The time finally came, the time I have been waiting for forever, the time I have been waiting for to open up, the time was Racial Aikido. Racial Aikido is a unique conference dedicated to the identity development of students of color and exclusively for students of color. Texas A&M will never know what hit them if my goal for A&M is accomplished. My goal is to work for A&M and hopefully create, develop, implement, etc some sort of program around social justice and finally educate all future Aggies about social justice and its importance to society.
Anyways, now onto Racial Aikido. My friend, confidante, and "mentor" here at UVM encouraged me to apply for Racial Aikido and addressed the impact this conference would have on me. He emphasized how emotionally draining it would get, and although I thought I was ready for it, I never knew how hard it would hit close at home. The retreat addressed racism, discrimination, oppression, privilege, ethnicity and race, and culture. I thought I fully understood all these terms, except for privilege. I had never been taught about privilege until another HESA graduate alumna had told me about it. Although I heard it before coming to UVM, I did not have a firm understanding of what it meant. Racial Aikido, along with privilege, was able to clarify all my misunderstandings of the words mentioned above.
The retreat began on Friday night with dinner, on Saturday morning we drove over to Smuggler's Notch where the rest of the retreat was to be held. There, it took an emotional turn on every single individual. We were greatly impacted by inspiring stories, surprising and astonishing stories, and personal close-at-home stories where we were all moved to tears.
Personally, I would get choked up when I would be able to relate to another student's story. It was surprising how much these words above are evident everyday actions in our society, and knowing that it will never end. However, I am extremely ashamed at my performance. Before the retreat, I was anxious and could not wait for the event, I thought I was ready to open up. Sitting in the conference area I could not bring myself to open up. I am not sure if it was fear of not being able to articulate my story and get my point across, or the fear that I would not be understood. I've mentioned racism, oppression, and discrimination above, and through out the retreat I tried my best to think about acts of discrimination, oppression, and racism against me and my family. Although I was able to pin point some events, it was not enough for me to rise out of my chair and open up. I kept asking myself why? Am I that naive? Am I blocking all these events? What is wrong with me? I can't be that perfect and not have experienced any such events. So I thought hard and strong that night and I found my problem, so I think.
From birth, I was marginalized and identified as a "crippled" child. I was born with several internal and external disabilities in which my parent's could not pay entirely for the surgeries, thus I qualified for "crippled children" insurance. All through out elementary, middle school, and high school, my medical expenses were paid by that insurance. And when asked by classmates, friends, and family how I was paying for the surgeries, I would resort to answering, "Insurance". I would not be specific. But as I grew older and realized I could never hide my disabilities, slowly but surely, by answer specified "Crippled Children's Insurance". I was embarrassed, angry, disappointed and over all ashamed at myself for being born the way I did. I focused so much of my energy on this invisible disability that I believe I overlooked other forms of oppression, racism, and discrimination.
While we would share stories I would think to myself, I tried so hard to break down the barriers by excelling at things that helped me escape reality that I often lost myself. Why should I have to go back through the process of opening old wounds and losing myself again? I would be opening old wounds on a different level, but I feel like I'll be going through the same phase.
I experienced a different kind of racism that helped me look over racism experienced because of my skin. I was labeled a cripple and once I hit high school I found myself, I found the beauty in life and have kept up with it. I play my clarinet in order to take myself out of reality and into the beauty of the music. That's my defense mechanism to coping with life's difficulties.
Racial Aikido challenged me. I am not sure if it is positively or negatively. I am a bit confused. Should I open those old wounds? Do I want to experience the same feelings? I don't know how to feel. I don't know if I should have pity on myself for being a person of color. Should I be angry/disappointed at the "white" culture? They have the privilege of not thinking about this. How am I going to explain it to my little sister, or my children when they are faced with issues of discrimination because of their skin color? OR Should I just over look it? Ignore the fact it exists? Ignore that white privilege exists? In doing so, I will not know how to tackle it when it is in my face.
I have a little story (for you Ags). One day, while chatting with the comadres at a family seamstress business, a white older heterosexual male comes in wanting some pants hemmed. The ladies working did not fully know English. They were in the process of learning the language, thus when this white older heterosexual male comes in, they are quickly taken aback knowing that their English will be tested. Here we are, my sister and I with our A&M shirts watching this racism, ignorance, discriminatory event unfold before our eyes. The man approaches one lady asking to get the pants hemmed. The lady respectfully asks him to repeat it slowly. He goes on to saying, "No, you should know English just as I am speaking it." (not verbatim, but some thing to that effect) My sister powerfully offers to translate to as to speed up the service and get this ignorant man out of our faces. He refuses and goes on to say how we people invaded the states and if we are going to be here we should know English. I did not know how to respond. Knowing that events like this still take place and will continue to take place, how can I ignore it?
