Ginger

Ginger

I love this photo. I was looking for a different one, this is what I found. Thankfully, this is what I found.

Advertisements

Lens

My Mother said to me,”I honestly don’t know what your lens is like.”

 

My Mother and I were talking this evening about race.  As a white woman, she never stood on the side of the tracks that we minorities stand.  That is not to say she is an arrogant woman, but in her words she is “ignorant” to what the life of a minority is like.

Sure is not the worst life, not all the time.

That being said, the whole thing was brought up when I told her that I have experienced racism at La Crosse.  I must stand up for myself when it happens and I do.  Not always in the best manner, however, yet I do.

Being an Asian, and looking somewhat oriental, I believe that lots of people think I must look weak and vulnerable, otherwise they wouldn’t try to fuck with me.  It doesn’t happen too often, but more than I expected that it would.

Like many students at my school, she grew up in a predominantly (if not completely) homogenous society.  That of the majority, the ‘white world’.  I, because I have been adopted by her and my Father, I gain privilege from ‘white privilege’ for in many aspects I have this privilege.

It is interesting to think that I have a different lens from her.  I always saw myself as ‘white’ for I have always believed I’m the same as my parents.  In all ways but skin, I would say that I am.  Skin has influenced my experiences in life differently than that of my parents.

My mom told me about how she went to a racial justice class and there she was shown a film.  The film had a group of women from all walks of life discussing their experiences.  She said the Muslim women were especially upset, extremely upset, because of how hard it was for those women to live in the United States.  Do not generalize from what they said, but take it into account.  They described their culture as being somewhat oppressive, in that they are second to men and the men can dictate a lot of their lives.  Also, after 9/11 their community in the United States started turning their backs to the Muslims and that for these women it was hard to rely on their male Muslim counterparts.  These are individual stories, but my Mom said it hit her in the stomach.  She was very unhappy that people experience this.

She apologized to me for not understanding that we have different lenses, and she said she was embarrassed.  She ought not be if you ask me, nor should she apologize.  She simply didn’t realize until now, and I am not sure that I have either.

It’s so bizarre to think about, that we see the world differently.  She lived in an era of blatant segregation, I live in an era of less blatant racism.

It seemed to take a lot for her to open up about it, it seemed to her rather emotional.  I felt emotional too, for I felt that we were seeing eye to eye on a topic we don’t discuss that often, yet was inevitable seeing as she and my Father brought two Asian boys into their home as their sons.

From the youth they tried educating us in social justice, racism, and the like.  I am thus familiar with the ideas, but personally have a limited experience.  This grows, as does the understanding of what my parents were trying to teach me.

Where am I going with this, I am not sure.

Whatever the point may be, I decided I want to make a film:

-I would like to find out who has been reporting incidents of racism/otherhateacts around campus and I would like to interview them about their experiences.

-I would like to interview faculty who are both of the majority and minority about their experiences.

-I would like to interview random people about what their opinions are as far as the hate report statistics go.

 

I don’t want to victimize myself or others, but there are lots of reported incidents, and surely many unreported incidents.  Numbers only say so much though.  Perhaps those were reports of rather benign comments, perhaps severe hate crimes which ought to be publicized.  Either way, we won’t know if a.) those stories are imprisoned as numbers and b.) no one pays attention to it.

At the student senate meeting, there are maybe 5 minority representatives.  Those 5 hardly gave input into the conversations.  Granted, I was only there for one meeting.  During the meeting, in the beginning, one woman stated that there has been an increase in reported hate incidents and that the use of the word ‘Nigger’ has been increasing around campus as well.  What was discussed about this?  Nothing during that meeting, no one seemed to have any comments on it.  This is interesting, because as a student senate, they ought to take these sorts of issues on.  The majority of the meeting was discussing a policy which would restrict smoking to the perimeters of the campus, and most of the statements were “I” statements, not exactly representative of the body who the senator is there to represent.

Now, that being said, I am not in a place to judge for I have not appreciated yet the work they have done for the campus, nor as individuals their own goals with student senate.  However, I was not impressed with the level of articulation in the senate nor with the maturity levels.  I did not see myself as a student being represented, so I will run for senate and hopefully represent my friends well.

I need to be more humble still.

A sigh of relief, as cool as the breeze

A sigh of relief, as cool as the breeze

A sigh of relief, the waves of bossanova inspired alcohol flowing down my throat

A sigh of relief, my hopes growing with all the trees

Indestructible, the object of my desire is blaring loudly like a goat

Always on my mind

Summertime

Dabbin out or tabbin out

Just jumping around with my chica, exclaiming and never quick to shout

Unless of excitement

Our youth continues

Into the warm motherly evenings, our youth matures

In the incubation provided by mother nature, our aspirations hatch and grow

From the depth of the winter to the rolling waves of heat, our good spirit continues to flow

I am: Intent

I am standing in my boxers, upper half still cozy with my sweater and jacket insulating my organs.

