It’s so easy to imagine how much better it would be to be everything you’re not. My milk carton description would probably go something like 5’3” asian woman with light brown hair. I’ve never faced any sexism or racism that could be considered significantly life altering and yet I can’t shake how often I’m reminded of my physically ascribed identities. I’m a mixed kid that never knew what box to check when race was asked on forms but people sure seem to be confident about what I am. Working in customer service I’ve been summoned as the white, lightskin, korean, thai, hawaiian, iranian, and latino girl. All incorrect assumptions but no biggie right? What’s concerning is how singular their focus was, categorization is ingrained in all of us, and there’s so many other things I could’ve been identified by. 

Back to the point, being comfortable in our own skin and how this affects what we choose to do in it. Just browsing the UnrulyBodies page it is clear that many of us feel limited by our bodies or uncomfortable with whatever assumptions come with them. My size and sex obviously affect my physical strength and I have a bad habit of signing up for things that require that. I recently was trying to decide if I wanted to get certified as a firefighter and it wasn’t in question if I could pass but whether I should do it at all. A firefighter friend convinced me doubt not my abilities was going to hold me back and that I should go for it. Wholesome! With new found excitement I told a family member the news and quickly the conversation took a bad turn. He said that it didn’t matter if I could do the job well, I could get hired as a career firefighter because I was female and a minority. 

I’ve had to defend anything I’ve accomplished so many times and it’s incredibly idiotic for both parties participating. The guy I’m arguing with envies my ability to steal a position from the hypothetical equally qualified man/white candidate he identifies with. In response I’d much rather be a man who can earn real respect and nobody would dare consider his only role was to increase diversity. Their argument is that I’m the one who is benefiting so why am I mad at him for pointing out the injustice of the situation. This fueled resentment and the suspicion that everyone believed I was the token female that didn’t deserve the space they take up. I held onto so much hatred that I’ve said some unjustifiably mean things to people and that wasn’t okay. I was ashamed and I tried to gain some empathy when I realized that just because their limitations are different to mine doesn’t make them any easier to carry. It felt good to let go, to just exist as I am. If you’ve struggle with this too, remember the grass is always greener on the other side.

“Blog entry.” 

“Blog?”

Really? Do you mean for other people to read… blog?

Do people even read blogs? I sometimes do, but I will admit to being that person who looks at the length of a blog entry and decides.  Awwww, too long..pass. So how do I get someone to read my blog? Ummm. If I were making a video, I’d post a catchy title that has nothing to do with the actual video and post an irrelevant thumbnail for clickbait, or I would make sure to write, “watch to the end.” But this ain’t YouTube, and I don’t want to be that person, or do I?  Read to the end.

You see, For me, the writing process is a routine. Ok. Ok. I know you may be saying, “wha? wayyment.” Yep. This body knows the drill. It remembers. 

Writing. 

Do you mean like for other people to read, writing? For real for real? That’s a space I don’t feel like I belong. My writing is juvenile, simple. This is what I tell myself.  Every.  Single.  Time. I should be familiar with this feeling by now and mastered how to handle it.

Nope. 

So, when I hear “your first entries are due yada yada yada.” My routine begins. My thoughts start to swirl with great ideas. That is great in my own mind. It’s just the beginning of my tensions. Even though I tell myself,” positive affirmations only. You know you will get it done. I’m not going to go through this again. I’ve been doing this for a while. I got this.”

 Ahhhhhh no. I don’t.

The tensions begin in my body. Anxious. Accelerated heart. My jaw starts feeling the strain. So by the time I sit down to start writing, and I know what I want to write about, that damn opening sentence just won’t manifest itself. My neck is beginning to feel the tension. If I can just get that opening sentence, my world will be ok. Right? Ahhh, if you say so. I walk around, go out, eat, yell at my kids. Anything to try and relax to get those creative juice flowing. Finally. But I’m in the car, and I don’t have anything to write with. I scramble through the car, looking. I find a pen. Make a mental note to put a pen and pad in my car…for the next time.

 No paper!

 I write on a body part.

Now I’m writing. Thoughts flow like a Tupac rap. Well, maybe not Tupac, but you get the picture. This body remembers just how good it feels to sigh in relief when you have written something, read it, re-read it, tweak it, and you can finally …exhale because it’s done. I need to count the words. Oh shit. Let me go back and add another ‘yada.” Just to be safe. My body is still tense. ‘I’m done! I can’t write another word.” I’m thinking, “I’m just gonna send this. To hell with the errors. I’m ok with the less-than-perfect piece I write instead of the perfect one in my head that I just can’t get out.

