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. 

On Fetishization (Sexualities & Fears)

fetish (noun.) : "a form of sexual desire in which gratification is linked to an abnormal degree to a particular object, item of clothing, part of the body, etc."

    As a transgender woman/femme of colour navigating this patriarchal society: I have interpersonally and socio-politically understood fetishization through experiences of exploitive intimacy as well as conditions of always being desired sexually but never loved physically/mentally. Yet also as a body/sex-positive/affirmative assault-survivor in processes of healing, I not only wish to understand the violences of fetishization but the roots of such drive for dehumanization as well as the complicities among us all who are impacted by the colonial constructions of sexual/physical values of exchange... I often wonder of the differences between 'kink' and 'fetish', of how they intersect and challenge each other's ideals and notions of sexual/physical norms as well as their relations to our diverse roots/triggers of pleasure/desire. From reading, communicating, and reflecting: I have understood kinks to be "abnormal/non-conventional" physical/sexual practices/concepts/fantasies, while fetishes are usually described as sexual fixations and psychological needs for a specific/certain object/act. Some explains it in simple yet confusing matters that "all fetishes are kinks but not all kinks are fetishes"... And such conversations first bring me to the needs of discussing our understandings of kinks as a colonial impact, as some would have suggested that intersex/queer/trans bodies and sexualities are kinks by historical/cultural/educational marginalization. Especially when we know that "kinky" hair have also been used to describe coily/twisted/curly hair often with Black/Afro-Indigenous hair as abnormal, non-conventional, or a social spectacle in hierarchal comparisons to settler-European standards and norms of non-textured/straight/wavy hair. So with hair as an introductory, layered, and intersecting matter between both understandings of 'kink' and 'fetish', I wonder what the differences between having a "hair kink" and having a "hair fetish"... Through analysis and thought I come to realize that perhaps having a hair kink is of being physically/sexually/mentally hyper-aroused/attracted to the visuals/concepts of certain/specific hair, while having a hair fetish requires certain/specific hair to be physically/sexually/mentally satisfied. Even with the example subject/object changing, ie. feet kinks vs feet fetishes, the analysis remains sound and I can understand how partnerships of safe kink/fetish play can work out in both favours with one having kinks of hair being gripped/pulled and another having hair fetishes (ie. sensory fixations of touching/grabbing/smelling/licking hair). While one could have roleplaying kinks of being worshipped/served with another having the feet fetish to focus on and be at one's feet... Kinks are interpersonally and socio-politically shaped by what we have been taught, considered, and understood to be non-conventional intimate practices/concepts/fantasies between bodies, which is heavily historically/culturally based in the normality of perceiving sexuality as purposes of human reproduction. And embracing open/diverse sexualities and intimate physical expressions/practices/desires is decolonizing our perceptions of what is sensually/sexually "normal". Yet while I can be easily kink-positive and accepting, it takes more to unpack fetishization as it also often feeds into the colonial-patriarchal notions of physical/sexual normality with slippery slopes to hyper-sexualization, objectification, and dehumanization.

    Fetishes still can be expressed and practiced healthily with the focus to be objective and direct. And while I think it is dehumanizing to the root of objectifying certain body parts or requiring specific features to be satisfied sexually to the sight/mind/touch, I still have witnessed and heard community testimonials of healthy practices/expressions of fetishes of hair/feet/toes/armpit/nipples/anus...etc. Though what causes the red flags for me is the slippery slope of giving into colonial-hierarchal categories of exotic/forbidden desires and the fetishization of identities. When the focus is no longer objective and direct, it places the subject in a dehumanizing position during such exchanges/shares of physical/sensual intimacy while the fetishizer focuses and emphasizes on their sexual satisfaction/release. Thus I come to understand that kinks are rooted in sub-cultural, anti-conditioning desires/fantasies while fetishization is deeply rooted in psychological repressed attractions/needs for a physical/sexual relief... And when transferring realizations to the lived aggressions/experiences/violences of being fetishized, I console myself on the fact that I will never escape the socio-political/sexual realities of fetishization when the slur "tranny"'s history begins as a porn category of sub-dehumanization. Even now in 2020, people still ask what "transgender" means and if a trans woman means to have boobs and a dick at the same time, because that's what most have seen/witnessed/understood through mis-notions/representations of an entire group of people through fetishizing media like main-stream pornography. And while the situation can still be non-violent and sensually/sexually safe if the fetish focus is on "the feminine penis" as many cis-men are attracted to women/femmes with dicks and it all works out fine, but when such mental fixation conflicts with one's colonial-patriarchal cis-heteronormative constructions/definitions/understandings of being, then it often leads into violence towards others and internal struggles within the self/ego... As kinky concepts and fantasies (should) have consent and consistent communications between participating partners, many hold fetishes as psychologically personal and private thus not unpacked and often acted upon urges or intended self-serving satisfactory. Needlessly to say/state that all is but our humanities navigating through sensuality, intimacy, and sexuality, and though both kinks and fetish are socio-psychological evidences of colonial-hierarchies of the body, fetishization remains deeply in relations with repressed fixations, control, and fears.

