We were corralled by a social worker with good intentions, sat in a circle and talked. I knew everyone there. They were my friends. During group we discussed the popular music videos of the time. I vividly recall Pleasant exclaiming, "what's up with that Eurythmics video with that lady holding a lamp?" to an eruption of laughter. These were good times. And then it ended. My friends moved and the feelings of loss set in. During those formative k-5 years, I coped with loss and the lack of love with creative endeavors. At an early age I received accolades as a budding artist that continued into adulthood. I created a Snoopy mask out of an empty gallon of milk and two liter bottles that received the best prize for Halloween. Circumstances dictated my resourcefulness. Lost in war comics and captivated by 1970s Japanese Anime, I took to drawing comics starting in Kindergarten. My father would by reams of paper for me to draw on. I would spend hours recreating WWII battle scenes crouched on the floor with my pencils or ballpoint pens. I would show them to my father and he would encourage more creative carnage. My dad raised me to be a "man." During these years, he took me to see every Charles Bronson, Chuck Norris, Sylvester Stallone and Arnold Schwarzenegger film that was shown in the theaters. He would also wake me up when he came home from the graveyard shift to watch reruns of Combat or Rat Patrol. He made me wear a Hitler Youth (blood and guts) belt to school to accompany my beret and camo fatigues and laughed about it. Mein Kampf and the Little Red Book sat side by side on the bookshelf. I paraded around the neighborhood with the best toy guns and a Spanish Civil War helmet that looked similar to those worn by the Nazis. The result? Hypermasculinity and the world view that life is war. There was no such thing as love for love was for wimps. And men don't cry. Ever. 1984. The year that my mother disappeared after downing a bottle of pills. Visitations. Crying. My mother behind a door - solitary confinement - the rubber room. Shock treatment. Meds. The woman who gave birth to me caught in a quagmire of grief and system of gross mismanagement. I powerless. Wonder. Wonder why. Graveyard shifts resulted in neglected children being bounced household to household and instilled a stinging sense of dislocation. On my many stays at friend's houses, I would revel at the marvel of cable TV, Solid Gold, Dance Fever and music videos longing for joy. During a stay at my grandfather's in Oakland's Chinatown, I would stare at the hundreds of crayfish in the claw foot bathtub. One night my father came over and said he was going to the Castle - a video game amusement center adjacent to the Oakland Coliseum. Excited and wanting to go for ages, I jumped up and down. Then he left. With my friend and his mother. My dad the philanderer. I looked out the window as they left wondering why. Soon I found my parents porn stash under the mattress: swinger newspapers, Polaroids of my parents having sex, Penthouse calendars, anonymous porn novels and a vibrator. Physically I was excited. It was a familiar feeling since I already was on the receiving end of abuse. Nevertheless, I wanted to share this discovery with my classmates. I took the hand sized calendar girls to school and my friends and I looked at them while in the bushes. This led to going to the corner market after school and leaving the centerfold spreads of Playboy open for customers to see. At home, we now had cable and to my father's delight the Playboy channel. Multiple nights were spent in the seclusion and safety of our rooms as my parents and guests would watch sexy television. Black Entertainment Television (BET) became my dad's preference since they showed "more skin." Soon as I entered my pre-teen years my father took me on a car ride down Oakland's San Pablo Avenue. As he drove, he pointed towards the prostitutes and said, "if you ever have sex, use a condom." That was my sex education - the birds and the bees. My father would drive in the seedier parts of Oakland after his shift to share stories of the "mean streets." He did share it with the entire family, although unintentionally, by being assaulted by a pimp with a kitchen knife. My father - "Captain Save a Ho" - as Vallejo rapper E-40 would say. The tyranny of middle school sent me spiraling into a pit of despair. My core teacher - Mrs. Nakazawa - was a cruel stern and publicly humiliating teacher who made my life a living hell. She would announce in class how she was going to call my parents as I sank deeper into depression. Soon I would speak to more therapists and wonder why. Nobody ever told me why I was going. Perhaps they knew more about me than I did myself. Then came another test. This time for MS. As I stood there, the Dr. kept insisting that I stand straight. I found out I have a crooked hip and also a deviated septum. An experiment gone awry. The feeling of brokenness intensified after surviving a fractured skull from a skateboarding accident on my thirteenth birthday. My father instead of taking me to the nearest hospital choose to drive me from the accident site (Hayward) to Alameda. I vividly recall my head pounding with a myriad of colors and intense sensations as I lay in the backseat with my neighbor and friend as my dad fumed and