Whew. Done. I stand up,  walk around. Procrastinating. Watch a PassionFlix movie.

Can I make this better? 

No, wait. You. Are. Done.

But can I make it better?

No, it’s never going to be perfect.

But..but..NO! Just send it.

My hand hovers over the mouse, tensions build. Why? The body remembers. I am that balloon being stretched. I hear it. Finally, one last F**k it!…hit submit. 

Done. 

And just like that, tensions…gone. Well, almost. You know what I mean. I can breathe. The body remembers. Instant gratification. All because you clicked on submit.

So remember when I told you to hold on to the end. Now you are at the end, and you are probably saying to yourself, I just wasted 10 mins of my life I cant get back. If this were on social media, I would have just skipped to the comments. But Did you really waste 10 mins? Or can you use the comments section to not only curse me for wasting your time with clickbait but it can also count towards your 10 replies.

Be well

The idea of belonging in society is a scary one. Who am I? Who am I supposed to be? What am I supposed to do? These are questions that I find myself asking everyday. It seems no matter what you do you are judged or looked at for being different; but then again what is normal? One of the biggest struggles in the midst of all of this is how I define myself athletically. I have lived my whole life identifying as an athlete and acting in such manner. Now that I have entered college I have been hit with the brutal reality that it is not just enough to be an athlete. I am forced to truly figure out who I am and what all I value. This has been a daunting challenge. How am I supposed to maintain my happiness while still aligning with the standards that society and the athletic world has set for me? How am I supposed to react if I do not play? If I no longer want to play this sport anymore? There are so many unanswered questions that I am unite frankly too scared to even attempt to answer. The sense of belonging used to be something that I felt safe and content with. I never felt the need to extend myself or felt the need to discover who I really am? As this journey of self identity and self discovery continues I need the constant reminder of do not lose sight of myself, even if that means falling out of touch with what society, or the athletics world, wants from me. Identity does not have to be something that is a linear discovery. And more importantly identity is not something that people can decide for you. It involves the hard and tough questions and challenges that you don’t want to answer, but instead you have to. 

First generation children in America are expected to become the best of the best academically and nothing less. Either doctor, engineer, or lawyer. Those are the top three job descriptions expected from 90% of foreign parents.

This then starts the never ending cycle of simply trying to get by and doing whatever to make your parents happy. Of course there are the kids who thoroughly enjoy the path they’ve chosen, but at the end of the day it came down to the extreme influence their parents had that you can only be successful doing specific things. Safe to say it can go both ways, but judging from my personal encounters a lot of children including myself are living our lives on behalf of our parents.

Leading to my main point of dreaming about the life you want and not the one your parents want for you. A lot of first generation children weren’t given the chance to be creative or try something new because their entire lives revolved around going to school, getting a job, and ultimately pleasing their parents. Myself for example, yes I’m in school, yes I’m going to graduate, but at the end of the day this isn’t the life I see for myself. I am here for my parents, but plan for my dreams and goals in life to take me further than a desk job that I’ll most likely be miserable at. The biggest issue with this is that you cannot ever get a foreign parent to understand dreams and goals past education because they think that’s all that matters. The thought process that they have is “if you have a good paying job and a degree what more could you want.” Which is the complete opposite thinking of their children that were brought up here. A lot of kids will live for their parents and never live for themselves. Then on the opposite end there are those kids who are willing to test the waters and live their lives the way they’d like. So, are you willing to dream?

I’ve felt bad for a long time. I am no longer able to keep up with what is seen as the daily motions of life the way I used to; I am exhausted by small events, I need days of recuperation for my longer periods at school and I rarely get that time to recover. I know there is something wrong with me, something internally isn’t functioning the way it should but I don’t know what. It may be mental, it may be physical, it may be a combination of both. But I don’t really have the time to worry about or fix it, I have school and work and other obligations. Even if I did have time, the waiting period for doctors is prohibitive in and of itself, not to mention the cost.

