Blossom: Full Moon Finale

TW: mentions of mental health, xenophobia, 

domestic/sexual violence, and grey suicidality

    I remember watching the Korean Drama series "Hwang Ji-Yi" (2006) back in Taiwan and being obsessed with the story that's based on 황진이 c. 1506 - c. 1560 ("Hwang Jini" or "Hwang Ji-Yi"), also known by her gisaeng name 명월 ("Myeongwol" meaning "bright moon"). She was one of the most famous gisaengs in the Joseon Dynasty, and gisaengs (or "kisaengs") were girls and women from socio-politically outcast, lower class, or even slave families who were trained to be courtesans, providing artistic entertainment and conversation to men of the upper class... And though there were different periods, laws, and discourses on the relationships to prostitution as well as sexual exploitations and violence, they were carefully trained and frequently accomplished in the fine arts, poetry, and prose, and although they were of low social class, they were respected as educated artists. Hwang Ji-Yi was one of the most influential gisaengs that have inspired many modern medias of storytelling... It was said that Hwang Ji-Yi refused to follow social norms for women to marry and chose the life of a gisaeng, giving her the freedoms and access to learn not only dance and music, but also art, literature, and poetry - topics that were not normally taught to young women during that time. Copied below is one of the only preserved example of her sijo (traditional Korean poems/verses):

冬至 섯달 기나긴 밤을 한 허리를 잘라 내어

春風 이불 아래 서리서리 넣었다가

어론님 오신 날 밤이여든 구뷔구뷔 펴리라.

in loose poetic translations to...

I will divide this long November night

and coil by coil

lay it under a warm spring blanket

and roll by roll

when my frozen love returns

I will unfold it to the night.

    And I remember the last episode of the 2006 Korean drama series, where Hwang Ji-Yi asks a man who was a teacher/academic/philosopher in the community for answers to being an artist in grief; The man sits down with her to have tea, referring to the dried flowers and tea leaves as the teacher he seeks when faced with existential doubts. Thus before they drank the tea to end the night, Ji-Yi watched a decayed and dried chrysanthemum flower opens and blossoms once more... She left a note in the morning for the man to thank him for his teachings of ego-death, and unpacked the lesson of relearning/embracing ordinary life as art before understanding, practicing, and aiming for extraordinary performances or artistic crafts. I was watching/taking this in at age 7-9, and I still come back to this 2006 series for this moment/teaching... Why do we create when we’ve not blossomed ourselves ? I ask this more and more, now especially in these moments after dropping out of University, like how the final episode started with Ji-Yi leaving the giseangs' corridors and fences to first find inspirations for art, but then she found aspirations to find herself instead. I know that deinstitutionalization will always be part of my journey forward and beyond, even if they were ways I had learnt to survive. I now understand that perhaps having potentials in academia was really just potentials of being a model immigrant with the violent bonuses of tokenization, and I don’t want to assimilate any longer. I’ve always been the most good at feeling even if people reject or repress theirs. I want to be good at feeling again, I want to play and care again, I want to feel my body to love and embrace again. With no dissection but just empathy; with no analysis and just practice. I remind myself each day, as I do the bare minimum to get by, while still making time for things like community events, friends, and family - that caring for and growing relationships is indeed my work and my current practice of art/craft, as I remember my high school art teacher saying that “art is about relationships”. Thus I say blossom not bloom because it refers to the whole process of blooming, even after it’s peak, as well as a reference to more than just one flower blooming, especially flowers on a tree or bush... Art has been a way for me to blossom for the world even as I decay, and I used to create for release but now I create for grief. I dream of creating for joy, but often I don’t know how when I don’t feel it long enough to hold. And yet, I still breathe softer each night trying to hold the sky...

"you broke the ocean in

half to be here

only to find nothing that wants you"

- Immigrant by Nayyirah Waheed

    I remember sitting in front of the TV playing Disney Channel to repeat lines after lines, trying hard to soften my accent after people at school making fun of it. I remember being asked to eat outside the portable classroom because someone complained about the smell of my homemade dumplings. I remember the ways I distanced myself from my family, from food to language to spaces. I would do anything to rewind time to hug myself and them, to remind myself of how beautiful it is to be an immigrant, how humbling it is to be a guest, and how honouring it is to offer anew... Now like a seed dropped by a bird that flew across seas, I still sit in solitude with the ways my family are moving back to Taiwan for good during this pandemic. Not that I was ever close with my blood family, especially after I came out and moved to the city, but now I feel the need to hold onto my roots more than ever with being the only one here. I have been slowly trying to reroot and connect, but now it seems impossible stranded alone continents away... So I grieve, and I reroot here on stolen lands with many of my friends and chosen family still not knowing much about Taiwan, nor the original caretakers of this land. Thus we continue to un- and relearn in and from Tkaronto, I honour my mermaid journey from the island of Taiwan to Turtle Island, and I embrace the blossom of my time here even in grief. It's like after 10 years in Canada that people start to forget that I'm not from here, even if I belong, even if I start to learn the media and cultural references that I wasn't here to witness, even if I start to understand the meanings of slangs and local sayings, I still wonder if the same curiosity and understandings are offered to me... I remember during a drive back in high school with my mother that she asked me if I ever felt truly accepted by our white neighbours and peers, even my friends, and I understood why she would only make friends with other immigrant aunties and perhaps why she's deciding to move back home just a little bit more. I say my family love but don't like each other, it becomes bittersweet for me to accept the ways my family care for me without ever understanding, agreeing, nor aligning with me. And over the years I have learnt to celebrate and embrace our differences, as who better than immigrants, to identify and practice the love in-between the gaps of knowledge, the distance of borders, as well as the silences that come with a traveled and tired body... Thus I often lay my body to rest, for many would not understand the aches and longing I embody; I lay my body to rest on this sick and stolen land as I cry, hoping to water the cracks between concretes I still miss playing in the rivers back home. I say home is wherever water flows, but here I am with water as still as a mirror for me to only remember. So I will continue to weep, and remember...

"Immigrants came to these shores bearing a legacy of languages, all to be cherished. 

But to become native to this place, if we are to survive here, and our neighbours too, 

our work is to learn to speak the grammar of animacy, so that we truly be at home..."

- Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer

    Animacy meaning alive, and to call this living place my home is a generous and comforting offer but also a violent one while Indigenous people still don't have sovereignty... As the moon softly fills that I shift my agency to gratitude, because it was Black/Indigenous, queer, and trans folks who have held me when I needed solidarity and chosen family the most. It is my responsibility to work towards contributing reparations as long as I occupy and breathe on Turtle Island. However it is not just gratitude but also still grief, as I feel my language, memories, and cultural knowledge slip out of my finger tips each day, I hope to make myself ideally helpful, but at least aware of the justice that's needed for Tkaronto and its first peoples. As Indigenous people have taught me love and elders have been ever more gracious in embracing newcomers, it is our duty to show up and give back, as reconciliation is dead without land back... So I grieve and give thanks, under this full blood moon in Taurus just after the lunar eclipse, I write this final blossom for this blog after 8 years. It has been the most humbling, messy, and honouring journey of storytelling. I look back and witness myself outgrowing myself: word after word and moons after moons; I remember the times I searched for myself through softer words and in hopes softening this world. Now like a dehydrated flower reblossoming in the waters of Scorpio sun, and under the full blood moon in Taurus, I grieve and I give thanks to the trees and land protectors, the wind and water walkers, the fire keepers, and the hearts in solidarity across all seas. And as we blossom again, we take soft care and rest, so we sustain, together beyond timelines of violence and uncertainties... We will blossom, again.