hissed on the freeway as if I was some burden. I watched as he begged for people to see me while I was in the waiting room staring at the forest wallpaper in a stoic haze. The aftermath was brutal. I returned home after weeks at Children's Hospital to immerse myself in masturbation to numb the pain as I reclined on a lawn chair in front of the TV. I lost most of my friends. I became a science experiment at school. I had a cyst-like bubble on my head at the point of impact that curious classmates would press in amazement. I couldn't participate in physical education. So I retreated into my headphones and Radio Shack cassette player listening to INXS, New Order, the Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane among others to alleviate the pain. High school became the field of discovery. As a freshman at Encinal, I found myself. Enrolling in JROTC taught me self-respect, working in concert, loyalty and wolf pack mentality. People had my back. And then it happened - punk rock entered my life ten years after the Sex Pistols broke up. The resultant impact on my family life was quite expected - we were forced to adhere to a family contract as demanded by my dad and the crazy family therapist at Gladman in Oakland. If we broke any of the rules, our punk rock records would be tossed out. If we broke any of the rules, we would be kicked out. I broke down in tears exclaiming, "why is our family coming down to a contract?" I was at my limit. Control. Denial. Fear and the absence of love. After another suicide attempt, my sister and I hovered over my mother cocooned in blankets - another overdose. I cried in James Dean fashion, "you are tearing me apart!" to indifference. Then it happened. I would go to a chiropractor weekly to address issues in my spine due to my accident. The receptionists were cool - punky goth girls who connected with me on a stylistic level. My doctor however was not. Once upon the stretch table, she massage my back seductively and asked, "do you read?" I replied, "yeah, science fiction." Her squeezing and gripping became heightened as she asked, "do you read fantasy?" I got an erection. She told me to stand, my erection pointed towards her Amazonian frame. She said, "I've been thinking of you" with come hither eyes. Perplexed and confused by my inaction (I was still a virgin), she left. I later told dad. He brushed it off and said, "yeah, she also has a private practice at her home and all my buddies see her." Thanks, dad. Filling the void became a obsessive game. Throughout high school I became with obsessed with unattainable people. As the Smiths song goes, "I want the one I can't have and it's driving me mad." Sadly, I matched this habit by pushing away those who attempted to love me, because I didn't know what it was. However, I could imagine. This imagination led to fostering relationships with gay men as we tried to construct our identities without a compass beside pop culture celebrities. For the first time I felt love but also exclusion and control. The gay club at Berkeley's Aquatic Park (the Mix) had a vote on whether or not bisexuals should be allowed to attend the club. Gay friends claimed bisexuality was just a phase. I was caught in between. Enter college and the activation that is surrogate activism. I had a new calling - Asian American Studies and organizing - and it kept me busy for twenty plus years. Obsessions would come and go, but the reality of college being a "sex fest" did not apply to me. I did not have a blossom period. I was not an "ethical slut." Every woman I dated during undergrad either had herpes (this kept me a virgin) or "friend-zoned" me. I would attend the Asian Queer club nights only to return home alone to Chinatown. I would pick up a can of spray paint and go on late night prowls leaving my marks. I needed to be seen. I needed someone to acknowledge my existence. I briefly found community within the queer Asian group (CALBGAY) and Hapa Issues Forum at UC Berkeley but felt these groups perpetuated essentialist identity politics. Nevertheless, I was thankful for the aforementioned despite commuting to meetings as a San Francisco State Student. The grim reality of HIV/AIDS and its resultant holocaust draped a huge cloud of despair over the future of queer lives. Despite efforts, I felt like a monster - unlovable and always searching for acceptance. Entering into the HIV/AIDS industrial complex resulted in self-hate: alcoholism and an albeit brief flirtations with crystal methamphetamine, GHB and ecstasy. During one decadent party, I declared "in moments like these I feel alive!" And so set the stage for ten more years of killing myself alongside "friends" who also did the same. I am grateful for I am awake from my self-loathing slumber and am in process of transforming habits that I have been grappling with for years. To reconfigure the focus to myself rather than others. To end "Mr. Fix It." To be me. To love myself. Throughout all this, I have come increasingly adverse to labels, boxes and categories. How can one word encapsulate one's being? If anything being defined by one's experience(s) seems more appropriate. And here I sit writing as a curious "creature." I type alone ever wondering where you are, losing you and dying alone. When all I longed for was someone to be by my