    As an immigrant and East-Asian islander, I have also felt the racial fetishizations forced upon me physically/sexually as focuses of exoticism as eroticism in degrading positionalities. From men guessing my ethnicity as ways of flirting to non-consensual nicknames/catcalls of "Ling Ling"/"Panda"/"Fortune Cookie"...etc. and while I'm still trying to settle my feelings around being called "Bubble Tea", many still don't know that bubble tea is Taiwanese or where Taiwan even is. Though such experiences only has led to more socio-political analysis and reflections for collective accountability, as I have noticed my own attractions/interactions with men of colour to be even more critical in understanding intersections of raciality and sexuality. Despite growing up queer/trans and learning how to repress interpersonal truths/desires/pleasures, I began practicing/expressing sexuality/sensuality after coming out and coming to what we know as Canada. And such journey of a trans-woman/femme being exploited/fetishized for her body in discretion began with white men as I navigated through Kitchener-Waterloo as a queer teenager. Yet along the way and after moving to Tkaronto (Toronto), I not only have found belonging to queer/trans racialized chosen-familites/social groups/communities, I also find myself less sensually/sexually attracted to white/European-descent peoples/features. I've often joked about "decolonizing my pussy" and decentering from our attractions to whiteness especially as an immigrant who knows/understands the powers/corruptions/violences of both white supremacy and settler-colonialism, but I've also wondered privately about my sudden increase of interests after being rap*d twice with both times encountering men of colour... I find myself to be the best investigator for my own feelings/behaviours, thus it's also part of my psychological responsibility to constantly unpack and unlearn while calling for socio-political accountabilities. I often question my own complicities within discourses of anti-Black racism and racial fetishization even as a POC who experiences racism, xenophobia, and racial fetishization as well, but I must align myself with such constructions of violent hierarchies due to my lightskin and participating on settling on stolen lands. It is continuing difficult conversations within and around that pushes us to do/be better. And I couldn't help but wonder if my preferences of raciality can be a form of fetishization instead of realizations/growth away from the colonial-patriarchal whiteness... From talks with another trans sister/femme of colour on our lives being fetishized on a daily, we critiqued of how such attractions based from internal conflicts/fears only feed the egos of normality; while some searches/obtains empowerment from participating hyper-sexualization, some finds empowerment/healing from desexualization (especially after sexual violences). I personally know many fabulous queer/trans racialized sex workers who can testify to their challenges against femme/trans/fat/racial fetishization/dehumanization by turning the table and still profiting/monetizing as reclaiming power. However for myself, I ask if I can build my own tables and grow intimacies on my own terms of balancing between sensuality/sexuality through softness... And when asked about removing/detaching myself completely from such societal-obsessed sexualization and hierarchies of fetishization, my friend suggested that I dedicate myself to demisexuality -

    So there it is, not demisexuality to be exact but empathy: my weapon/shield against the violences of such fetishization both within and around, is hyper-humanization. Which is also what I believe in when we speak of decolonizing human intimacies and relations, as not exchanges of power but a sharing of powers. I dare to dream of loving/caring for each others bodies/minds while exploring/honouring our pleasures. I can only dream of a world without hyper-sexualization/fetishization as representations in media with understandings of consent blurred and cheated on. I dream of un/relearning sensual and emotional intimacy, by hyper-humanizing and empathizing with all bodies/identities/expressions that we encounter, interact, and access. I want to not only combat our fears with compassion, but filling the gaps of difference by creating safer spaces of intercommunal desires/pleasures as well... On the socio-psychological and political spectacles of fetishization/sex/fear, it is through a collective effort of transforming mindsets/relations to honour our bodies, humanities, and souls for freedom. As my powers birth from growing gardens of revolutionary justice, not from the games of colonial-patriarachy and its tools of desirability as poetics of hierarchal violence.

Men Who Love & Kill

(by Warsan Shire)

CW/TW: poetics/politics of death, murder, transphobia, sexual violence,

mentions of anti-black violence and police brutality...

          How is that love becomes one's drive/force to kill ? Perhaps because fear is part of love too, as "our men do not belong to us... Then the men we try to love, say we carry too much loss, wear too much black, are too heavy to be around, much too sad to love. Then they leave and we mourn them too. Is that what we’re here for? To sit at kitchen tables, counting on our fingers the ones who died, those who left and the others who were taken by the police, or by drugs, or by illness or by other women. It makes no sense. Look at your skin, her mouth, these lips, those eyes, my God, listen to that laugh. The only darkness we should allow into our lives is the night, and even then, we have the moon..." (Warsan Shire).