    I remember arriving in "Canada" on August 18th 2011, shivering and unused to the colder chills of a summer ending. I remember the 4 of us living in a motel room for 2 months, I remember not having an address to write down on the first day of school when they asked for my home. I remember this house for 10 years now, even though I moved to the city in August/September 2017 for university; I remember not being able to wake up from this bed, tears wetting my sheets every morning, I remember wanting to die. I remember not knowing myself, nor the world. I remember screams and shattered glass, I remember punched holes in my walls and steps on my chest, I remember crying myself to sleep every night... I remember the violence around and within this house, now almost empty, but I can still hear the walls weep. I remember leaving in the nights only to come back bruised and used, I remember my virginity lost somewhere along the suburban curbs, I remember surviving violence in cars after cars, moons after moons... I remember surviving violence in this house, within myself, and out in this world. Yet still I remember an abundance of unconditional love, community care, and mutual-aid. I hope we don't just remember, but continue to dream of the possibilities that we deserve, because that's how I've lived beyond survival. And even if I still cry, I don't want to cry alone anymore... I want to grow and blossom with the world once more, again and again, moons after moons. And tonight with this full moon finale, I dream for us to stay soft, as "love is a moontime teaching" (Billy Ray-Belcourt). 

On Accountability & 'Cancel Culture'

    I've found myself having to apologize a lot in my life, and it's not because of always hurting/harming people but a trauma response for often not feeling enough... Yet I've really taken this opportunity to examine/reflect/study accountability, anatomies of an apology, guilt, and ethical responsibilities to each other within/across/between communities, as well as the feelings/healing that fuels such emotional phenomenon of (re/un)learning, calling-in/out, diverse definitions/demands of duties/ideals within/across/between relationships, and forgiveness as well as reparations/restorations after impact... Thus how do we even begin with the guilt of being, when my existence/presence on stolen land contributes directly to the violence and continuance of settler-colonialism ? I've come to learn to use my guilt as drive, as basis of my passion and will for Indigenous sovereignty, as my being would be nothing without the resilient becomings of the elders, youths, and the water/land protectors across Turtle Island... 

    But verbal/emotional/mental acknowledgement is far from enough, as it takes practice to relearn languages, to unlearn mindsets/impulses/behaviours, to understand/learn how to make space, what it means to create softness/safety, to invest in mutual-aid and more meaningful connections, to buy/purchase Black/Indigenous-owned services as well as to always give back/thanks/credit. I remind myself that there is no 'enough' when it comes to allyhood for all livelihoods, as there's always room to love, care, and learn better/more. And I often think about the differences between interpersonal and socio-political accountabilities, how they intersect and how each serves differently in diverse circumstances... I've had the honour to (un/re)learn thus humbly reference Rania El Mugammar's teachings/work: The Anatomy of An Apology for better understandings/reflections upon accountability. One thing I've also learned over the years is that if we're truly sorry and remorseful about our faults/harmful impact, we should not even be seeking forgiveness at all - we should we seeking and working towards reconciliation through harm reduction with minimal feedings/centerings of our feelings. It is to understand that the relief to our guilt is not being given forgiveness necessarily but to be a worthy and useful contribution to their healing by duty/responsibility/care. Thus to be accountable, is to reconciliACT in changed behaviours/ideals for the betterment of those impacted/harmed/exploited/neglected. Even if that looks like leaving them alone, to give space for process/healing, and to honour the boundaries needed when they are impacted no matter the state/excuse. One of the most important lessons of mine is also to understand that not all can be fixed or forgiven, thus our guilts/regrets really are just fixations on our feelings without clear conscious of what is needed for reconciliation and justice. I remembered years ago being compassionately called-in with words/labels like "savage"/"spirit animals" that I've learnt from mainstream/pop culture, and til today I am thankful for those reminders/teachings thus knowing how to navigate/serve better within/between/through interpersonal relations and for the defence/honour of Indigenous presence/history/resilience. One of the lessons I'm also grateful for was from a virtual and meditative conversation/smoking session with someone I consider a great friend/femme-fam/ally and mentor over the years, and we spoke about our crafts, poetry, and words... also how we can easily find anti-Blackness even in the romanticizations of healing through words - comparing lightness and darkness, using words like the shadows in relation to trauma... How can we write and heal without historical/cultural measures/norms of negativity surrounding darkness ? What about weight and heaviness ? As a writer/poet and emotional being I confess of using language like "feeling heavy", and I now know that contributes to the mindset of heaviness/fatness = negativity. I believe that all is connected and influenced thus a sort of responsibility to analyze and reflect in every circumstance/interaction/sentence/conversation/incidence to truly hold ourselves accountable to our ideas/speech/actions/impact. Yet aside from being accountable to both ourselves and others through interpersonal/socio-psychological relations, what about our commitments to community as a collective ? And how we navigate/serve personal relations/responsibilities while through community guidelines/duties remain a lesson/journey/test of our fair support/solidarity for justice.

    Then we have what's known as "cancel culture" - which I believe to be rooted in notions of community safety/care but often polluted with social media performativity/spectacality, and false/tainted intentions/presentations of politics... The possibilities of being canceled has been a common joke/punchline from certain peers surrounding my work and social profile. It still brings me great discomfort when joked about being "canceled"/"exposed" in the future as it makes me question if people my age actually believe in my/my work's genuineness/values at all, but also a reminder of the realities of serving/organizing communities publicly. At the end of the day, my name is not mine when I've chosen to work for/towards community, and I believe it to be an honour even if it becomes a trigger of anxiety/panic over how others view/think/speak of me. Yet I stand softly and strong in my essence as I hope for my character to be firm, foundational, and transparent enough to not have to explain/defend myself when times come controversies. And though I've learned to stay away from drama and often keeping my full opinion/analysis/understanding to myself, recently I was still forced into the spotlight as a target of being canceled/unfollowed on Instagram... It all surrounds me being approached by a local organization/team of queer/trans Asians who posts/organizes/hosts campaigns as well as events centering Queer/Trans Black, Indigenous, and People of Colour narratives. They reached out back in the Summer to include me in a photoshoot which I was honoured/humbled to accept, however the concept was to have me wear a t-shirt with words of "Jolliqueen" while eating Jollibees fried chicken. I knew that Jollibees from the Philippines and had checked in with their team as well as a close Filipino friend/sister at the time, and was explained that their whole team/organization involved were Filipino and they were okay/wanted to cast me even though I'm Taiwanese. I was also encouraged/supported by my sister/friend back then and had a fairly pleasant time participating in the campaign - but now a few months later before the photos even came out, I was now called to be cultural appropriating and racist of/towards Filipino culture... Thus now I know in my deepest apologies/regrets that I should have never agreed to appear in a campaign when another trans Filipino person would have been the perfect fit. It was never my intention to take up space where it's not appropriate and maybe the flatter/vanity got to my ego before my conscious could be clear. There's no excuse or forgiveness needed as I should have been smarter and questioned myself more. Though I'm glad to have the organizers/team respond so professionally/compassionately as we all agreed that the photos just won't be used/posted when time comes. And I'm only thankful that this was dragged out with intentions to cancel my name by a hurting friend instead of community outrage/disapproval/responses that could come after posting... Maybe it's a sign for me to never model seriously/professionally, or just a reminder to trust my initial questions/doubts - if I needed to check-in with their team on their casting decision and creative directions, then having to double-check/unpack with a community member, then I probably shouldn't have accepted the gig (not that I was compensated/profited in any way). I'm not perfect, and I know I must do better and hold myself more transparent/accountable to each person/community I interact, encounter, and collaborate if I dare claim to love/care/honour.