side. #oneofus Bisexual visibility campaign The void. A chasm. A cliff. Total emptiness. An all consuming darkness. The body as container - an empty glass and pitcher filled with experiences that shape one's identities. I've been lamenting identity and who I am for many years. The ever-present questions of the traumatic "why?" and "why me?" press the power button of the cerebral centrifuge that spins round and round. Its spin rotates quicker as markers of identity cling to its surface forever nagging for acknowledgement and acceptance - not tolerance. Biracial Trauma My identity - my ethnic composition or makeup - was under constant scrutiny as a toddler. Being born in 1974, my identity as a person of Chinese, Jewish, German, Scot-Irish, Indigenous was and continues to be considered a curiosity. I vividly recall riding my half-brother's shoulders and a white couple asking if I was an "Amerasian war baby" - the many forgotten casualties of the Vietnam War. He said, "No, he is an American!" So at an early age, I was accustomed to being "homeless" lacking verbiage and a way to articulate my desire to belong. Soon enough I visited my "white side" in New Jersey and quizzically asked, "when are we going back to America?" They laughed furthering my confusion. My Chinese grandmother added years later that my mother married an "American" - a white guy despite being born in the US herself. Thus nationality and patriotism somehow trumped my genetic makeup. Perhaps this is tied to the US military's endeavors throughout Asia and the Pacific and the desire not just to control territories but also bodies through prostitution, sex trafficking and/or rape. Biracials do not have the choice of their composition - it was handed down by their parents - some known, others absent. It is as if the mixed baby is a product. A science experiment unlike any other. A magical panacea to end miscegenation. Parental experimental desire gone wild. Our formative years under the microscope. Boxes. Categorization. Curious compartmentalization. The result? Marginalization. And symbolism. For many of us are reduced to foods: Half and half creamer, Oreos, coconuts, bananas and other edible products. Yet people of multiple origins often seek comfort in other people of mixed heritages relishing in their experiences although different to decode our pasts. For myself, my relationships with multiracial people as well as adoptees and refugees are tied to the shared but varied traumatic experiences of misidentification, dislocation and trauma. We have all suffered immensely and with sharing comes the understanding that we are not alone. We survived. We exist. We matter. Bisexuality My genetic makeup and perhaps the popular adage of biracials being "the best of both worlds" influenced my sexual orientation as bisexual. So just as I was / am "caught between" in the game of ethnic essentialist politics, I became and continue to be marginalized within the greater LGBTQ community. Not gay enough. Not straight enough. Not fucking enough. Not to be trusted. An anomaly. Carving out space within the queer community has been a lifelong challenge for those I have encountered throughout my life have insisted that my identity was / is a phase on the path to being a full blown gay. I was on the receiving end of these stinging humiliating remarks: "It's like you're gay, but you're not," "that's Gay" and "you drama queen." It's as if the bisexual subject like their biracial counterparts are assumed to have no volition, no agency in their identity formation - just the subject of fascination, ridicule, erasure and/or desire. In my formative years as a teenager, I came to identify as bisexual. Coming out to my closest friends within the goth industrial scene and my sister was a relief. They all knew. There was no need to explain. However, there is a void for my bisexual peers and friends are mostly women. As a result, I looked up to male popstars flirting with persona and sexuality: Marc Almond of Soft Cell, Pete Burns of Dead or Alive, David Bowie, Prince among others. I steadfastly defend my dual identity as biracial and bisexual; however, I do not let my life be dictated by outdated modes of categorization - the boxes never quite fit. Thus, I have created terms to describe myself throughout my life: graffiti tag name (Darewon), musical persona (Klenderfender), drag (Jihad Spice), husband (Space Prince), artistic (Creatrix) and lastly me (Peacock). Class My upbringing from the late 1970s to early 1990s in Alameda, California was rare. I was raised in a working-class single-income household as a result of my mother's bipolar disorder and suicidal tendencies. My father was trained as a mold maker for glass bottle manufacturing - an industry for which he work thirty plus years. Despite my dad insisting we had a "middle-class" lifestyle, we shopped at thrift stores, flea markets, bodegas and Chinatowns to make ends meet. The lack of cash manifested in lack of material goods that make children happy - nice new clothes and the latest toys. As a result, I stole most of my toys from department stores. I wanted what the other kids had including their families - two working spouses, laughter, fun and joy. When the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) passed Latchford Glass in Hayward, California closed. My