          I don't know how many little naps I've had to take to escape reality in the past few days. The amount of media witnessing/documenting/visualizing continuous trans deaths, anti-black murders, and cases of police brutalities, informations carrying the heaviness of such patterning melancholy, grief, and rage. Social media then becomes a violent daily reminder for the uncertainties of marginalized lives as well as the systems of marginalized deaths, even among uncertainties of global health... I started writing this piece to heal through understanding the pains/intersections of trans and femme violence/deaths, and how femininities have been raised/taught to love/protect masculinities that often hurt us. The relations between violence, cis-masculinity, and trans-femininity has been of betrayal for the notions that we as penis/ego-holders choosing paths of softness instead... Yet it is through grace and studying violence for freedom, that I know we must continue to challenge masculinities while embracing/caring for men and folks with identities that are masculine-centered. Especially through the years of witnessing both cis and trans men (re/un)learning toxic/hyper-masculinities, often which is even more challenge/of survival burdens for racialized/migrant men... It's been a critique brewing within, as even though I joke about loving men/masculinity as an unfortunate event from the experiences of ra*e and violence, the studies/advocacy of feminist movements have often left out the work of healing collectively across genders thus the rehabilitations of toxic/hyper-masculinities. We must learn from the legacies of native/black feminism as #BlackLivesMatter too is a social movement with many feminine organizers as main leaderships, often advocating for masculine narratives of experiencing violence (centered in mass media). It brings the attention to the silence surrounding deaths of black/indigenous women/femmes as well...

          As a non-black individual: the pains of anti-black violence is not mine, even though I have felt by witnessing/living/understanding the world around me, the violences against people I love, and the police harassments and physical/sexual assaults from positionalities of being trans, racialized, feminine, a sex worker from past survival circumstances... My sympathy falls on the spectrum of colonial-constructions for racialization and colourist violence, and I (re/un)learn my allyhood daily by reminding myself that I will never be able empathize without references to other intersecting measures of experiencing violences nor will I ever be able to understand/feel the mourning of black families/friends/loved ones. Thus as much as pain allows us to unite narratives through support and solidarity, I believe in the compassionate politics of (re/un)learning absence as an ally: not absence as ignorance/denial/inaction, but absence as in knowing when to shut up or leave, to not take up space when you're only a guest to this narrative of feeling/learning. It is understanding that even with a common enemy, that support is also by simply offering space to grief/heal, even if it's in private/silence... Thus again from legacies of how "in the Black Panthers’ paper Huey Newton (August 1970) wrote 'A letter to the Revolutionary Brothers and Sisters about Women’s Liberation and Gay Liberation' arguing that they were fellow revolutionary movements and pledging the Panthers to support gay liberation": It is the responsibilities of allyhood to demand for justice, to support and show up in solidarity along front-line activists as well as healers.

"The future belongs to those who prepare for it today." - Malcolm X (1962)

          I think over the years of surviving/studying violence as well as loving masculinities that I become a (re)searcher/fighter for softness. And I believe that in order to achieve true gender liberation/peace/equity, we must work with masculinities through compassionate/empathy politics, collective (re)learning of emotional intelligence and notions of strength, as well as allowing masculinities to rehabilitate in their own organicalities (as I am only a feminine essence even if educational to toxic/hyper-masculinities)... Like the ways trans/awakening women/femmes rebirth femininities: it is for masculine-centered folks to finalize/actualize their glories in softness as well. Thus how I observe/study my navigation/survival with men/masculinities too, in many ways I find hyper-masculine men/masculinities to yearn for a safe space to embrace/express softness, as they are surviving through the violence of patriarchy too, especially racialized men under colonial-white-supremacy. My experiences with cis-white men have been mostly cases of asian/trans-fetishizing chasers and creepy old men who wants a young toy to keep, or an insecure man wanting a girl that's "different" for something "new". I found that many cis-white men (I've encountered with) feel comfortable and validated (or on the toxic ends of the spectrum: entitled) with their yearn for care and acceptance of difference, though often socialized as the "nice guys", I still find traces of manipulation or denials of privilege/entitlement in the courtships that are never in my best interests... The loving/killing/lusting of intersex/trans/non-binary folks is not generally a racial issue but one gendered, often concerning the violences of cis/toxic/hyper-masculinity. Yet the racialization of masculinities and the layers of violence as survival makes it much of a racial issue too while we think for the queer/2-Spirit/trans Black/Indigenous folks, who have always been at the forefronts of community advocacy no matter if feminine/masculine-centered, polygendered, genderly-fluid, or communicated/expressed to be agendered... I humbly navigate through layers of socio-political violences to understand pain and melancholia, hoping to (re/un)learn grief for healing and to contribute softness as an ally/friend, a flower/lover, and/or a sister/mother/daughter.

          As grief starts the journey of healing: the first lesson to freedom. In "Black Queer Studies, Freedom, and Other Human Possibilities" with reference to Marlon Rigg’s works: “His homopoetics is importantly a different embodiment, one that speaks its pain as potential freedom. In that moment, Riggs highlights how our lives can make no sense outside of his coming death, the collective deaths of Riggs, Joe Beam, Hemphill, and especially Audre Lorde—the foundations of a black queer studies—demand to think desire and politics in the present as a way of making reparation with ‘our dead behind us.’ Such reparation allows for a life that can be lived with a freedom not yet felt, but one genuinely yearned for. Freedom as a way toward new ways of being human in the present, ways of being human in which black life preceded black death and is continually fashioned by death even before its birth—our embodiment takes place in the context of reckoning with life-death-world experience” (Walcott 2013)...