    Also not to use such (un/re)learning experience to critique/debunk cancel culture, but an example of the usage/exploitations of social media and politics as intentional tactics/tools to hurt/harm/slender/call-out someone's public name/presence unforgivingly... I believe in community accountability and canceling/calling-out publicly as tools of harm reduction and announcements of safety measures. I believe in calling-out predators and abusers for the safety/care of victims/survivors within communities, I believe in publicly shaming and dishonouring discriminative/violent practices/services across communities. I believe in the need for being accountable, honest, and true to ourselves - but not like this, not how names are thrown without decency and respect, not when shared traumas in private are used so ruthlessly without empathy, not virtually online where compassion is already fatigued. I become so sad and disappointed of how many chooses to follow/unfollow without further investigation/understanding, thus I come to realize that the internet public is often more interested in a gasp then in whole truths. And I must remind myself of softness, of standing in my vulnerability against judgement and accusations, I must again remind myself of true allyship and accountabilities. I remind myself to stay myself, as I've learned that realness will always be questioned and tested... 

    I call on us to invest into community healing, into what comes next after calling-in/out, into learning what it takes for reparative/restorative justice. I wish we can grief softly over the love and fights we've lost, and to remain respectful through circumstances/complications. I pray for us to heal, as I demand for empathy and more compassion even in socio-political analysis/reflections... I believe in our growth, as even a survivor I call for abolishing the prisons - I believe in humanity and healing. I believe in holding truth and our communities even safer, closer, and softer.

Growth & Grief

    Sometimes I dream of a death-like sleep, an escape, a safe hideaway to be without dissection, without needing to prove my existence or worth, without care or contributions to be deserving of my next breath... Sometimes I become so exhausted I only wish to disappear, forever, to forgive myself of all the ways I've failed at love, at teaching life thus barely surviving, at grace and compassion as it seems not enough, as it feels not enough to be offering my heart... Sometimes, I feel not enough.

"You are allowed to heal toward a future version of yourself 

without hating who you are right now. 

You have the option to love yourself to new levels."

- Rachel Elizabeth Cargle

    And then I remember of how a therapist once told me at 16 that it's okay to let go in order to grow, to thank the people who's no longer in your journey towards healing, to wish them well and forgive myself too. As at the end of the day I hold no guilt or regrets for the ways I had loved and shared, even if misunderstood and antagonized, my love and care remains sacred and true to its time - I must believe that, I must remind myself that, in order to stay alive I must believe that my love, compassion, and patience worth something, that no time was wasted, that all is honoured and deserving even through torturing heartbreak/betrayal... Thus grief, as it seems a reoccurring thesis/lesson of this year when we've been grieving all year in midst of such violent calls for transformation, for restorative and reparative justice. I've been crying from the Blue Full Moon to the Beaver Full Moon - surviving threats, weaponized politics and twisted words, I struggle to mourn in peace while social medias drained with compassion-fatigued dramas and an audience-filled spectacality. No mediation or explanation needed as my last conversations were simply a call for consideration, a realization for boundaries and self-preservation - as sharing my feelings in vulnerability and truth still stands no conflict in my mind but an unfortunate subject to public projections and assumptions. I only pray/hope for the healing of all, meditating for growth through grief as I attempt to find softness again in cruelty and hurt... 

"Grief can be a garden of compassion.

If you can keep your heart open through everything, 

your pain can become your greatest ally in your life's search for love and wisdom."

- Rumi

    Virgo in mutable Earth - characterized and rooted in changeability: I remembered losing friends/allies and being villianized in high school after coming out, still I look back in truth of queer/transphobic/ableist layers within mistreatments and misunderstandings but also I come to understand/realize one's need/relief through calling-out instead of calling-in. I was so hurt and desperate to call out the injustices to my feelings/identity/being that I didn't know how to call-in through grace/softness. And maybe if I had called into reflections instead of outing behaviours with socio-political theories of violence/hierarchies that people would have responded with less denial and defensiveness. Yet I must forgive myself for the ways I thought I needed to fight in defence when already exhausted from daily discriminations and micro-aggressions. I understand the need to fight, but over the years I've become too tired, thus mostly in flight. And when later awakened to published comments of my body as a candidate/competition for some university-student-elections drama, I come to learn again the balance between silence and vocalizing a stance through both being villianized/victimized so publicly and powerlessly to my control... I come to realize from all these internet incidences of slandering, call-outs, and misunderstandings/accusations/questions of who I am and how I live, that I have to stand soft in my character/essence and believe in the ways I have loved. Thus I know as a writer/poet/speaker that it is not the words of others or even myself that gets the honour of being remembered, but the ways we have made others feel and the spaces/stories we have shared in vulnerability/truth. I begin to understand through healing of how love/care without boundaries are self-destructive and unproductive to the healing of others/myself, as I'm also not responsible for how others react to my boundaries especially when my softness had already been extended, exhausted, and exploited - I must remind myself that my feelings and needs are honourable before pleasing/responding to others' traumas and forgiving for the ways their projections hurt me... From trees wilting that I learn to grief in grace and peace, waiting for new greens and blossoms in the love of growth/rebirth.

"I think it is healing behaviour

to look at something so broken and

see the possibility and wholeness in it."

- Adrienne Maree Brown 

    Sometimes I grief for the love never returned, for the love I served on silver platters but stepped on like street puddles, and for the love I desperately felt/gave for hopes of healing. Sometimes I still doubt my purpose of being here - a wilting flower asking why she deserves to blossom... And perhaps the remedy is to understand that my love is not the answer nor solution, that its been an honour and enough to contribute and care for our collective traumas/pains, that it has been and will be enough through softness and truth. As even though we are dying too we still dance, wilting in grace as we continue to plant the seeds of rebirth thus harvesting for the ingredients to our future...

On Racial Belonging & Solidarity

    Home is wherever water flows - as being immigrant and trans have layered my experiences, feelings, and navigations around/to the concepts of home and belonging...

    I remembered at the age of 11 turning 12 - moving countries again and again before settling in 'Canada', across the globe and far away from my East-Asian Island home. It was a contrast compared to living in Singapore and Malaysia as well, where flights to/from Taiwan were only 4-5 hours long. Yet I remembered being excited to leave and begin again despite the uncertainties of distance and language/cultural barriers... I wanted to start over and do/be better, socially as a feminine "boy" tired of being bullied at every school I went to. I told myself that I must learn to fit in and make friends, forcing myself to be more masculine and thus why I tried hanging out with many cis-guy classmates in grade 7 when I first came. And fast-forward to failed attempts of learning cis-masculinity, repressing queerness/trans-femininity, and toughing out against endless gay/fat jokes, which resulted in me finally coming out as a queer teen. However, the lessons and trials of assimilation for socio-political survival doesn't end there as traumas of being asked to eat dumplings outside a portable classroom also made me stopped eating Chinese food at middle-school and fighting with my mom weekly about what to bring as lunch... Coming to what we know now as 'Canada' as a child who already was marginalized socially in different Asian countries/cities/schools, was a violent game of cultural-assimilation and self-whitewashing with my deep desires to being understood/loved/accepted to be exploited as drive for mental submission. I still think of young times of solitude as a child growing up and playing alone, without trying to be anybody else or ever compromising my identity/expressions for others' understandings nor validations. I remembered not having any words/analysis/reflections nor explanations of why other boys and girls wouldn't play with me or laughed at me; I remembered crying about people not being nice but sometimes being okay with it as well... I softly remember and gently treasure those innocent and youthful memories of enjoying/embodying/embracing myself - memories I miss/grief/recall for our hurting humanity. 