father returned to a job he had previously left at Owens Illinois in Oakland's Fruitvale District. The terror of NAFTA influenced my fathers insistence that I go on to college. He took me on a tour of the factory pointing to the centrifuge that broke all the bones of a woman's body, a mold which seared off a worker's arm and more horrors of factory life. He would always come home from work announcing his displeasure by slamming the door loudly, yelling at everyone, say "whatever" and retreat into anxiety ridden news to justify his anger and rage. His coworkers - blue collar - were just as nuts and often racist. From my father's experience, I witnessed the ineptitude of unions, workplace atrocities and mechanical slavery. This was further compounded by my father's fights with coworkers to the point of having "hit men" - undercover police men - watching over our house after a death threat. The working-class was under attack in more ways than one. My lived experience within a dying "working-class" culture granted me the ability to see pass bullshit with ease. Entering the academic complex, I became inundated by socialist and communist propaganda peddled by the true middle-class - affluent bored students in need of a surrogate activity (usually politics) to preoccupy themselves. My class consciousness removed from the armchair ease of theory allowed myself to see how class is often a persona - an act - one wears to gain cultural capital within social activist communities. And I have seen many of my former colleagues use that act to climb the ladder and become a part of the establishment - the greatest lie of all. Here lies the ultimate questions: struggle vs. assimilation; marginalization vs. integration; erasure vs. visibility. Disability As a product of an abusive - psychological, physical and sexual - family somatic illness manifested in variety of ailments and (dis)ease: Eczema, TMJ, IBS and body pain. At an early age, I knew I was different as I was questioned during a kindergarten aptitude test. My drawings of my family were in question. My deviant behavior. My secretive sliding of bad behavior notes under the door of another classroom. The finding out and the resultant abuse of me, school administrators and faculty. As if I was a too much of a burden as a biracial experiment gone awry. Then came the tests. The tests that will forever mark me as different, as something to be fixed. I was diagnosed with a speech impediment and was enrolled in a special class to correct my stuttering and mispronunciation of words which my father in narcissistic fashion said was due to his Jersey upbringing. The most humiliating experience was the colorblind test. As I waited in line, I eagerly anticipated passing the test like my peers. I did not. I only answered one of ten sight questions correctly. I broke down in tears. I was marked as legally colorblind and as a result have been on the receiving end of curious tests by acquaintances to see if I really am. This othering hurts and adds to feeling of inadequacy and marginalization. I was fortunate to go to school in Alameda, California which is known to be a haven for people with disabilities. My speech impediments lessened as a result of my re-education; however, it still manifests in times of excitement and anxiety. In addition, my grade school had class for students with disabilities and teachers required students to spend a week in the class paired with a student in order to write a reflection paper. In retrospect, it was a cruel comparative exercise to reinforce abled bodies as opposed to the disabled - an exercise in gratitude. However, students with disabilities were encouraged to take part in the everyday mundane activities of school by passing out milk or lunches. Flash forward into early adulthood, I fostered friendships within the disabled community and came to the realization that my disabilities were not something to be swept under the rug but to be embraced. Within disability organizing, I have never been judged despite the markers of sexual and racial identity. I am welcomed. I am allowed to be me. (Dis)closure How do the aforementioned categories intersect in the day to day realities experienced by those living with (C)PTSD? Class, race and disability intersect as I took care of my Chinese grandparents until they passed as a caregiver in my twenties. As a result, I came out of the process with more anxiety, trauma (both grandparents were abusive) and somatic complications: body pain, IBS, TMJ, depression, weight gain, alcoholism, drug abuse and ultimately self hate. Not Chinese enough. Not normal enough. And no money. No love. All categories intersect as an unemployable other. (C)PTSD complicates this for employers lack empathy and exercise their power through stigmatizing those who reveal their condition. Hence trauma is the ultimate form of othering for it happens to other people. It is their mess do deal with. Bootstrap model nonsense heightened by a fierce individualism that discourages collectivity in favor of meritocracy. (Dis)closing one's identity as bisexual, biracial and bipolar -"Try-Bi" as popstar Halsey contends - affirms multiple identities simultaneously. Nevertheless, it appears as if the sexual marker becomes the focus just as it applied to David Bowie and Freddie