          And after recent viral cases of black/trans murders in the Americas with public medias advocating justices for Tony Mcdade, Regis Korchiniski, George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and Nina Pop... Not to mention trans latina/xs' survival as Layla Peláez and Serena Angelique Velázquez murdered in Puerto Rico, and Jesusa known locally as Chucha found recently beheaded in Mexico, as well as the other continuing deaths globally/transnationally - no matter documented/visible/recognized or not. I can only write of grief now after reflecting on freedom, and as Judith Butler reminds us: "All these lost lives are grievable, which means that they are lives worthy of acknowledgment, equal in value to every other life, a value that cannot be calculated" (2020)... Often times I see trans-feminine faces online with a sense of familiarity, they become my sisters, maybe from the relations of survival or maybe just my brain playing tricks after seeing reposts after reposts, yet thus I understand/feel better/deeper of the notions and discourses described in "Black Queer Studies, Freedom, and Other Human Possibilities". As a trans woman of colour with our global life-expectancy of 35 years old, it becomes more than poetry reading the words “our dead behind us” while feeling/carrying the weight of my mothers/sisters/femmes/siblings; from the missing and murdered Indigenous folks, the violence against our brothers, to the often trafficked and sexually abused racialized intersex/trans sex workers - I grief in melancholia with a collective promise in solidarity: navigating/fighting/learning/teaching for those alongisde/after us... However, its still important to respect/honour difference even when bridging identities/experiences and aligning politics in the name of intersectionality/unity; my community-understandings/actions in solidarity must emerge from the reflections/critiques against the violence/solitude of embodying settler-colonialism. And though understanding such intersections of violence through empathizing experiences of commonality, it is to note of trans-misogynoir as black trans women/femme are still the most targeted as subjects of murder/homicide while native/black cis/trans-men continue to die from police brutalities and state violences...

          So healing through love: How do we begin ? Other than the continuing lessons of allyhood and actionable solidarity, I pray we rest, especially in ever so softness for the black folks retraumatized. With a softer essence as a fighter for love, it is only in love's full glory that we demand for justice, even if it means no peace... Resonating with Murther Luther King Junior's reminder of how "a riot is the language of the unheard" (1965), it is importantly necessary to recognize/embrace the heavy histories and emotions in the awakening from painful losses. May we find healing slowly, gently, and gloriously through support/solidarity, while our community front-liners and allies demand for and organize towards justice fiercely... Sending love and light to all especially those often caring for others - the activists/organizers/healers/care-takers/lovers during this time.

Community Resources/Actions:
Anti-Racism Resources
MINNESOTA FREEDOM FUND
Justice For Regis
Justice For Tony McDade

My First Man/Love/Relationship

("For Women Who Are 'Difficult' to Love" by Warsan Shire)

          I hesitate with the idea of having someone close and intimate. I'm scared to rot comfortably in someone's comforts, to make a home out of human desperate for care... Yet it really comes when you least expect it: the pains of loving and the pains of loneliness meet me here at the intersections of both memories and imagination. I am thankful, for those who have helped given me lessons/stories of love in my life, even if it is through crying then understanding... I'm also humbled by loving/being loved, as I will always have more to give from within for those too concerned/occupied with survival to fill in substance, to love/be loved fully. And yet I still apologize for my trial-and-error in loving myself deeper thus caring for others better, as I shall then continue to (re/un)learn through loving beyond.

Me: "... but you're not a criminal."

Him: "baby... I'm a Black man in America"

          I remember our first night together last August: cuddling/sleeping naked, kissing and sharing stories of our past, holding each other tighter... No sex, even though he had already made me feel so safe in his arms, he knew of a soft night was what I needed. It was just weeks after I was ra*ed, and it wasn't the first time encountering a man of complicated pasts either. A rough intellect I would say, troubled with memories of societal neglect that still haunts him until today. And not the first time I have people who I care about having experiences of street violence, financial/housing instability, childhood traumas...etc but as lovers I felt like it began as trauma-bonding/trading/sharing, and I was scared of a toxic attachment... like between my parents.

          About 8 months of learning each other's touch: he shared knowledges of herbal/crystal meditation/healing, I shared poems and political imaginations, continuing conversations about both the intersections and differences of black/trans lives, and how our sexualities are impacted by society. I remember fighting into 3AM about the usage/violence of fetishization and porn productions, but I also remember him holding me doing breathing exercises at 5AM when I shook with flashbacks and panic attacks... He is older, his economic ambitions remind me of my father and his brothers, his aggression reminds me of men and men before but he is different: he is goofy/funny, always trying to make me smile, he's smart and secretly soft deep inside - only when no one else is around... I asked him often about me not feeling prioritized/cared-for and why he even loves me, he would asked me why I can't just be more patient and "chill". Women/femmes spend their lives waiting for loved ones, and maybe selfish but I can not wait for change nor peace, not here at "home". He overworks and hustles hard on wheels around the city, and though unrelated but I hate how he never uses a wallet so his things are just everywhere in his pockets/bag. I don't know why I encounter and entertain so many deliverymen, both of goods and drivers of people... It's a lot to unpack, and as a trans woman/femme of colour who have very limited subjects of interests/attraction after eliminating tranny-chasers of fetishization, old (and mostly white) sugar daddies, and "discreet" married men, I find myself left with also a margins of men and masculine folks of complex backgrounds/stories. I dislike patterns of heteronormativity in my connections of intimacy, and I really am open to more possibilities beyond cis-men, especially when trans-masculine folks are sexy in the city and some butch woman/femmes have gotten me more open minded about my own romantic attractions as well... Yet as long as I am with a cisgender man, there becomes layers of socialized-heteronormativity and internalized-homophobia to unpack (yes even with queer men too), especially in a positionality of a trans woman without bottom surgery and for if/when the connection ever becomes sexual (even though most are already lustful due to the fetishizing reality of transhood after colonialization, often even more desired without bottom surgery for the fantasy of a secret cock).