    And then one night in the last year of high school on our way home, my mother asked in conversation if I think I'll ever and fully be seen/treated as white Canadian after years of cultural-abandonment and conditioned self-assimilation... I responded no while remembering the stares of cis white parents, the betrayals/neglect/misunderstandings/tokenizations from cis white peers, and even if queer but cis + whiteness: the normality of privilege and ego comfort. Looking back: from sitting in front of the TV repeating sentences in practice to soften my accent to me being the only trans person of colour in social-circles to me pleased to be a cis white girl's "gay best friend" to how no one cared for a trans friend at the end - I understand that it was all but a game of trying to be seen, felt, and wanted while navigating character/identity realizations/development/actualizations. Many other Asian/immigrant peers called me "banana" and joked about my whitewashing back then as well, but I forgive and hold myself dearly for the ways I had learned for survival. Especially as a queer/trans person in a suburban town like Waterloo, I now understand how my lightskin and me speaking the colonizer's language was what had saved me from further social-antagonization/alienation and extreme/violent discriminations/marginalization... Yet I remember not long after, it was a friendly stranger's kindness/softness: an older non-binary Black femme, who's an immigrant-islander as well who sent me money after hearing stories of transphobia at school. It was also around when I started attending community poetry slams after losing most friends at school, thus again a new beginning of social-searching for belonging. Though this time, it was of queer/trans Black, Indigenous, and people of colour who were artists as well. I remembered being in awe of coloured femme bodies together, in support and solidarity, being unapologetically ethnic and feminine on their own terms. I remembered feeling free, and accepted, even when I've just met those people yet now I understand that its the linage and connections that we have as femmes of feelings for healing...

    Black people have taught me love as Indigenous people have taught me life. I have painted myself as a lost/abandoned mermaid at shore for a self-portrait before as I've often referred to my journey of interpersonal/socio-political belonging to being a mermaid. Thus through growth and reflections, I really believe that my blossom here as a settler-immigrant in Turtle Island (North America) could not have been if I didn't cross paths with certain mentors, chosen-families, and community members - if it weren't for the teachings, generosity/grace, and specific moments of reaching out/empathy - I would not be the flower I am today. It is from Black/Indigenous women/femmes that I relearn how to grow a home internally while communities externally; and it is with Black/Indigenous queer/trans folks that I unlearn for collective rest, self-preservation, and intercommunal joy: like an adopted mermaid at shore, I will forever hold gratitude and give back for the ways this land and its land/water protectors have helped me breathe.

    Though I was also afraid of repeating same mistakes - of mistaking bodies as homes, as belongings and acceptance my inner child still craves... As domestic violence and physical abuse was the normal exchange between families of blood that I still seek of chosen-families by waters for cleanse. Yet I must belong deeply to myself, like waves extending/embracing out and back to themselves; I must feel safe with the rivers within even if I become/represent the in-betweens of belonging - perhaps both, perhaps none, perhaps all but still one and at peace. I must cry oceans wondering of home, to wander across seas for blood just to drink and cry more... So I understand, that there needs to be no belonging for solidarity as empathy is not required for support either. We don't need to be included to love and care, to re/unlearn and to do/be better. I am a Taiwanese lightskin immigrant, an East-Asian islander, and a transgender-woman/femme always in support/solidarity while searching for softness and belonging. Though no matter my positionalities of "home" or belonging, I shall defend the homes of others as well as the homes of our collective future. 

Drama Queen

CW/TW: mentions of mental illness, suicidal ideation...

          I remember a theatre teacher who said that just because I'm dramatic doesn't mean I'm good at drama. I remember hating myself growing up, being told that I'm too dramatic, emotional, and weak for a "boy". I remember coming out in high school, being turned against then to blamed for the drama once again... I remember sisters calling me dramatic, telling me that they wish I learn to chill in the city amongst the chaos. People tell me to rest, to pause, to stop doing, to stop crying, to stop being emotional and extra, but no one ever tries to understand the oceans I feel or to affirm the waves I try to stay alive at riding... They wonder why I live as if I'm in crisis but never dare to swim in my heart. People wander into my life to take, telling me to calm down but still call for emergencies and their needs/desires of joy that doesn't include mine... People have gotten so comfortable with my softness that they expect me to carry theirs while rotting with conditional compassions.

"sometimes the night wakes in the middle of me, and

i can do nothing but become the moon."

- Nayyriah Waheed

          I don't know how to stop imagining my body hanging, or to stop crying when alone, staring into walls and listening to silence. I feel myself ill but there's no one there to witness the show - such a shame, for how a trauma clown goes insane, as she is found in a room muffling screams and licking her own tears off the floor. Perhaps I like walking alone at night because I want to die unexpectedly, a suicide attempt every block just waiting to be clocked... The next available psychiatry appointment is in mid-July. I am tired and scared to keep on observing my mood swings, snapping at jokes, phrases, sentences, wrong-sized bed sheets, broken glass, and/or even changed traffic routes. I find a woman hysterically begging for softness, for empathy, for an embrace but only met with labels of a drama queen. I have never made excuses for my mental illnesses but am I really for blame to ask for more sensitivity and compassion ? Especially within my own communities, I become exhausted of coping and surviving together that we must reimagine ourselves better - softer/gentler - kinder.

"poetry is fire leaving my body"

- Nayyriah Waheed

          I went to the waters for teachings, trying to (un)learn peace and (re)learn joy... I burn sage for cleanse, sweetgrass for purity, lavender for faith, and cannabis for tranquility; I kneel in the sand praying for forgiveness as I sit by the rocks meditating on salvation. Dandelion and chamomile, alongside chrysanthemum in water, finally rebirthing, for healing... Like the ways I rot and die with houseplants in isolation - unwatered soils and ashes on leaves, when did my solitude become such self-destructions ? Neglect became a routine as I searched for worth in all place else, fitting myself into people like homes even if it means to make myself smaller, and smaller... just to be friend-/familyless/homeless at the end. A room is not a room without being as a house is not a home without breathing. Maybe I'm not enough I think/feel, but to remind myself of the ways we've all become too good to survive that we mistake it as living. As the truth is that in no reflections of our survival and pains are we truly learning to thrive.

          I am the earth desperate for water and air - enriched yet heavy in heart, still searching for softness while waiting to bloom. Exhausted and burnout I feel a forest fire starting within... I have so much to learn, I must give myself the time and space: A love letter of forgiveness in light, thus a reminder that we all deserve to start again even while hopeless and dreaming of death. Perhaps a new lesson is joy instead of pain, to example by healing. At times I feel guilty for being a storyteller and not a healer yet, for the days I can not offer joy and for the ways I may not deserve the glory. Though do believe me when I say that loving you almost makes living worth the pains, that the rest is up to us to grow gardens of community and mutual-aid. I have died so many times in mind today, replaying visuals of past/possible violence, waiting for a pause or a breath... Make no mistake as this story is not a drama but a documentary. We dare to witness and reimagine joy, through teachings of empathy thus the inner work of practicing compassionate reflections. To all persons of feelings: we must heal and stay alive, together, as the world is often too cruel and ready for our erasure/endings. 

"if the ocean can calm itself - so can you

we are both salt water mixed with air."

- Nayyriah Waheed

How I Miss Being Asian/Taiwanese

CW/TW: mentions of mental health

          A settler-immigrant's confession of surviving through cultural-abandonment and conditioned self-assimilation into (colonial-)Canadian society: Taiwan is a homeland deep in memories yet further more distant in the courage/will to remember... Breathing through the in-betweens of cultural/national/ancestral identities/expressions/teachings/learnings of belonging/worth, she is lost within herself. It's not that she's trying to be someone she's not, nor is it because she is uncertain of who she is. It is her art of just trying to be: nothing, and everything, all at once, in a breath...

          I believe that in a way, my parents were visionaries the way they prepared our family to be global/transnational citizens. Not only because my true/trans identity was nurtured transnationally, but because I know my parents also planned for future possibilities, as survival. A modern, privileged warfare of bodies/labours in trade for the (North)American dream, and I dare say this because I know of my immigrant status through the Canadian government to be an evidence of the continuous oppression/genocide against its First Nations/Indigenous/Native peoples. Yet the (North)American dream is a lie, and now I couldn't help but wonder of my worth/purpose here on this land... Going back to my roots as healing, I feel the call to confess of my cultural wandering, in order to serve and love my families/communties better.