For as long as I can remember, food and I have had a love hate relationship. I have watched countless friends be hospitalized because of eating disorders and always thought to myself, “hmm I’m not that bad, I won’t end up like that”. I constantly restricted my eating because I wanted to stay the same size. I was a cheerleader for 13 years, which definitely didn’t help my body image issues. All through middle and high school I didn’t eat breakfast or lunch at school. I thought by doing this as well as exercising, I could stay the same weight. 90 pounds at 5’6…not my best look. Eventually I started gaining weight when I got really hurt at cheer. I had no other choice but to be basically sedentary for almost a year. Eventually the negative thoughts about my image faded away. I was fairly happy with how I looked now; I mean I had no other choice.

Fast forward a couple of years.

I was getting ready for school one day when I put on my favorite pair of jeans and they didn’t fit anymore. Surely I was mistaken and they would go back to fitting the next day. Well, that day never came. The number on the scale wasn’t different, by body shape was. I became very uncomfortable and upset with the way I looked. For some reason, I thought that keeping track of everything I ate would be a good idea. I intensely tracked my food intake everyday to make sure I was eating an “okay” amount so I wouldn’t gain weight. This ate away at me and I found myself constantly making excuses why I couldn’t eat. It was a constant argument with my parents and friends. “I’m just not hungry, ok?”

I restricted myself to 1,000 calories a day. I was constantly googling diets and what I could eat for a 200 calorie meal. I logged everything I ate. I would literally log if I ate 1 skittle… a SINGLE skittle?! I was literally obsessed with keeping track of what I ate. My mom was always arguing with me but I had convinced myself I was healthier this way. I would only eat the serving size of whatever snack I was eating. I lost weight, but for what? My jeans still didn’t fit me. I was a very angry and mean person at this point in my life, I was literally starving. After about 8 months I realized what I was truly doing to myself. I had the energy of a sloth, I was tired but couldn’t sleep and my stress level was through the roof. I since, thankfully, have realized that my clothes do not get to dictate my happiness.

” The body stores all of your emotions and will usually showcase them center stage without your consent.”

“The mind will play tricks, but the way you feel in your heart, in your guts, is the truth”

The body never lies. For me, this statement resonates.

When I’m angry, I start crying even though I don’t want to. I base most of my decisions emotionally rather than logically. Weirdly, I also have a strong trust for my gut instincts.

This statement also resonates to me for perceiving others.

I’ve always had the sensitivity to feel other people’s energy. Their expression and attitude can be perceived as one thing, but somehow I always felt their true energy that radiated from their body. I usually ignored it and corrected myself because I thought I was judging people based on their exterior. Although I still don’t believe I have an ability, I am impressed with the fact my perceptions were never wrong.

My perceptions are exceptionally accurate with people I know very well. For instance, my twin sister. I can always read her emotions well without her telling me and predict many of her romantic partners. I always know when she is not okay, despite her telling me she was fine. I believed this was because of my close bond with her. And the fact we were twins made me think it was just the connection. My sister whom has spiritual beliefs, believes that I feel Auras (another topic I’d be interested to blog about). Our twin bond definitely plays a key influence but I started to question this “ability” when others began to view it as a talent.

This “ability” is where the statement, “The body never lies” comes to effect.

The belief that my perceptions are judgments of character, I commonly try to ignore the thoughts that spark in my mind. I try to control it from influencing my relationships with others. But my body never lies. When I come across people with very bright and white energy, my body gravitates towards them. It doesn’t take me long to become comfortable and create an immediate trust in them. Whereas when I come across a dark and foggy energy, my body becomes stiff. Not all dark and heavy energy feels dangerous, it can also be perceived as sadness. This is when the body never lies for others. My friends, family, and crazily even strangers can never lie to me when they’re not okay. Not only can I sense it, they know I sense it.

I don’t believe this to be an ability or talent. But I do believe bodies to be more than just our biological/physiological structure. Bodies carry the emotions we feel and the energy we possess. The body literally holds our organs that help us feel. The body never lies.

I was born and raised in a small town in Harford County, MD. Where according to the most recent ACS, my town was 74.47% white and only 16.00% black or African American and is just a bridge crossing away from entering Cecil County, MD an area where confederate flags are ‘normal ‘and areas with relationships with the KKK. The only places I felt my blackness was embraced was within my home and my church which was a predominately black. The county school systems were predominately white as well as the general population.