          I started to be aware of my connections/relationships/encounters with racialized cis-men and their stories/struggles, especially when I also push to have more personal/emotional conversations. Often I find cis-men to open up not only because I try my best to create a safe space but also because perhaps their time with a trans woman/femme becomes an escape from the burdens of cis-heteronormative hyper-masculinities, especially as racialized cis-men, migrants, as black men... Their stories struggling with masculinity is not mine to ever share or use as public analysis, but I dare to be truthful to the narratives I've encountered/involved with as so many trans mothers and sisters have been hurt/killed from just loving cis-men, waiting for masculinities to (re/un)learn and change. Maybe a selfish project of coping with past sexual violence, maybe desperate for stories/evidence of humanization/empathy or an allyship over sadness/loneliness/survival... I find my attraction towards trauma not a romantic issue with relational subjects while definitely involving and impacting intimate relationships, but as a toxicity deeply rooted in my survival methodologies navigating self-love and stupid poetic-hopeless-romantic self. Thus really, I thought I would not fall in love just yet... til I do, hard.

Him: "don't worry, I'm eating right now... consuming love from you."

          He supported me with herbs and groceries, and I would support him financially and with accessibility here and there also. The heaviness of such love made me grow cold, and I began to realize how loving/caring words and company won't feed a person or pay one's debt. Nor could any amount of reassurance can settle my mind when the people I care about are hungry/unsafe. I was exhausted/lonely for waiting: worried daily wondering if he's safe on the road, if he has eaten, and if he has slept enough, etc. Such relationship has confronted me with harsh truths of societal/economic as determination of priority... How can I love and convince a person to pause/breathe when capitalism chases them day and night ? What is my care and allowance of access worth to their survival and how can we do better, for each other and together ? Like the ways me and my sisters support each other, like the ways the community feeds me with both resources and teachings, and like the ways we can continue loving/caring for each other: I knew we had to become partners/allies/friends, anything but lovers...

"I know my love,

It's forgiving

It's gentle

It's long-suffering

It's tucking away my tears and listening to

your reasons for hurting me

It's piecing together your childhood trauma

and feeling sympathy for the darkness you still carry

My love will remove the light from my eyes

to find beauty in all your dark places 

My love is deep and beautiful and sacred...

But my love

My love no longer lives in the hands of those who abuse it

My love belongs to me."

- Aschel St Ville (@sabrinajpoetry)

          I realize now that I must not thank him for meeting after I was ra*ed but to thank myself... However, I do thank him for holding me holier and wiping my tears away, reminding me that while I am searching for softness in others, that softness is already in me too... My first relationship didn't have room for romance, no time to pause, always on the go, and maybe selfishly I wanted superficiality like dates of youth simple pleasures. Somewhere on the dance floor of marginalization we found each other, holding onto one another in times of need but isn't love more than survival ? Yet in explaining my decision to break-up in the simplest way is the struggle between attraction and compatibility. Especially when he's a virgo too... where he is growing a mountain and I'm planting a garden, thus friendship/partnership is what I've proposed. He is wiser and much more understanding, it has been hard to move on from my feelings for him while still keeping in touch and caring closely. I can't help but wonder if it's because he needs my resources too, yet it's unfair that I often in analysis question my attraction to him as care after violent circumstances, and his attraction to me as accessibility... The emotions of/from such connection have been strong but unstable, and I am still learning to process/cope without turning too cold/analytical/cynical.

Him: "babe I'm a dreamer not a thief."

I know baby, I know...

          He has always been a dreamer for freedom as I am for love. I will miss us sharing lessons of life/culture/history with each other through intimacy, yet someday maybe again, when we're better and more stable. I will always remember and miss waking up to him smoking a joint and holding me close, him making jerk-chicken quesadillas for brunch, and him gone to the store for juice. He is the first man who has taught me of truly loving/being loved, and he was open to change/grew/blossomed so much along the way as well... I know we will continue supporting each other and navigate our feelings and circumstances, but I know I need a break from romantic intimacy and committed relationships for now. It breaks my heart but he also said that one day I'm going to find someone "softer, more relaxed, and not pressured from goals like an animal"... We didn't go to the mall nor markets/festivals because crowds and families could be triggers; we didn't do valentine's day because he wanted/needed to work. Yet I was understanding while constantly checking my privileges as well; I have nothing but gratitude as we did make it our little universe even just spending time inside smoking and ordering in take-out (with only occasional trips to nature). We were my first love story and I will always treasure the memories of us as lovers while imagining/practicing for love/care beyond...