          Taiwan to Singapore: island to island, a subtropical island in East-Asia to a tropical island even smaller in Southeast-Asia. I remember learning "proper" English to be the priority for those years of young, yet I also remember coming home crying, from bullying and social rejection/isolation... Growing up in Taiwan and leaving at the age of 9, looking back I know I began seeking belonging then while introduced to new diversity and multiculturalism with children starting to practice socio-political, categorical call for groupings. It was a private Chinese-speaking/teaching elementary school a long bus ride away that I remembered studying hard to test into. I remembered walking to the bus when it was still dark in the mornings; I would often fall asleep, miss my stop, and get lost but luckily as a 9/10 years old light-skinned "boy" in a strict/lawful society/neighbourhood that I've always had assistance/guidance when needed... Then on a parent-teacher day, I remembered sitting beside my mother with her asking about my issues of making friends and fitting in, and I remembered my teacher saying that there seems to be no issues with my grades and that I was good/obedient in the classroom. I was a "good boy"; contrast to my brother fighting, acting out, and skipping schools, which is why we had to move to Malaysia after too, because he couldn't adapt. Yet reflecting now, I really appreciated my brother's rage and resistance against authority during those times growing up when I was learning submission as survival, even though he was acting out due to the pains of family neglect, social isolation, and cycles of abuse/abandonment. We also must silently admit of the ways our travel stories aligning with our mother's survival: being a woman fleeing from pains of silence, family/work pressures, patterns of domestic violence, marriage instability, and the foundations of her mental illness... Then in Malaysia, more violence and patriarchal power for my brother to cope, and more bullying of daily physical violence and sexual harassment as well as social rejection for my femininity. Tropical, we were in an international elementary school in Kuala Lumpur; I remembered finding joys in the walks to English/Math tutors/classrooms but passionately learning words in Malay to sing its national anthem... I remembered being lonely, but okay with it; I remembered loving my solitude even through the uncertainties of being in-between.

"My lonliness keeps me going..." 

- Ms. Rajput, 42, transgender woman in India

          Through the years of social rejection and violence growing up as a feminine child/"boy" in Asia had me believing that my liberation of truth somehow needs to be credited to Canada as well. However I do come to realize that my trans-journey really is transnational, international, and definitely racially-impacted as well. I have learnt to grow/navigate as a woman/femme from the examples I have witnessed/felt, from the coloured feminine figures/spirits of the pacific oceans: the roots of my being and the waves of my self-identification/realization/actualization. And while the nurturing of my femininity in Asia was a lonely practice, I look back to give thanks for the silent teachings, in which I also give credit to myself, for listening/learning, for planting/watering a seed, for growing/fighting/blooming/surviving... 

          I remembered promising myself to find belonging in Canada no matter what and to stop being bullied at schools. I remembered sitting in front of our motel's room's TV, watching Disney/Nickelodeon at the age of 12, repeating words I was trying to understand, wishing to wash away any traces of an Asian accent. I remembered embarrassment for miscommunication while helping my parents with the bank, mail, the schools, the house-viewings...etc, but telling myself that it was worth the practice, so I can be more perfect in times of need. Somewhere along the way I realized that I was never able to fit in through gendered behaviours/norms, especially after coming out as gay/queer at 13. I started making friends and finding community as white cis-girls' "gay best friend" in rural suburbia, I remembered flamboyance as my only protection against this colonial-cis-heteronormative patriarchy, I remembered admitting queerness as a way desperate for social-understanding/inclusion, no matter how pitiful/performative... I remembered mistaking white femininity as an ideal/escape, maybe even an ally against the violence at/from home.

          Thus the reality of my white/west-washing survival, my psychological abandonment of culture/heritage, and my socio-political assimilation/submission: all for desperate feelings of belonging with communities I'll never feel enough for. Now the title of "immigrant" almost becomes selling-checkmarks as marginalized storytellers, yet how do I represent an experience while denying its substance/impact ? I come to confess of my failure as a community member/representative/storyteller, that I have become so good at solidarity I started to rot in my own solitude... How ironic, that I can participate in conversations/discussions, maybe even practices of other cultures but never my own ? I have gotten so good at becoming/learning/being the "racialized" while denying my own specifications of belonging; I can quote race theories and share artful stories, histories, victories, injustices of all coloured people but of those who actually look like me... It is only grief that I feel as a proud/soft Taiwanese woman, an East-Asian transgender femme, and a Pacific-island girl while reflecting back on my journey of identity. Something, is indeed missing, something I have hidden and buried: the embrace of my own homeland/culture/roots... It was for survival that I traded in my cultural identities/memories, tired of feeling hopeless, misunderstood, and rejected from my own families and those who look like me, I had to abandon and seek for superficial support of false solidarities. Yet now for salvation, I dare to confess in raw and vulnerability, of how I miss being and feeling Asian/Taiwanese: How I will forgive myself for ever thinking I'm less than/unworthy of my culture, how I will continue to represent and realize/actualize of the rich queer/trans expressions in my ancestry, how I shall continue watering my roots, digging for a rediscovery and planting for new possibilities of unity and liberation...

"I walked into the classroom,

feeling like a drop of oil,

staining the perfectly white blouse..."

- Leon Tsai: The Yellow Stain (2016)

          Walking out and diving in/deeper: crafting/redefining one's cultural belonging, and honouring/reconnecting with those who came before and those alongside me now... all for those after, and beyond.

Call Me Mother/Mental

"Mother says there are locked rooms inside all women; 

kitchen of lust, bedroom of grief, bathroom of apathy...

Sometimes the men - they come with keys,

and sometimes, the men - they come with hammers."

- Warsan Shire: The House

CW/TW: family, mentions of domestic/sexual violence, mental health,

mentions of substance-use and suicidal ideation

          I embrace emotions too much, often only here, where I feel the constant need to keep pushing for emotions/reactions/something/anything... An outburst at mother's day dinner: perhaps triggered by mentions of someone joining the military, perhaps continued by last night's drunk in solitude while crying/puking in the backyards of rural suburbia, or perhaps just the accumulated suicidal-grey with silenced memories in a home/house/room I don't know how to feel/stay safe at... How does one feel so lost but stuck at the same time ? It all happened so fast, I remember screaming/asking for answers: teach me how to survive, and tell me how you have really supported my survival ? I asked my family over take-out food getting colder by the minute, that if they would even know why/what happened if/when I die ? An ungrateful child of disgrace, I hate how selfish I become at home: triggering a broken inner-child desperate for love and care, drowning in the years spent/loved in conflict, fighting for freedom, acceptance, sympathy/empathy, and solidarity...

          I apologized, left into the rain for fresh air, and came back still crying as if it was another family fight from years ago. I apologized again and again, begging my mom to stop the dishes and for my brother to stay in the space. I explained of how unstable my mental health has been, and just how hurtful it is to stay in a home with memories of alcoholism, domestic violence, as well as the years of uncertainty/self-hate/harm during exploring/becoming... I apologized for my selfishness, and how I've been in desperate need of emotional support and allyship, things never practiced in such closed and cold household. I talked of how I can not keep on living in a home without conversations and minimal interactions, and how gathering for mother's day becomes so performative without substantial care for each other's wellbeing... I explained how for me and my love languages: moving furniture and taking out the trash is not caring conversations or substantial support but transactional duties of care. I apologized again for my affects on the environment and said that it is also not my place to push for such changes after all that we have been through. I offered to leave in the next few days instead of waiting to find a place, for my own sanity/safety and theirs...