Did he fail to notice how the US is a pluralistic society? Was he not aware that English is not the only language spoken in the US? Where did he think he was? Did he know he was in south South Texas? Did he fail to notice all the Hispanics in the area? Was he aware that Spanish is our native tongue? Did he not see our shirts with A&M logos all over it showing our education? Obviously, he did fail, he did not know where he was at, he did not know Spanish is our native tongue, and I guess he did not see our shirts either. I know English is the US' official language, but I also know we are a pluralistic society and its ever changing. He could have, at the least, respected their service, and respect my sister and my mother, and I. In this sense, I cannot ignore racism, oppression, discrimination, etc, but the least I can do is learn how to recognize it, respond to it, and replenish afterwards.
After Racial Aikido, after the most intense weekend in Vermont, all I wanted to do was replenish my system and relax. So what did I decide to do? What every woman loves to do, besides getting pedicures wit my girl friends? I put on a chick flic and chillaxed. I saw Confessions of a Shopaholic. Now I need to go shopping :)
AND that was my weekend, now if I could only rewind back to that event in my life so that I could have responded instead of keeping my mouth shut. Oh well, I guess I'll have to focus my energy to the future, and educate others. I'm not saying I'm going to go about and accuse people, I respect and accept all the friendships I have developed through out my life and hope this blog does not insult anyone. I am simply now aware that racism exists, and now I just know how to react to it properly with out having it eat at me. And I am open to any advice or opinions.
Thanks and gig'em!
Monday, October 26, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Supressing Identities
For the most part, I have spent my time thinking about my identities and how I have come to be the person I am in terms of values, customs, and beliefs. I also find myself opposed to many comments in our classroom discussions when they are centered around issues and causes affecting particular races. I do not believe it's because I'm ignorant or know better, it's because of how I was raised.
Sadly, we addressed the issue of student activism on campus and what our roles as Student Affairs professionals should be. In particular, we discussed an incident where students staged a hunger strike and how UVM officials had to send in medical personnel to make sure the students were at least properly hydrated and not dying. While the discussion evolved around our responsibility to the students, my head was spinning because all I could or wanted to say was, it's the students decision to do this or that, let them starve if they want, I'm not going to waste my time with this nonsense. Those who protest are just used to getting everything their way, spoiled as I would say, and expect it to be that way.
However, after much pondering in the corner (I did not speak up in class because I know I would get chewed up considering UVM is a proactive university) I reflected on my upbringing and who I am. There are two other latinos in my cohort which are very much rooted in who they are and their activism, while me on the other hand, am not bothered by stuff that ticks them off. For example, call me latina, hispanic, mexican, I do not care. But for them, it must be either Latina/o or the like, none of this hispanic or mexican vocabulary. I am not sure if it's just a case of overreacting or standing up for their beliefs and customs?
When I reflect on my childhood, I remember not voicing my concerns and just going with the flow because that was the easier thing to do. My parents, especially my father, has always been one to follow the flow and live life with out confrontation. And as I step back and analyze my responses I realize I have become my father. I do not like to give "la contra", I often tend to agree to avoid confrontation and disagreement. Because of my lack in voicing my opinion, I am afraid I will not know how to support my views and beliefs if attack. Am I suppressing my ideas/beliefs/identities by not voicing them? Or Am I afraid of standing up for what i belief? I hope to be able to explore this within the next few weeks, or semesters.
Sadly, we addressed the issue of student activism on campus and what our roles as Student Affairs professionals should be. In particular, we discussed an incident where students staged a hunger strike and how UVM officials had to send in medical personnel to make sure the students were at least properly hydrated and not dying. While the discussion evolved around our responsibility to the students, my head was spinning because all I could or wanted to say was, it's the students decision to do this or that, let them starve if they want, I'm not going to waste my time with this nonsense. Those who protest are just used to getting everything their way, spoiled as I would say, and expect it to be that way.
However, after much pondering in the corner (I did not speak up in class because I know I would get chewed up considering UVM is a proactive university) I reflected on my upbringing and who I am. There are two other latinos in my cohort which are very much rooted in who they are and their activism, while me on the other hand, am not bothered by stuff that ticks them off. For example, call me latina, hispanic, mexican, I do not care. But for them, it must be either Latina/o or the like, none of this hispanic or mexican vocabulary. I am not sure if it's just a case of overreacting or standing up for their beliefs and customs?