My first love story: where

A flower sends her kisses to

A mountain with petals in the wind,

And the mountain embracing her 

with dancing leaves flowing from streams

...

It ends beyond attraction and compatibility

in support and solidarity:

We become family,

We build community,

We (re/un)learn to love better -

A breakup or wakeup, for

An ending is but another start

...

We wake up today and tomorrow:

Loving ever so softer, for

Those after us and to the world/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

Sex Work: Sucking Dick for a Meal

          I wish to acknowledge the stolen land of Turtle Island in which we as settlers continue to benefit from the continuous genocide of Indigenous Peoples. Especially with the recent celebrations of Canada 152, perpetuating the on-going traumas of a colonial state. As a settler-immigrant in the territories of Tkaronto, I strive to learn/unlearn with the teachings that came before me as well as upholding the treaty of the 'Dish with One Spoon'.

          I swallowed, and paused. Silence fills the room as he gets up to get dressed. I stayed still watching the bills on the table making sure they're untouched. After he left, I left with the cash, sat down to order. I chewed and swallowed, then paused... Such satisfaction and privilege for a meal, both humbling and numbing; I may not know of tomorrow but I am thankful for the next breath and the strength for a bite.

          "35, is the life expectancy for a trans woman of colour..."

          If 35 is the life expectancy, does it mean that I'm already middle-aged ? Whether it is due to the risks of exclusion, violence, and/or illness, the trans community is not estranged to the idea of survival. Especially for the Black trans woman, the Indigenous trans folks/2-Spirited folks, trans folks with disability, trans folks experiencing homelessness, trans sex workers...etc. I acknowledge and I truly believe, that part of my survival has been because of being a light-skinned woman of colour. More than 10 trans women have been murdered in North America (Turtle Island) since the summer started, all racialized women of colour, most were black, most were homeless, and most were sex workers as well. And yes, people are advocating for sex workers' rights, but what is empowerment when it comes to survival ? Some sex workers are working to capitalize, and more power to them of course. Yet agents cost, ads can cost, there are very few inclusive spaces for trans women of colour to build a respectable earning from such work, especially when most are still only fetishized and often dehumanized by not even clients but just people. And I'm not here to capitalize, I'm here to survive. I'm also still just here searching for softness, trying to ease a growling stomach with a heavy heart.

          With attempts of governments owning the white "female" bodies of reproduction while neglecting care for trans-masculine and other non-binary/intersex bodies, coloured femme bodies have always been desired but not loved and often deemed disposable. People wish to edit my resumes, but don't they know of the ways we as queer and trans people know how to sell ourselves (if that's what we wanted) ? People don't understand why a student activist who have organized various conferences/panels, presented as scholar abroad as well as speaking on a keynote panel with the 'me too' founder is not getting jobs. People continue to think that systematic transphobia doesn't exist, especially because they're just so equitable and inclusive even in workplaces operating under capitalistic-patriarchal ideologies right ? Even not-for-profits, I am competing with hundreds of 2SLGBTQ+ folks in the equity-education markets, most who are older than me already finished with post-secondary. We have too many activists doing the work, not enough spaces to let them do the work. Not enough, our WERK is always made to feel not enough... Yet it takes such painful enlightenment to understand that the world is not built for us, thus we create our own paths, no matter how dark. Because even in darkness, we learn to become the light.

          With stories of assault all-too-common within trans-coloured-femme circles, I get scared too you know... I get scared, meeting clients who are often aggressive and conflicted with their own internalized queer/transphobia. I get scared on the streets at night, I get scared to breathe or speak. I get scared too, knowing death so familiarly well. I get scared waking in fear, not knowing if I'd have shelter after the summer. I get scared waking in tears, seeing reports of death almost every week on the top of my Facebook feed. I get scared even writing this... Yes, I am afraid but I am also still here. Like I said, my survival til this day lies in my privileges and the expenses of other folks who are also on the margins of the margins. Thus I promise myself, that my victories of healing must be also for all communities that are hurting. Today we suck to survive, so we can live to serve tomorrow.

I Hate (Cis)Men.

Trigger & Content Warning:

Sexual Assault & Violence, Queer & Transphobia.

          I feel as if there's a fire within me, a fire that even I'm scared of... Yet that's not the scary part, the scary thing is, that I have no idea how to tame it... This, is my raw burning truth.

          Before I start, I want to issue an apology to all cisgender men. I am sorry for my fire within, for my anger, and for my expectations. I know that you have been raised with toxic masculine ideals and it truly is work to dismantle it, like the way women have been raised with toxic feminine ideals as well. And maybe as an activist being a trans woman I'm biased from traumatic experiences and have been more harsh. Yet what I will not be sorry for, is my demand for allyhood and solidarity. I know that I'm not the best educator/activist, and I know that I'm not making it easy to be a cis-het ally and/or friend. I am sorry, I deeply apologize... and I know that my traumas do not justify any outbursts, hostile behaviours, and/or me being cold or not welcoming. The fire will cease, I promise. I am burning too, as my soul is fluid like the ocean. I need time to heal, and I will be better.