I am standing, looking down.  The bare feet, the soft green shower mat thing that sits around the toilet.

I am standing.  I am standing.

I look down, my piss is oscillating as the warm fluid flows through my flaccid penis.  My placid penis.

I am standing, staring at the brick, once covered in nothing, once covered in snow, currently partially encrusted with ice, the remainder of that ice shattered.

I look up, I see the shadow of the smoke as I exhale the ephemeral detriment.

I see that ‘detriment’ slowly fading, matching the pace of the burning cigarette.

Never has a cigarette been so satisfying.

So satisfying.

Smoking it with intent.  Not a habit, not a cigarette smoker, but smoking with a little bit of intent.

Make of that as you would prefer, or as you will, but to me… intent.  That is something, that feeling is something, not unique to myself, but that moment, unique to myself.

I am sure I share it with countless others, others who stand there taking a break from life, pondering as they smoke their cigarette.

I will not let it take me over, I will be stronger than that.

I look at my facebook, devoid of meaning to me.

So I close it.

So I close my eyes.

I type as my eyes are closed, remembering.

Just remembering.

This time, of moments so recent and so dear.

I think to myself.

Trihad niggas, if we ain’t together its cause y’all out spreading your wings and gettin bigger

I say to them: Spread your wings.

I see my bestfriend being a rapper.  I do.

Most sincerely, I do.

I do.

Before I see my girlfriend as a girl, I must first see her as a friend.

It is in the moments that I do, that I hope more than anything that someday she’ll say ‘I do’.

See me first as Franklin.  I must see others as they are, before imposing my own personality upon others.

I am blind.

I am blind.

I shall not drink to get drunk.

I shall get drunk as I drink.

I am me.  At the end of the day, I remember.

I remember.

I remember those niggas who always gonna be my niggas.

I turn down the sound.

I cannot.

I cannot muster enough ______ to get out of my bed and grab either my phone nor my headphones.

The reason?

I am a writer.  I would rather sit here and write.

I turn the music on, quietly, enough to be heard.

A delicate sound.  So reassuring, so warm.  “Khafole..”

The breath of air which all who have lived in the north experience, the cold, the dryness.

The cool dry inhale, more than cool, rather cold.  So in a sense, less than cool, for it contains less kinetic energy.

That cold breath, on a hot day.

The ultimate relaxation as one falls asleep.

The hug, the hug.

This delicate sound, this music, is a hug.

Chance drops a tab of acid for your ear, to be honest I wanna trip acid all year.

To be honest.

What does it mean to do drugs.  What does it mean to feel a sense of wholeness when tripping.

A sense of ultimate comfort, a sense of ultimate connection.

So much connection that I am otherwise blind to.

Once again…

… I am blind.

Nikita Nenashev.  You may know me better than I know myself, you saw me grow up.

Staying up late, talking, listening to music.  Letting go of myself, in order to find myself.

Nothing pulling the strings of my heart or mind.

A soul at equilibrium.

Me.

Do others see me in a finer lens than I see myself?

Likely.

When I took acid, I felt I finally had that fine lens once again.

I am open.  When searching through youtube for music (Funny that it, for me, is all about music and not videos, interesting) I am searching for myself.

I am music.  Whatever music it may be, we are all music.

Everyone has their reasons and their life.

I am missing.

I was going to end this blog there, but it reminds me.

I am missing.
I called the adoption agency in Appleton.  Longstory short, I have more thinking to do.  As far as their assistance, I can’t really get any.

I need to do this search on my own, I have to trace my own roots.

I am a tree.

Before I grow any taller, I must find my seed.

I want music.

I want.

I want music in my life. I want live music in my life.  I want to be with people who can create music.  I want live music. I crave it, I have too much electronic music, and I do not mean the genre, I mean electronic as in the limited vibrations that my headphones and speakers have, versus having an instrument in front of you.

(I am surprised, my phone has been next to me the whole time… literally next to my head)

I am craving.

I am craving the vibrations of the cello as it resonates next to my heart, as I put emotion into each stroke of the bow.

Investments: I invest my emotion into the movement of the bow.

Returns: I feel the therapeutical vibrations that music is, right against my heart.

Directly into my soul.

I am, I am Franklin.

I am not, 박정원.

At one point in time, in a few different points in time, I was 정원.

mais, maintenant, je suis Franklin.

I am not that good at active listening, I must be patient.

I must

I am….