When I reflect on my childhood, I remember not voicing my concerns and just going with the flow because that was the easier thing to do. My parents, especially my father, has always been one to follow the flow and live life with out confrontation. And as I step back and analyze my responses I realize I have become my father. I do not like to give "la contra", I often tend to agree to avoid confrontation and disagreement. Because of my lack in voicing my opinion, I am afraid I will not know how to support my views and beliefs if attack. Am I suppressing my ideas/beliefs/identities by not voicing them? Or Am I afraid of standing up for what i belief? I hope to be able to explore this within the next few weeks, or semesters.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Memories from home . . .
So it's been a while since I've posted anything, but a lot has happened since then. About two weekends, I experienced the best weekend in Vermont. A fellow Aggie friend dropped by to visit me on her way to Montreal. Unfortunately, due to an opening gallery reception, I could not accompany her, however we had lunch and chatted about the differences from Texas to New England. It was fun being able to relate to someone else. Afterwards, on Sunday I went on a pretty hefty shopping spree with my graduate colleague. I was able to find a nice winter jacket from columbia, and really good winter boots. I also splurged on some nice dark pink/red/maroon flats, which I adore, and some nice black heels to replace my 4yr old heels. AND then on Monday evening, Joe arrived at the Burlington airport sporting his much needed winter jacket for the weather. Since then, I have had a blessed two weeks being able to arrive to my man . . . and sometimes dinner. haha. He was quick to notice the differences and the items that I 'needed', he begged me to take him to wal mart so he could get me what I needed, but what I truly needed was his presence. I was heading towards that "october wall" head first, and with his arrival and my friend's visit, I was able to avoid it and now am sure to take on the rest of the semester with triumph!
This I believe . . . The Aroma of Love
I believe in my mom’s home cooking. The magical atmosphere the aroma of her cooking creates reminds me of my childhood and upbringing. I was born into a migrating family. For 15 years of my life I would gather my favorites, my much needed pillow and blanket and pack them all in my small knapsack and throw it in the back of our panadero van for a 48hr trip to the plains of North Dakota and Minnesota. At 6am, we were norte bound with a caravan of vans. My father and his siblings have been migrating to the same tenant for over 50 years. Without a formal education, he only knew the life of a migrant in order to support a family of six. He grew up a migrant and has lived as a migrant; I grew up a migrant and am now living for him.
I often wonder what his motivation was to keep this lifestyle; I like to think food played a role some way or the other because it did in my motivation to not rebel. And although I blame him for robbing my summers away, I do not regret being a migrant. My migrant experience has taught me the values of life. It taught me that hard work is rewarded. It taught me the art of team work. It taught me the importance of familial values. Above all, it taught me my mother’s love.
I hated waking up at 5am to work under the blistering hot sun for 8hrs, but today, I look back and think, “Those were the good old days”. I enjoyed being a migrant because during grade school, I would leave school early and enter late, and because I would get free stuff, or so how I saw it. But the most important reason why I liked being a migrant was the smell of my mother’s cooking por la madrugada, before the crack of dawn. Before the sun even winked, my mother was bustlin’ and hustlin’ in the kitchen, toda solita, preparing tacos for the family, tacos filled with love and optimism for the much needed strength of the day. Her taco techniques varied from making huevo with cheese, huevo with papa, huevo with chorizo, huevo with beans, and chorizo with beans. Bien delicioso! Needless to say, my mother’s abilities at stocking up on the essentials were up to par. For a 7 year old, tacos made with mother's love, meant the world.
The aroma of the tacos would rapidly catch my attention and force me to wake up and kept me pushing forward. First, after a long morning of playing war with the weeds and wrestling my shoes away from the mud, the thought of my mom’s tacos would find its way into my heart reminding me that lunch was around the corner. Then, the opportunities to get off my feet, eat my mom’s tacos, and relax in the shade while talking with la familia would make me realize, “I wouldn’t want to be any where else.” We’d exchange stories about the battles we fought in the morning, about my uncle’s American Idol talents, and about the weekend adventures. Once lunch time would end, the battle against mosquitoes and grasshoppers would begin for the afternoon. And finally, after a day of slapping the mosquitoes and emptying my boots of grasshoppers, it was time to head home and prepare for the next work day. My mom would prepare the tasteles for the following morning while I helped tidying up the trailer. Even the simple aroma of the tasteles would remind me of the next day’s work, of the tacos to come, and of the unfinished discussions and giggles we had yet to experience.