          The first time I encountered sexual assault and violence was when I was eleven years old, in the school's bathroom after being beaten up by a group of boys for being a "fag". And just about two weeks ago, I went out on a Tinder date, and came back broken... again. It's like what, the 3rd or 4th time now that I've faced such violence, I couldn't leave my bed for days and I couldn't stop crying when I was alone. I'm tired. I'm sick and tired of my body not being mine, taken and used, I am tired of screaming and crying yet still being unheard. I'm sorry, I'm just tired...

          I'm thankful for my family and friends being there for me after the assault, I also took a few days off of school and work too. Yet now that I'm trying to get myself together again, I feel stuck, I feel discomfort, I get triggered and I can feel this anger within me. Since I've came to University I've been making more male friends, and I'm also rooming with 2 cis-males this summer. The thing is, I'm finding myself being triggered by masculinity, specifically hyper-masculinity. As an activist and gender studies scholar I theorize everything and the truth is: I don't hate men, I hate the masculinity sculpted by the patriarchal oppressive system.

          The thing is, after the assault I had a realization that yes I love being an activist, but will I really see and experience true trans-liberation in my life time ? I very much doubt it, and no one can promise me anything... Yet which of course, still doesn't validate anti-activism/social movements because it is worth it even just to be part of the movement, to be one of the person taking up space in solidarity and do our part for a future of equity. And then my depressive and emotional thoughts would argue if I'm just suppose to keep fighting and keep facing discrimination all my life and maybe possibly even die due a hate crime ?! Which again, is valid and like I said, I'm tired... I'm tired of seeing men sitting comfortably in their masculinity and manhood, I'm tired of seeing trans women and femmes raped and murdered. I am tired, and angry. I have already been diagnosed with symptoms of PTSD from domestic abuse and now I get triggered by cis-manhood and masculinity ?

          What the hell is this life, like seriously what the fuck...

          Yet I have to remind myself that not all masculinities are toxic, and not all femininities are non-toxic as well. Right now, there is only 1 male friend who doesn't trigger me, yet I still have gotten angry and had to call him out on his ingrained beliefs and ideas too. It is a process and we all have to dismantle the problematic ideas that we have, yes it is a lot of work and effort and if that makes me a "Feminist Killjoy" to demand such efforts as my friend and ally then so be it.

          The man that attacked me, he said his nickname was "Happy", and the last thing he said to me before he left was that I was a disappointment. I disappointed him because I fought back, I disappointed him because I got back up when he pushed me to the ground. I disappointed him because when he forced his waste of a penis inside my throat, I pushed back and spat. I spat that shit like the way I've been spat on on the streets being called a tranny and asked if I was male or female. I spat that shit like the way men fuck me but won't kiss me because I'm not a "real women". If you're a cisgender man and dare to get defensive with me saying that #NotAllMen, shut up and take a seat. Almost every woman and femmes, especially women/femmes of colour, especially queer and trans femmes, have been attacked before, so don't get defensive, be an ally. Be aware of yourself and call out your "bros'" problematic words and behaviours, because no, they're not just jokes. And of course, I send my heart and love to all masc and male survivors, yet the reason I'm so upset and stuck in this is because of the toxic masculinity's oppressive presence and doings. And I'll have to put up this bullshit for the rest of my life ? How do we survive ?

My mother cried and said that she wants and wishes me to just be happy.

but Mama, I did meet Happy, and yet... 

Happiness... was a disappointment.

"To my daughter I will say,
'When the men come, set yourself on fire'."
- "In Love and In War", Warshan Shire

       

Bey & I: Challenging the Patriarchal System

Disclaimer: This piece is just a metaphorical comparison between my struggles against the patriarchal system as an Asian-immigrant Transgender Woman and what we've seen of Beyonce's public experiences as a black female artist, in no way am I trying to say that all BIPOC's struggles are the same nor is this piece saying that me and Queen Bey are on the same level in regards to being an activist or a social influence.

          As Malcolm X once said: "The most disrespected person in America is the black woman. The most unprotected person in America is the black woman. The most neglected person in America is the black woman." Yet how is Beyonce, a black woman in America, so successful ? Yet how is Beyonce, a black woman in America, able to be one of the most powerful and influential people in the world ? Is this really... her #BlackGirlMagic ?! Well, looking back at my years in high school, and the work of advocacy that I've done, I'm a little surprised as well. A female student gave me some feedback on the women's history month assembly that I organized, and she said that she had been talking to the school admins about having an assembly like that for months, and I was able to do because "I'm Leon". But it's not just her, many other students have told me that I'm doing stuff other people can't do, just because... I'm me ? I don't understand, I am one of the most marginalized people in the school, one of the most oppressed people under the system. Why do I have this power ?