          My brother then finally opened up, admitting that he often doesn't know how to help/support me, especially when encountering socio-political/sexual/physical injustices. I appreciated that and thanked him, with my mother still weeping in silence, I asked her: has anyone ever told you while growing up that whatever you're feeling/thinking is valid, that you are allowed/freed to let it out ? My mother shook her head in silence, sobbing, and thats when I had to hold her hand tight, to feel the mothers/sisters that have came before, and survived... even in silence.

          I can feel the lineage of womanhood and femininity where submission becomes survival, and to be silent and serve is to be a good woman/mother/wife/daughter... I apologized and explained to my family of how I never see/accept them as violent allies of the oppressors, and I know we have not had an easy journey either; however, I am afraid/angry of ways we don't challenge our systematic beliefs and practices, thus letting us rot comfortably with privilege. I feel the same ways when I felt fighting them to see/accept/(re/un)learn my woman/femmehood as I feel now fighting them to be aware of systematic violence and the ways we become complicit. Perhaps all for the ego too as I am no saint, how selfish of me to project such journey of awakening to those around me, pushing pain for enlightenment, it is almost scary of how cynicism becomes you... I then started to realize that I also have tendencies to isolate and somehow cope with how much I hate myself by using self-loath to push for reflection/change, for satisfaction, thus often needing a lot of emotional affirmations. I feel that it is possible I project energies of inner-shame/guilt into spaces during mental breakdowns and instabilities, especially easily to people I'm most comfortable with: my family. And though in the right spirit of awareness and at least I demand for self-elevation and collective change... but is it even real if such is not birthed through love ? 

          Making my mother cry wasn't the mother's day we've hoped/planned for, and I am trying hard to forgive myself, as I was only searching for love and healing, even if the desperate/unstable outburst is an embarrassment to my grace, at least it was with family who embraced my ugliest moments. Yet I also have learned, through forgiving myself and while writing/reflecting, that I must do better. Not to be perfect or excellent by recognition/validation, but to do/be better through love/light, to grow softer/stronger for myself and those around me, then maybe someday beyond... A storyteller trying to share stories of hurting/healing while often only hurting, who have been carrying herself in pieces trying to love and be loved but she forgets that she deserves to feel whole first, to love in full and be loved fully. Thus I realized that if we're going to heal, it must be glorious, and my inclusion/push of my family must be rooted in compassion... I asked for hugs and of how we can/will do better for each other and ourselves, that I know how much we all try and we should be proud of our journeys, no matter for survival or beyond, that we are still here, together. I thought the night would end there but I'm glad we spent the next few hours til midnight chatting/discussing on feminism from/in East Asia in honour of mother's day: with my brother sharing historic knowledges on ancient societies and structures, with me mentioning theoretical analysis of survival, representation, and power as well as revolutionary examples/possibilities, also with my mother who only listened at first but then started to contribute her ideas/thoughts in nothing but grace... not stories yet but if you listened closely, you'd hear her experiences softly through her ideologies/principals.

"At parties I point to my body and say 

This is where love comes to die. 

Welcome, come in, make yourself at home. 

Everyone laughs, they think I’m joking..."

- Warsan Shire: The House

I remember 20 years ago my mother birthed my body

I remember 5 years ago I then started birthing my essence

I remember birthing myself again and again, 

After searching/loving/hurting/breaking/rotting/(re/un)learning

Are we then not mothers of our survival/becoming ?

A flower surrendering to mother earth; saying home is where water flows, but

Isn't fluidity part of our existence and being ?

I must heal, through loving my home within, first

Letting a garden grow, so I don't give my floral petals away trying to blossom... 

"At the end of the day,

it isn't where I came from,

maybe home is somewhere

I'm going and never have been before."

- Warsan Shire

Homecoming.

          Coming "home"... to this town, is triggering. I find myself starting to shake as I see the familiar street views, I find myself out of breath looking at the house, I find myself wanting to cry, but I don't know why...

          Why shall I drag my tired body into a house of violence ?
          How can I force my tired soul onto a bed where I couldn't get up from ?
          What is this room but a prison of memories ?

          I'm sorry. I've cried too many times here, and I can't do this anymore...
          Sleepless nights, holding my broken pieces alone under the stars...
          This isn't what home suppose to be like.

Daddy Issues II.

          In Part I, I explored my personal "Daddy Issues" recalling my complicated relationship with my father. Yet we have not talked about how our "Daddy Issues" may affect our relationships with men. The whole idea of this Father Complex and the complicated connections we have with our father archetypes is suppose to result in an unconscious mindset and behavioural impact when we interact with the other men around us.

          Yes, I do have Daddy Issues as we've discussed from Part I, and I'm weirdly okay with sexualizing the father archetype. While it's considered "weird" and "abnormal", we see it in the media, and it's actually fairly common to sexualize the parental archetypes. (ex. Sugar Daddies/Mommies and Sugar Babies...etc.) I can go on and on about this with Freud's psychological theories, but I won't. You can all do some researching if you're interested, or take a psychology course. Is my fascination with older men and sexualization of the father archetypes a result of my father's absence ? Why would I rather date and go for older men ?

          I can't speak on behalf of the LGBTQ+ community, yet I do personally know of many queer and trans teens who do actively look for older partners (especially older men), meaning that I'm not a rare exceptions ? Yet why ?! My theory is that we as queer and trans youths have a very difficult time finding a male interest because of toxic masculinity and society's standards of what manhood should be like. Us teenagers are still developing an identity, we all want to fit in, making it even harder for youth males to step out of the traditionary binary system. So us queer and trans teens think that we just need more mature men, men who can and will understand, who can take care of us...etc. After all, we're tired, we're exhausted from trying to survive in this society while still being proud and visible of our identities. Now, there is a danger to this theory, as we often are vulnerable targets of assault when we seek for older interests both sexually and romantically, creating even more Daddy Issues...

          Is there an end to this ? Is there a way we can drop these baggages from our childhood ? Well, psychologically speaking, childhood traumas are there to stay. But we can move on and be better even if impacted negatively from these events. Similarly to counselling and therapy, we need to identify and work through the cause and effect of our traumas, so we can be more consciously aware of our behaviours and thoughts.

Daddy Issues I.

         Daddy Issues, or in a more sophisticated academic language: "Father Complex", it's a group of unconscious associations or impulses to the image/archetype of a father. Many psychological studies have been done that includes this complex, such as reports/theories by Freud and Jung...etc. Now, I find myself with "Daddy Issues", do you ? Or is it "Mommy Issues" that you carry ?

          My father, a "former" alcoholic (some say that once an addict, always an addict), did not come with us when we left Taiwan. He became an addict due to his business, as he needed to drink socially with clients even when he's super lightweight and would get wasted every time. He then started drinking out of stress... but my father was and is a good man. He is kind, and generous, and super friendly. He's personality is so easygoing, I don't know anyone who doesn't like him. Most who know him will only describe him in one word: "Nice". He is nice, yet still a human after all. He just represses all of the negativity, unpleasantness, anger, disappointments...etc deep within him. And when he's drunk, those demons get unleashed. The negativity became him, and it's scary, he became abusive, physical, and violent... It's almost like he's not the same person. But it's just a toxic cycle, as after, when he gets sober, he feels guilty of his actions and words when he was drunk, and he tries even harder to be nice and represses all negative aspects of him. It amazes me how someone is so capable of controlling their emotions yet has no way of regulating and resolving them...