Mercury. Sexual difference tied to "mental illness" manifesting in personas - peacocks all - results in bonafide resistance. A reclamation of oneself. An insistence of our existence. Despite the lack of funds, we cry, "DIY" (Do It Yourself). Many of the aforementioned identities take root online despite the initial assumptions and advertisements that the Internet would wipe away all categories in a rudimentary singular fashion. Tags, discussion, groups, chatrooms, Craigslist, and social media all play a role in reinforcing our identities as seen and tangible in the face of erasure. The resultant online jabs and trolling are a testament to the hotly contested nature of identification and control. Large mass movements of civil (dis)obedience such as the Women's March serve as a reminder of how messy intersectional politics can be. Overwhelmed by transmisogynist pussy rhetoric, my heart sank for my trans non-gender conforming friends. Always looking for representation - I looked for other faces like me and I found signage that literally stopped me from pedaling as I moved towards the stream of marchers. A woman rapidly wheeling in a chair - the universal sign for the disabled tweaked and flipped to fulfill a need, a void. Despite being underemployed, stigmatized, marginalized, categorized and unnecessarily controlled, I for once felt included and it moved me to tears. Women's March Oakland (2017) disabled contingent moves down Broadway towards City Hall.
My desire to leave permanent marks on my body sprang forth from a period of immense loss. I had lost my maternal grandmother, my good friend lost her first love and 9/11 happened. Empathy overload. Emotionally depleted and drained. I was empty and needed a transition - a change. I imagined three black bars on my inner left arm to signify the period I had survived - good luck and bad luck comes in threes. The resulting two years were filled with more negativity - so I re-imagined the bars with the first and third bars broken on the right. As a result, I had many passerby ask if my tattoos were derived from the I Ching or Chinese hexagrams. One student aide exclaimed "Sam Yup" to identify the southern Cantonese speaking areas of the Pearl River Delta. Some students read my "attempt" at I Ching tattoos as faulty Juk Sing "Banana-ness" translating my marks as "bad heaven" or "creative heaven." After consulting The Book of Changes, I found the meaning: constant conflict. So true. Did such markings manifest from from my Chinese lineage? Perhaps. After lipomal removal, I decided to mark this transition by an act of rebirth and the shedding of skins. So I started to think of ways I could incorporate the these "Chinese" tattoos with new work while simultaneously transforming and acknowledging them. A pretty big task. After much thought, I came up with a recipe that excited me. Lum-chan the main character of the classic Japanese Anime series Urusei Yatsura immediately came to mind. Her character wears a tiger striped bikini and leg warmers and goes well with my Chinese zodiac (I am also an Aquarius Rising). She has horns and grows fangs when she gets angry. She is angry, when she is in love. I consider Lum my spirit anime. I also had been thinking of octopus tentacles for many years. I imagine them providing grip on my bars as I ride my bike for protection. I also identify with the peacock - beautiful and dangerous. So peacock feathers were added to the ink list. Then an unfolding lotus above the original bars. My artist - a shop owner in my hometown of Alameda who also happens to be my old homie and classmate - drew the piece freehand and meticulously completed the job flawlessly with his workmanship and style. The right arm was completed within three sessions and we moved on to the left. The left arm, we decided to do a bit different taking a Lum-chan model and giving it a twist - comic book / anime / graffiti / Filipino American / Bay Area style. So far a chrysanthemum flower hovers over the three bars and tentacles were also added. Eventually returning to the right, I foresee cherry blossom tree branches with falling blossoms and Chinese dragon clouds (similar to one found on Chinese tableware). Within these sessions, I undergo needling that for most is painful; however, I am familiar with immense pain and suffering. Somehow tattooing is pleasurable, spiritual and an immediate transformative experience - all at once. And once the decision is made, there is no going back. Perhaps this may be the reason why so many survivors of (C)PTSD reclaim there bodies through the art of tattooing by reconnecting with painful sensations that are controlled and decided on one's own terms and imagination. Through this process one may find freedom. A moment of liberation. An opportunity. A moment of clarity. Joy. As the door opens and leads to another path.Schwinn Madison 2009 aka Buddah Bike takes a break at the Oakland Marinas post errand running. Lists! Lists! Lists! It is a coping and survival mechanism for those living with (C)PTSD. Without lists, there is no order among the chaos that burns within and without. External forces beyond our control become unfathomable obstacles of fixation and obsession. Insurance companies, health care providers, lawyers, politicians, family members, spouses - all count as players within