I believe in my mom’s tacos. I believe they are comfort food. Her tacos remind me of my migrant way of living, and of her requited love for me. After my parents divorce on my 15th birthday, my mother made it her objective to get me and my sisters out of the life of a migrant. Although she struggled to put food on the table for four girls, she never failed to fill the house with her tortillas’ aroma. She worked three jobs for two years trying to get her feet on the ground. After a tireless workday she would arrive home to attend to her changas. I never saw her slump into a mode of depression she was a strong woman. She forged on showing me her determination to provide a life filled with choices for her daughters. She became my best friend, attended all of my concerts, drove long distances to watch my older sister graduate from basic training and AIT, drove countless of miles to see my twin sister march with the Aggie Band, she restored my faith in life and having the freedom of choice. Above all, she has been the wind beneath my wings, watching me walk across the stage as I became the first in the family to graduate from college. And in all those years, my mother always had her tortillas, frijoles, papas, and huevos welcoming me home or accompanying me when I would traverse the state of Texas returning to Aggieland.
So when someone asks me, what do I believe? I believe in my mom’s love and her tacos. I can smell her love, determination, and the strong-willed woman she is. Without her determination to provide me with the right nutrients, the fields might have won the battles. Without her determination to give me back my freedom of choice, I might just still be a migrant. And without her love, I would not know how much love I would have left in my heart. Living a three days drive away from my hometown, my culture, and my mother is hard, but I try to replicate her cooking to fill my apartment up with her aroma of love, especially the tortillas. She is the reason for my successes and my continued growth this I believe.
I often wonder what his motivation was to keep this lifestyle; I like to think food played a role some way or the other because it did in my motivation to not rebel. And although I blame him for robbing my summers away, I do not regret being a migrant. My migrant experience has taught me the values of life. It taught me that hard work is rewarded. It taught me the art of team work. It taught me the importance of familial values. Above all, it taught me my mother’s love.
I hated waking up at 5am to work under the blistering hot sun for 8hrs, but today, I look back and think, “Those were the good old days”. I enjoyed being a migrant because during grade school, I would leave school early and enter late, and because I would get free stuff, or so how I saw it. But the most important reason why I liked being a migrant was the smell of my mother’s cooking por la madrugada, before the crack of dawn. Before the sun even winked, my mother was bustlin’ and hustlin’ in the kitchen, toda solita, preparing tacos for the family, tacos filled with love and optimism for the much needed strength of the day. Her taco techniques varied from making huevo with cheese, huevo with papa, huevo with chorizo, huevo with beans, and chorizo with beans. Bien delicioso! Needless to say, my mother’s abilities at stocking up on the essentials were up to par. For a 7 year old, tacos made with mother's love, meant the world.
The aroma of the tacos would rapidly catch my attention and force me to wake up and kept me pushing forward. First, after a long morning of playing war with the weeds and wrestling my shoes away from the mud, the thought of my mom’s tacos would find its way into my heart reminding me that lunch was around the corner. Then, the opportunities to get off my feet, eat my mom’s tacos, and relax in the shade while talking with la familia would make me realize, “I wouldn’t want to be any where else.” We’d exchange stories about the battles we fought in the morning, about my uncle’s American Idol talents, and about the weekend adventures. Once lunch time would end, the battle against mosquitoes and grasshoppers would begin for the afternoon. And finally, after a day of slapping the mosquitoes and emptying my boots of grasshoppers, it was time to head home and prepare for the next work day. My mom would prepare the tasteles for the following morning while I helped tidying up the trailer. Even the simple aroma of the tasteles would remind me of the next day’s work, of the tacos to come, and of the unfinished discussions and giggles we had yet to experience.
I believe in my mom’s tacos. I believe they are comfort food. Her tacos remind me of my migrant way of living, and of her requited love for me. After my parents divorce on my 15th birthday, my mother made it her objective to get me and my sisters out of the life of a migrant. Although she struggled to put food on the table for four girls, she never failed to fill the house with her tortillas’ aroma. She worked three jobs for two years trying to get her feet on the ground. After a tireless workday she would arrive home to attend to her changas. I never saw her slump into a mode of depression she was a strong woman. She forged on showing me her determination to provide a life filled with choices for her daughters. She became my best friend, attended all of my concerts, drove long distances to watch my older sister graduate from basic training and AIT, drove countless of miles to see my twin sister march with the Aggie Band, she restored my faith in life and having the freedom of choice. Above all, she has been the wind beneath my wings, watching me walk across the stage as I became the first in the family to graduate from college. And in all those years, my mother always had her tortillas, frijoles, papas, and huevos welcoming me home or accompanying me when I would traverse the state of Texas returning to Aggieland.
So when someone asks me, what do I believe? I believe in my mom’s love and her tacos. I can smell her love, determination, and the strong-willed woman she is. Without her determination to provide me with the right nutrients, the fields might have won the battles. Without her determination to give me back my freedom of choice, I might just still be a migrant. And without her love, I would not know how much love I would have left in my heart. Living a three days drive away from my hometown, my culture, and my mother is hard, but I try to replicate her cooking to fill my apartment up with her aroma of love, especially the tortillas. She is the reason for my successes and my continued growth this I believe.
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