          He didn't come with us because of his business, he's a workaholic as he needs to constantly feel validated and his determination to be successful is... admiring yet very concerning. I don't blame him for choosing work over family, because I'm the same. I want to be successful, I want to be validated, I want to be somebody. So I get it, it just sucks because he started the business the same time my mother got pregnant. It was just bad timing... But that's not the only reason, he also didn't come with us because of guilt. He didn't feel like he was a good father. He didn't know how to raise his children. He was scared, and lost, and frustrated. I used to blame him, but I don't anymore as I no longer feel like I need a "father figure" in my life. To me, he's now just a provider, a person who works his butt off and sends money to us so we can live here in Canada. I am grateful and I have so much respect for him, but unfortunately, I no longer have an emotional connection with him. And I no longer desire a "normal" relationship with him... I feel like a horrible child, and the truth is that I am. Yet what can I say ? It's been too long, I left Taiwan at the age of 9 ! And he just comes to visit once every two years, only staying about 2 weeks every time. Every time he comes, we'll spent time together and just when I feel like I'm finally getting to know him more, he leaves. I'm sorry if I seem cruel, but I'm done. I don't need this. I love him on an appreciation and respect level, but there just isn't much feelings involved. Plus, we had a rough patch as he's quite traditional and did not take me coming out as Transgender well...

          I feel bad, as I can see how much he cares for this family, how much he has sacrificed, how much effort he puts into his work to provide for us, but I really don't know what to do... Maybe our relationship will get better in future, yet I doubt it.
       

Solitude.

          Am I falling in love with the state of solitude ?

          Or am I drowning in the state of solitude ? I can no longer tell the difference...

          A mental breakdown... I screamed for my mom to stop the car, I threw myself out of the car, and I watched her and my brother drove away... I was alone, on the side walk out in the middle of nowhere, but I had to get out, out of that space filled with transphobia and violence. I found myself crying, alone, trying to call or text someone for help. My phone had 5% of battery left, and it felt like a waste of time scrolling through my contacts, no one could help me. The thought of having nobody to go to in a time of crisis just made me cry even more, harder, louder... Yet I still managed to collect myself, because strangers were walking by, and I had to present myself well. I had to look okay, I had to be okay. I forced myself to slowly walk to the nearest bus stop I could find, yet I didn't want to go home. I didn't know where I could go. I sat, alone under the bus stop shelter, watching buses go by, crying, screaming, desperately trying to find my place in the world. What is my purpose ?

          I know it's dramatic, yet I find myself helpless in times like this, and I'm forced to be reminded that I'm only 17. I'm still just a high school senior student, and going around to schools, talking about my coming out journey, spreading awareness for the LGBTQ+ community can be extremely emotionally-draining. Especially if some schools do Q&A where students ask some very personal questions in regards to my family life, my social life, and my mental health. Don't get me wrong, I love the work of Activism, and I am absolutely for the opportunities that I'm given, yet it's tiring, and sometimes it feels like I'm taking on the world all alone. And it really sucks when I find myself so lonely, so helpless when I'm so emotionally, mentally weak, when I just need someone to hug me, to comfort me, to tell me that it'll all be okay... 

          This state of solitude, so beautifully strong, so fiercely independent, yet behind it all, I am still sensitive and soft. After all, I'm still... wounded. I will be okay, I have to be somehow. I will rise, and I will learn, I will continue to survive. 

          And together we shall not only survive, but we will thrive.

          "Love will not heal me, but it will hold my hand if I ever heal myself."

- Healing, Nayo Jones

Giving Birth to Myself.

          Last week, we celebrated Mother's Day, and we shall remember that Motherhood comes in all different and beautiful ways. Happy Mother's Day to Cisgender Mothers, Transgender Mothers, Intersex Mothers, Gender Queer/Fluid/Non-Binary Mothers, Straight Mothers, Lesbian Mothers, Bisexual Mothers, Pansexual Mothers, Asexual Mothers, White/European Mothers, Asian Mothers, Latina/Latinx Mothers, Black Mothers, Native/Indigenous Mothers, Biracial Mothers, Immigrant Mothers, Mothers with Physical/Mental Disabilities, Sick Mothers, Passed Mothers, Mothers in all Shapes and Sizes, Grandmothers, Stepmothers, Mothers with Adopted Children, Mothers who have lost Children, Mothers-To-Bes, Mothers with Strained Relationships with their Children, Teen Moms, Drag Mamas, Sugar Mamas, and Those Who Yearning to be Mothers...etc. There can be so much more to Motherhood. We shall celebrate all of that !

          Yet one Mother's Day post online not only caught my attention, but it personally touched me as a Trans woman who have not and will not be able to give birth physically.
The tweet reads...
"Happy Mothers Day to all the Queer and Trans people who had to Give Birth to Themselves."
          It's true. I did give birth to myself. Not only that, I'm teaching my mother how to give birth as well. It's a metaphor challenging the traditional definition of "womanhood" and what it means to be a "woman". I gave birth to myself when I've embraced my femininity as a trans woman, when I've given myself the freedom to be who I really am, when I came out of the closet. And I'm also helping my mother who suffers from internalized misogyny and transphobia to not only accept who I am, but also herself as a woman.

          In our society, it is difficult to be a woman, to be feminine, to take pride in our womanhood, in our motherhood. But we are here, together, celebrating motherhood, even when it means to be grateful to ourselves for liberating our own identity, for self-care, self-love, and self-empowerment.

On Being Suicidal...

Trigger Warning: Talks of Mental Illnesses & Suicide.

          I'm suicidal... but no, it's not what you may think.
          I'm safe, I'm not self-harming, and I don't have any plans to die... yet.

          Throughout April, I've been quite suicidal actually, and now that I've gotten an increased dosage of my medication, I feel better, more stable. Yet I'm still suicidal, but just in a grey-area where I don't plan on attempting it nor am I self-harming, but I still "feel" it. It's having these dark clouds above, knowing that I'm safe, and that I'm "stable enough" to function, to smile, to get out of bed, to socialize, yet this wave of anxiety tells me to be afraid, to be careful, because we will never know when the dark clouds will consume me. It's like having a monster within me, and I'm just living, waiting to be eaten from the inside. I know I'm being controlled by the medication, and I'm grateful for how it helps me to regulate my moods, yet I'm afraid. I'm afraid of being sad, I'm afraid of myself without the medications. I'm afraid of wanting to die...

          My therapist asked me, "So your depression says: 'I want to die', acting as your little suicidal voice within you. Yet what does Leon say, what do you reply to that thought ?"
          I paused, and answered, "Leon says... 'wait'."

          Wait, I can't die, because my work isn't done yet. I need to finish my high school education, I need to make sure that my mom's okay, I need to make my brother believe that I love him, I need to spread awareness and educate, I need to be an activist, I need to work on the relationships I've failed, I need to let those who've left me know that I'm still thankful for them, I need to learn how to love better... I am surviving, by my responsibilities. I am surviving, because I still need to do so much for the world. I will only die when I have nothing else to give. I've already failed at loving others and maintaining most of my friendships, but I'm still giving back as an activist, as a student, and as a daughter. I've lost so many people in life while I was unstable, now that I'm finally "stable", I can't mess it up again. So wait, wait because your work is not done, and it'll be irresponsible to leave. I don't have any friends to stay alive for, but I have an audience to stay alive for. And my mother, who needs me, who has also been dealing with depression for years, who is also surviving by responsibilities. She admits to me, that she stays alive by reminding herself of her motherhood, of her children.

          I'm also waiting, for happiness. I'm waiting, telling myself that there'll be hope. Taking medications and going to therapy, I want to believe that it gets better, yet it really doesn't. It doesn't always get better for some people, we just have to get stronger. We have to get better, because life doesn't. We have to keep fighting, and keep going forward.

          Stay Strong.

Taiwan II: Stay Strong.

          Be Brave, and Keep Going.

          It was a good day with my aunt and friend, eating brunch at a beautiful cafe in the mall. After brunch, I ask if we can go shopping. We walked into Zara, and I was so shooked by the beautiful clothing before me. I picked out a few dresses and walked to the change room. It's a good day I thought, wearing a beautiful black top and a floral skirt, with my makeup and hair all cute, out with the girls, shopping. It's a good day, I thought...