this process that become codependent actors incapable of reciprocity. And they never satisfy. They all fail to meet one's expectation(s) or fulfill one's pain, gap and/or void. It just isn't good enough. This is the aftermath of circular trauma as it manifests boiling over into anger, rage and disappointment. Total shutdown. And we lose. Constantly. In the battlefield of frustration. A Jack in the Box constantly wound up on edge. Its intensity forever lingers. Excites. To the point of exhaustion. The lack of reciprocity leads to a life of decoding - the mind constantly reasoning. Thus, creating a list of grievances for codependent actors is a common tactic. And the list grows and grows. Those with this condition may vocalize these grievances over and over again to no avail - the canary in a coalmine. However, if one digs deeper within the transformative process, a different type of listing occurs - the listing of trauma. This list can grow to enormous lengths and can compound grievances. Some take to writing journals to cope; however, that process can become counterproductive to those who may be obsessive or meticulous about their writing. Some may find themselves constantly reliving their respective trauma(s) editing their entries or may unknowingly be addicted to the pain previously and presently experienced. It becomes a pain that one is used to. And it gets worse, if one does not take a few steps back and commit to a proactive practice that is practical: making lists! I've created list most of my adult life - first in the margins of line paper, then pen or marker on skin, scrap paper and scotch tape, Post-it notes and a dry erase board. The list of responsibilities is endless. Important paperwork that used to be an easy task becomes unimaginable as well as simple investigative phone calls. The reason is fear. And the fear is big. This is where a practical list is key. I tend to separate the pressing stuff from everyday errands; however, some weeks just doing errands and activities is good enough. The key is to cross out those tasks daily - mentally and visually - to note one's progress. An additional item I add to listing is calendaring fitness goals. For example, after registering for Seattle to Portland (2016), I marked the event on my calendar as a exciting goal and it also made it to my list. It served as a reminder of what little and big accomplishments can amount to - fun - and ultimately an escape for the arduous task of tackling the list daily. In addition, mapping out a cycling training schedule, weight goals, food elimination and adding different forms of exercise (Go Go, walking, pole dance) to my routine definitely impacted my shape. In combination with grounding techniques through making - bicycle building and collage work - listing has been key in processing the peculiarities of this condition. So make some lists! Try it and see. Even if one accomplishes one thing on that list a day, it is an accomplishment and a reason to celebrate!
A diagnosis of (C)PTSD is crippling. Its grip operates like a shadow forever present in the waking hours. It is as though the trauma wasn't enough and it lingers. Forever. Awareness is key in transforming the pain to insight. Along my journey post-accident, several layers of extreme trauma were revealed after years of repression and unconscious denial that everything was normal. Utilizing a variety of approaches including CBT therapy, EMDR, reiki, acupuncture, cycling, meditation and yoga have all helped along the way. It is exhausting -- a familiar feeling for those living with this condition. Attending workshops at the meditation center planted ideas that were completely foreign that helped illuminate possible reasons for my prolonged suffering. At first it was painful. I was on the receiving end of narcissistic name calling and victim blaming by my immediate family members. Kicked out of the house with my spouse to fend for our own in the most expensive place in the world - the Bay Area - because my sadistic father couldn't bare to see his son suffer. In actuality, he wanted the basement to himself as did my sister inheriting the house (the will was changed). My mother was helpless as always and her denial and support of my father's actions to this day - as well as my sisters - shreds my heart daily. Within the immediate and terrifying experience of being tossed out like refuse, I kept asking why? Why are they making my pain about them? Why are they disowning me? Why aren't they loving me? Well, hurt people often hurt people as the adage goes. Soon all the atrocities my father committed against me as well as my mother and to a certain extent my sister erupted from the past like a volcano. My first memory is being abused. While in Tijuana, Mexico my father fed me jalapeno peppers and laughed as I screamed crying. It was such a vivid experience that I saw a myriad of colors - almost hallucinations - as the patrons of the cantina laughed. My father in sadistic fashion recounts this story to all my friends and family gatherings. I was merely two years old. Next came the sexual abuse. I was no more than five years old having terrible nightmares - a few years before I survived a pipe bomb explosion that blew out our windows from across the street. As a result, I wanted to be with my basset hound - Sugarfoot - for comfort. I would crawl into the dog bed with him upstairs and sleep by his side. Soon I would witness my father having sex with my mom from behind. He would see me in the dog bed, finish his business and beat the shit out of me. Needless to say, I was scared shitless of dad. Dad who called me boy. Dad who never remembers his son's birthday. Dad who abused mom. Dad who refuses to change. Dad who refuses to see a shrink because it would prevent him from owning a gun. Dad who contracted herpes, passed it to my mother, and claimed he got it from a toilet seat. Dad who I caught philandering the morning of my accident. Dad who I caught abusing my mother. Dad who made my mothers bipolar disorder and 30+ years of on and off again institutionalization about him. And mother always defends dad. This also played out on the psychological level. Whenever things went well for me, mother would try to commit suicide. My entire family never knew me. Never celebrated my accomplishments. Didn't even bother coming to my graduation after completing my PhD. Excuses abound. "Well, we did go to this..." As if, I the "successful" survivor was a lost cause, didn't matter, a burden. Fifteen years of academia and twenty plus years of creative work, organizing, activism all ignored and deemed irrelevant. After earning my Masters degree and showing my mother a museum exhibit that I had held in conjunction with my thesis, I took my mother to a diner in San Francisco's Chinatown. She said over the meal, "we didn't think you would make it this far." Perhaps this is why people with severe trauma are oftentimes overachievers readily available to help those in need. My reiki therapist said in one of our conversations that I was a wounded warrior similar to an alpha wolf licking the wounds of the pack. She also said that I can learn from this transformative experience and enter the world of healing arts as a shaman, curandero. This unofficial ordaining I found quite exciting and it put me on the path albeit long, arduous and painful to uncover the layers to reveal the core root of my pain. Soon my yoga teacher shared the idea of the wounded masculine - men who never learned what it is to be a man due to abusive and/or absent fathers and how it manifests in one's actions. For me, it resulted in hypermasculinity as I was enraptured by my father's outspokenness, inappropriateness and outright craziness. We used to have a pinback on the corkboard that read "Never Be Normal" and now in retrospect it was just a phrase to excuse his abuse. Soon after realizing I had qualities of the wounded masculine manifesting in toxic masculinity I encountered another concept- the wounded child. This concept is characterized by pain, brokenness, depression, sensitivity, feeling misunderstood, fear, illness identification, the inability to let go and a immense attraction to pain, tragedy and/or suffering. The archetype of the wounded child clued me into why I was attracted to such "unsavory" popular culture products of the past as well as my identities as a punk rocker, goth, raver, etc. It explained my controversial art. In a sense, I was treating my illness by keeping busy with multiple art projects, school, volunteerism, activism, work and academia just to be grounded. However, that can only last so long and I suppose it explains why many overachievers burn out, change careers, find spirituality or lead a life of drug and alcohol abuse. With this awareness, I came to the realization that trauma shaped who I am but trauma does not define me. As part of the mindfulness practice, the skill of bare-noting of sensations in the body was pivotal in this transformation. Correlating pain to a specific part of the body and not the entire self allows one to prevent trauma as becoming a marker of one's identity. In other words, one is more than their pain. Lastly, be kind to yourself. You have survived. Heal. Recover. Share. Connect. Feel. You are not in this alone.
Vagabonds. The dislocated. Homeless. The invisible. The forgotten. The aforementioned states are well known for those that have experienced extreme trauma: psychological, physical and/or sexual. All the above. Emptiness pervades the survivor's life; their aura exuding an air of intensity an ever lingering ferociousness that vacillates like the tides. Our personalities highjacked by a condition not of our choosing. We are deemed intimidating, intense, deep and ultimately the one to avoid. However, what happens when two souls afflicted by (C)PTSD encounter one another? In my experience, those who have suffered immensely naturally gravitate towards one another. The old adage "misery loves company" fails to completely describe this phenomenon. Put a bunch of people in a room and close the door. Witness who interacts, who the extroverts and introverts are. Expectantly people will group themselves based upon identity markers of race, ethnicity, sexuality. gender, and/or class. However, what's left? Misfits. Those who don't fit. Those that see through the bullshit. Those that have a fire burning within that is unsatisfied with the day to day humdrum monotony of normalcy and expectation. Those who have survived. Those that feel. Those that see. For many survivors this has led to a life of an empath, organizers, social workers, teachers, service