From first to eighth grade, I was placed in a Catholic School. Go figure, I was the only person of color within that whole building. The thing is however, although I was not oblivious to the fact that physically, on the account of my skin color and hair texture I was different from my peers, I noticed my race was rarely a topic of discussion. I was never treated any differently from my friends and honestly did not think much of my differences.

However, there would be circumstances in which my differences were evident when we would be talking about racism in history class and I would have to be warned ahead of time that the “N word” would be used and people looking at me during those class discussions. There was even one occasion where my class had a substitute teacher and she was trying to get my attention and instead of just asking another student “who is that?” she asked, “who’s the black girl?” I began to really pay attention to the elephant in the room now.

When high school rolled around, I was no longer at catholic and instead enrolled in our county’s technical high school. I was excited to finally be exposed to a diverse learning environment with more people that looked like me, but that excitement was quickly short lived.

I was so used to just being “the black girl” in my previous school however, I was learning the variations in being black and dealing with constant questions of my “true identity.” I was now facing the sub categorization of being labeled “light skinned with curly hair” and dealt with the ignorance from those around me, the constant “really what are you?” “Are you sure you’re not mixed with…?” etc. I was constantly seen as biracial, Native American and even Hispanic, never “fully black” and it would get to the point where I would feel the need to show proof through pictures of my parents. Not only was my skin and hair the topic of discussion, but how I spoke and carried myself was also. I was frequently told “I speak so proper” and people would turn their heads if my opinions or interests didn’t match typical black stereotypes. This was damaging to my identity as these statements came from both my white and black peers and I would feel like I couldn’t relate to both and had to pick one or at times certain groups didn’t accept me for me. I believe it was during this time that without even realizing it I found myself struggling with this phenomenology of racial embodiment.

https://www.verywellmind.com/what-is-colorism-5077380

https://www.nccj.org/colorism-0

I never was very self-conscious growing up, I knew I was chunky but really who wasn’t? I ate what I liked and didn’t think much about what people thought. Why would my waist size affect anything but the pants I buy? As time goes on you get taller, thin out a bit, but I always stayed a little hefty.
I went to a small, private, Christian school and as a gay teen, the dating options were little to none. I never had the chance to “court” or do all the normal high school things. I pretended to have crushes just to help the time pass, and keep people off my case. Once I graduated and turned 18, online dating was at its height, and I was an animal unleashed.
I started slow, with no profile pic or stats. When I got aquatinted with a guy, I’d send my picture and he would either call me “CUTE” or block me. These were men almost twice my age. I’d scroll through profiles, swiping through people in seconds. “Only fit” “No chubs” “fitforfit” were some common phrases I’d see. Everyone’s perfectly sculptured abs or tan dad bods would be on display, and for the first time, I didn’t like who I saw in the mirror. The field I was playing in was guys my age who looked like me or hot 42-year-olds who were either insane or married. But there was another field I yearned to be a part of. Muscular, proportionate, successful, super gays. Some whose bodies were their pride.
After I entered this online world, I looked in the mirror a different way. Every piece of food that was in my hand was calculated and no matter what It was, once digested, I was filled with regret. The freedom and opportunity I seemed for years, ruined the way I saw myself, and it’s a constant battle to love me, the way I am.

This dreary September 23rd morning, my car windows fogged up, and I tried to get to Campus using the highways. It went as well as you expected. I was blind as a bat, and had to stop at the side of the road so I did not get into an accident or get myself killed. I e-mailed my professor that I could not make it to class this morning, and she said that was fine.

As I waited in my car, wiping away the fog from the windows, it got me thinking about why I was so determined to get to Campus. I, of course, wanted to pass my class, so I strive to attend every session as much as I can. But was one class worth risking my life for? Especially after learning that she recorded her lesson.

This got me thinking further about other people as well, people who would risk life or limb to ensure their daily lives could go as smoothly as possible. For example, essential workers, or workers who could not afford to stay at home and be unemployed. They risked infection upon themselves and others to ensure that they would survive. And I have to wonder if this kind of mindset is ingrained into our society and imprinted unto us. I mean, income or not, it is their life to consider. And excluding the whole pandemic debacle, this kind of behavior is none too recent. I’ve seen sick people go to work, and work themselves to the bone, because the alternative was being potentially let go by their superiors. And they cannot complain, because it’s futile.

It’s honestly a scary thought that we as a people don’t think too hard about this, where our lives weigh less than the products we can create, whether material items or work. I can only hope, I don’t end up like that.