          Well, then I thought of Beyonce's journey, and how we've both invaded the system in a way ! Before anything else, we both had to disguise ourselves. We both somehow had to fit into the system, even if it's not being "real". I came as an immigrant, yet I quickly learned English and desperately tried to hide my accents. I came out as gay and happily became a "token", the gay best friend many white cis-straight girls wanted me to be. For Beyonce, when she started her solo career, she mostly only wore wigs, not having her natural hair out. And what was even more interesting was that many of her wigs were blonde. She, as a black woman with a southern background, did not produce any music that reflected back to her communities. And most importantly, she sexualized herself, within her mainstream pop music videos, she fetishized herself for her audience. Yes, it's basically what all female pop artists have to do to be popular, but still, she gave in and made content strategically for men's liking... Then, after we've both gained power and popularity, we reveal our true identities as the woke bitches that we are ! (I don't know about Beyonce, but I was more growing into the bad bitch that I am rather than revealing it lol.) Remember after Beyonce dropped her visual album "Lemonade" ? And how the world went crazy because they didn't know how much Beyonce stood for the #BlacklivesMatter movement ? Remember when Beyonce used the Superbowl stage as a platform to pay tributes to Michael Jackson and Malcolm X ? Remember how controversial it was ?! Yep, that's my girl. Go Queen Bey ! Now, most people supported the LGBTQ+ assembly that I organized, yet the Women's History Month celebrations ? It got controversial, people got political, and comments got a lot nastier. Then, I wasn't able to make the Mental Health Awareness assembly happen... People started questioning my intention as an Activist, people wondered if I'm doing "too much", if I'm pushing the messages too hard... I even had to fight to make Pride Week happen, just because I wanted to invite Drag Queens in and perform in our cafeteria during lunchtime. Still, it happened, and yes there were backlash, but it was amazing.

          We made history !!!

          Yet even with our work of advocacy and status, we're still facing backlash. On the last day of school, I wore a scandalous sequins minidress to celebrate the ending of high school and my thick & juicy body. I was feeling myself, and I wanted to end my high school years on a good note, symbolically spreading the message of loving oneself (physically, emotionally, and mentally). Though of course I got scolded by many teachers as I've clearly violated the dress code, but most let it slip through because it's the last day of school. One teacher particular stood out, a white cisgender straight white man, spoke to me privately and expressed his concern. Now, if it was just a matter of violating the dress code and making him or other male students uncomfortable, fine, I'll take my punishments. After all, I'm still a student under the system. Yet he expressed about how he felt threatened, as he felt like if I'm challenging the system, I'm challenging him as well. Now, "threatened" ? A white man feeling challenged by a trans person of colour embracing and loving their body ? Celebrating and having pride in one's marginalized identity ? Mhm, so surprised... *rolls eyes. He even questioned me of my intent and asked why I've decided to do this on the last day of school after everything that I've contributed for the community. He felt like me dressing like this and challenging the system will ruin my "legacy"...

          As you can see, there is still so much more work to do. Even if me and Bey have really invaded the system somehow and gained some power, we are still oppressed in many ways. Allies, y'all need to do better. We all need to do better. We shall fight, we shall resist, and we will not stop until all voices are heard, and answered.

          Stay Woke, and Stay Fabulous !

       
       

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.

Blossom.

"and here you are living,

despite it all"

- Rupi Kaur

          I was a dying Butterfly, and then a crying Mermaid, but now... 

          I'm a Flower, a Golden Flower blossoming in an eternal Spring.

          I once admitted that I hated the colour yellow because I felt ashamed and alienated to be a person of colour, to be an Asian immigrant. I wanted to belong, to fit in, to be accepted. I dreamed of drowning myself in bleach, and I desperately cut off my mother tongue, replacing the words of Chinese with English and French. Yet lately, not only have I come in terms with my gender identity, I have also really tried to reclaim my identity of being a person of colour. I have been learning to accept and embrace my beautiful Asian self and it's been quite a journey. I have not only blossomed as an Activist, but also as an individual that's finally starting to embrace myself as a whole. And you see, when I finally accept myself, the colour yellow no longer represents me. It can no longer defines me. It's a stereotype, a box to keep people in, and I've finally set myself free. The hue was there for me to embrace, a symbol for me to overcome an internal denial. I'm now different, better, I'm at a better place with myself. I'm now... Golden.

"the world gives you so much pain,

and here you are making gold out of it"

- Rupi Kaur

          This Blog will grow with me, and evolves along with my experiences. I am not afraid to change, yet the question is always, what am I losing ? Am I able to afford for such changes. I've lost people for Blooming. I've lost people for becoming Gold. Yet the women we wish to embrace and be will always cost us something, because that's how life is. And sometimes there's nothing we can do, because other people's thoughts and actions are not something we can control. At this point, I've really given up, on consistently having to defend and fight for myself in these relationships. People have always been seeing me as "the enemy", "the villain", and I am no longer able to carry this guilt with me anymore, not when it doesn't feel like I've deserved it. Maybe, if they can't understand me now, they will never. Maybe I am speaking clearly, and explaining myself logically. Maybe they're the ones with their ears closed and eyes shut. Maybe, it's time... to let go.

I’ve made Mountains with my Curves,

Rivers with my Folds, and

Flowers with my Scars.

It’s the Blossom,

of an Eternal Spring.