men and women - all seeking to reconcile that fire burning from within through action. Many survivors have been failed by systems, family units and loved ones. Thus for those living with (C)PTSD actions speak volumes and stasis equals death. As such many survivors are doers, alpha personalities. The empathic alpha overlooking its pack. And how does one create a pack? By expanding one's circle to include those survivors who have been shunned by others. Two survivors getting to know one another is akin to two dogs sniffing butts. The trauma hounds share stories seeking acceptance and understanding. Once that threshold is achieved, the bond is cemented and the search for more members to include in the pack begins. One challenge within this process is negotiating familiarity. Often one's wounds are so similar to another that it excites. How can another experience so much that is familiar to one's own? This ultimately leads to desire. To be. To be with. To be accepted. To be heard. To heal. Together. This is the nature of the pack. Moving together removed from the trauma of the past and questionable futures into the now. The present. To share, reveal and revel at our life experiences and the gifts that are all around us to which we were temporarily blinded. Within the overlapping broken pieces resides alchemy. Magic. The dislocated find home in one another. This is the core of the pack. It is easy to succumb to the trauma vortex. To become hypnotized by pain, anger, rage and frustration. In a sense, it becomes predictable. We are left to our own devices resigned to stasis and inertia by loved ones. Within the fire burns. Dreams. Longing. Yearning. An intense desire to break free from the predictable dance of our emotional states and become. To transform. To overcome. To accomplish. To set a goal, plan it and see it come to fruition has been one of the most pleasurable experiences living with this condition. For a person with (C)PTSD just completing one task on that mammoth list is a celebration in itself. Before my accident, most of my goals were fame and art world driven despite being an academic. As a result, I gained notoriety as a writer, poet, musician and performance artist. Post-accident, I sank into a deep depression questioning life and death. Despite exercising, I was in poor mental health and lived with extreme chronic pain. As I began therapy, roads pointed towards a meditation center in Oakland, California where I began a sitting and yoga practice. Both practices helped my body and mind heal and the addition of each definitely impacted my training positively. Summer was approaching and I recalled attending a family reunion with my spouse in Portland, Oregon. Outside our hotel, cyclists were passing a finish line. Excited, I went downstairs to the park and salivated over all the nice bicycles. To my amazement, a cyclist riding fixed hopped off his bike winded. As his long blonde hair was brushed from his face, I asked, "you did this fixed?" He said, "Yeah, and you can too!" We chatted some more and he assured me that being a Bay Area single-speed rider, I should have no problem completing Seattle to Portland aka STP (207 miles) in two days. That conversation was probably the best pep talk I ever had in my life! I registered for STP 2016 that May and upped my training from 100 to 150 to 200 to 300 mile training blocks per week. Despite all the naysayers, I completed a century (100 miles) in a day multiple times in preparation. The Seattle to Portland ride was amazing. I rode without any problems - no flats, no mechanical issues. My local wheelbuilder -Charlie- laced high flange Phil Wood hubs to white Velocity Deep V hoops. I also had the build fitted with a Chris King headset, Brooks Cambium saddle and Deda bars with in-line brakes and Lizard Skins tape. Not to mention an 18t White Industries freewheel. Lessons learned. Don't bring food! STP will feed you along the way. Don't bring a saddle pack like I did (the Kada Pak Ratt). It becomes too cumbersome and adds unnecessary weight. The thrill of completing STP 2016 provided the gravitas to accomplish more along the way. Upon returning, I decided to up my dancing game and become a self-made Go Go dancer in San Francisco. Despite not being paid, Go Go - ing is one of the most enjoyable experiences in which I play out my personas, fantasies and desires. I perform on a box with stretchbands, rope and oftentimes handcuffs hung from the belt loops of my Levis 501s. My outfits are sporty and punk at the same time - the result- a deranged peacock! I like the attention. So far, I have danced non-stop for six hours. Usually, I dance for three hours straight without break before biking home. Dancing allows me to exorcise the past, get in tune with the present and suspend thoughts of the future. It also provides the attention I crave removed from the trauma and story telling which characterizes (C)PTSD. From Go Go - ing, I have gained a following of sorts on Instagram and those "likes" led to the Burlesque scene in Tokyo, Japan. Following performers leads, I began researching products and now am the proud owner of my own stripper pole! A new adventure begins! Bike! Go Go! Pole! Do the unthinkable!
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AuthorDarren Brown, PhD. ArchivesCategories |