          "The Male Change Room is that way, Thank You !"

          It felt unbelievable, that even with what I'm wearing, with my hair and my makeup and everything, that still I'm not passing. When will it ever be enough ? I backed away, walking towards the male change room, it felt like it's so far away, almost too far away. It felt like I'll never get there in time before the mall closes. It felt like I'm walking towards death, which I'll never be ready for. 

          I've been there, and I know I can't go back. 

          I can't possibly do this to myself, I won't allow it.

          I put the stacks of dresses on a rack to my right, and walked out of the store. I can feel the tears in my eyes, but I won't allow myself to cry. It's not that I'm not strong enough for this, it's just that it's been awhile. It's been awhile since I've felt this way. This is my life, I reminded myself. This is the reality of my existence. I need to stay strong, and be brave. If I was back in Canada, I would fight, if I was with my friends, they would stand up for me. But not here, not here in Taiwan, in Asia. People won't stand up for me, people barely knows how to support me even if they want to. I hate how helpless I feel. How weak, how lonely. It has been awhile...

          Taiwan isn't my home anymore, it's a battle field. It's impossible to expect my family to fight with me, because they're still trying their best to figure out how to support and understand me. Within this culture, it seems impossible for me to be an activist, I'm still trying to fight for myself.

          Be Proud, and Stay Strong. 

Taiwan I: Homeless.

          I sat on the plane, wide awake. Everyone else around me are asleep, and my head's finally feeling better after taking the motion sickness pills I desperately needed. I couldn't but wonder, how do I feel ? Not physically, not mentally, but emotionally. How am I feeling ?

          While being on anti-depressants, I will often come back to myself to do a little check-in, just to see if I'm doing okay. The medications help calming my anxiety down, and minimizing the self-harming thoughts, yet at the same time, it feels numb, very robotic at times. It takes some digging to really understand how I'm feeling. I think I've been acting a little emotionless lately, people have been expressing that I'm acting "cold" again. Anyway, how am I feeling ? I feel... good, happy, content I guess. But ? But... I'm lonely.

          It's a strange feeling, going back to Taiwan. My mom originally planned for just her to visit during March Break, but I asked to join. I said to myself, this will be my last visit. Will it actually be my last time to visit Taiwan ? Of course not, but it'll be my last time for visiting my family and relatives. My next time, it'll be different. I'll be different. I'll hopefully be on hormones, I'll be a university student, I'll be focusing on my school, and if I do travel, it'll be with friends or someone else, visiting maybe Europe. This is the last time I'll visit as Li Yang Tsai. Next time, it'll be just Leon. I don't expect others to get it, but the more I'm staying in Taiwan, the more reassurance I have. People can't take it here, they're not ready for me. Taiwan hasn't changed at all, but I have. I am a Transgender woman, I am a Feminist, and I am an Activist. And those labels have become so important in my life that I will introduced myself as those before saying I'm Taiwanese.

          Taiwan isn't my home anymore, it doesn't have what I need. Yet, tracing back to my little moment on the plane, high up in the sky, crossing boarders and time zones. It's strange leaving Canada, it's not... sad. It seems as though, that I have nothing holding me back anymore, there's nothing keeping me grounded in Canada. Is Canada my home ? Does it have what I need ? I would like to think so, that my life in Canada means more than just memories. But then... why does it feel so incredible calming and easy to let go ? To leave ?

          Where is home ? Home is where your heart is. Well, my heart is... within me. 

          So if home is wherever I am, then... Where should I go ?

          Among hundreds of people either going home or leaving home, here lies a homeless girl still wide awake. Flying through the sky, passing boarders, passing seas, the girl asks, Where is home ?

Distant Lights

          My father came to visit for about two weeks, I felt nothing. I struggled internally, feeling guilty that I no longer needed him. I didn't even flinch when he called me a "boy", I've given up. It's sad, and I shouldn't be this way but I am. He may never understand, and we will never be what we wish we are. We will never be have a bounding father and child relationship, we barely have any connection. And, I seem to have accepted it. Unfortunately...

          I wanted to stay home on Sunday night, and I said my goodbyes to him. My mom and brother left with him, driving him to the airport. Finally, I had the house to myself. I went out to get myself dinner, and as I walked, I stood on a hill and looked up to the sky. It was beautiful; the moon was shining brightly in an ugly flawed shape. The night sky was partly cloudy, with no stars in sight. Such extraordinary ugliness I thought, was what's so beautiful. I stared ahead to the horizon, and a sudden flashback hit me. The distant streetlights, the dimming colourful lights from the houses far away, have reminded me of myself, in Taiwan. I was young, about five, and I remembered how I would love to just stare out the window, to the distant lights. It was peace, that's it. It's finding peace within the hopelessness and the loneliness that I feel. And I couldn't help but wonder: Am I starting to move on ? If not, will I ever ?

          One has said that our friendship has always been toxic, that she had always been manipulating me. One has said that there always seemed to be something weird about our bound. They all have said that we don't know each other as well as we think we do. One has even said that you're already moving on... I'm not sure what's true and what's false. Yet what one has said, really spoke to me, she said that the reason we crumbled, was because of the pressure. The expectations and the pressure that the world had on us both, crushed the bound we had between us. It's none of our faults, because we found each other for a reason. I don't want to move on, but if you have, then what's the point of holding on ? Yet I will hold on, because I'm me. And I know you, that once you're done, you're done. You're like the distant lights under the dark sky, you bring peace to my hopeless and lonely world.

          It's the beginning of second semester, and it's been a little bit more than three weeks now on my anti-depressants. It has been awesome, my mood is stable, I have not had any constant suicidal thoughts, and my anxiety is under control. And the best part is, it helps with my insomnia. So with better sleep, I feel much better. Of course, there's side effects, and I can't take pain killers anymore, which sucks. But I'll survive. I'm excited for this new semester, I'm finally starting dance ! I'm so happy, yet lonely too. You know, it's weird when you're happy and not have anyone to share it with, not that there's no one to care, but no one needs you anymore. I don't have anyone to share my happiness with. So it's a little weird. I don't want to move on, and I don't want to start over. Yet reality is, life goes on. Sometimes things have to happen whether I want it to or not...

          Happy Second Semester !!! 

Merry Christmas 2016

          It's Christmas ! Happy Holidays to all, whether you celebrate Christmas or not, I wish to send love and care to all during this Winter Holiday.

          And yet, I want to remind all that some may not be having a good time during this joyful holiday, some may have nothing or no one to celebrate for and with. It's time like these that can make people the loneliest. I for one, am not celebrating Christmas this year. Well, my family doesn't celebrate Christmas really since it's not part of our culture, we only do something to "experience" Canada. Every year, we usually will go to a party thrown by my mother's friends, but the one friend that hosts is away, so we have nothing to go to. We're going out for lunch and that's it, no gifts, no decorations, nothing big or extra. I'm also not in a great shape to really celebrate anything, I'm still stressed and trying to get myself out of all the things I'm behind in for school. These two weeks will only be a break from school, but not from school work at all.

          I mean, even on Christmas eve, my family spent our whole day on our laptops and phones, we didn't even speak ! I can't blame them, because I used the day to finally finish the Glimore Girls on Netflix. I'm just sad because I've always been the one trying to do stuff, forcing my mom to drive us places, making us do stuff with each other. I used to be the one getting frustrated when no one spoke at dinner. Yet, I've given up. I've began to like spending time alone but it's just... lonely. 

          Well, that's it for that. I'm sorry if you're all sad now because of this. Be happy, celebrate, and have fun ! Remember what this holiday is about, and spread joy, love, and care.