What Brown Feels Like

Speeding down Marine Drive the ocean wind brushed against my face as cars zoomed past. I felt the sea salt breeze rush against my skin. It felt cool. The heat from the mid afternoon sun warmed my hand as it stuck slightly outside the exterior of the tuk. I felt my hand burn. It felt hot. Seeing the ocean after several months made my heart race. I felt it beat against my chest. It felt like living. 

In a moments respite running errands in an unusual day off my mind felt calm as my body felt the elements. Visual senses were stimulated. The sky was a clear, determined blue. The road ahead was a darkened tar gray bathing in the tropical heat. The imperialist-created train tracks running silently alongside us was a rusted brown. The ocean, magnificent as ever, was a blue-green sprinkled with diamond reflections. The beach continued receding as “progress” destroys it.

Surrounded by the concreteness of visible colors, my mind drifted to the intangible. What does color feel like? Why is it that only some of us will ever feel it? What have I gained by knowing what it feels like? What would life be like if I had never felt it and had never known it? Why do I pity those ardent believers of colorblindness?

It has been more than 900 days since I lived in a place where feeling brown was an everyday experience. Not to say that there haven’t been moments since then when those days of colored feelings have come knocking. But the feeling had been officially put away, left in the dust of airplane exhaust fumes. Filed away under a memory. Tragic in scope, yet informative nevertheless. 

Passing by the ocean triggered the thought of how easily happiness had come once brown stopped being felt daily. It’s hard to explain. Moving away from the homeland at the age of 11 broke ties of connectedness. In search of new ties the status of other was never quite overcome. Brown became a lived experience, sometimes the only concrete feeling in a world of uncertainty.

How can I explain what brown feels like? Can I tell you about being told the only open restaurant on a Fourth of July was 20 miles away from town? Can I tell you about the looks people give when you walk into a public place as if they had never seen someone like you before? Can I tell you about not wanting to leave the house to go to the grocery store because the work week had tired the soul and starvation seemed preferable? Can I tell you about waiting in the parked car for friends to get to the restaurant and be seated before going in?

Can I tell you about what happened last week?

I’ve been designing lessons on social Darwinism and scientific racism for 14 year olds to understand the 20th century and the modern world. In a conversation with colleagues I proposed a project where we have students go out in society and find things that make connections to our lessons. That is, to find instances of everyday racism. A white colleague pointed out to me that “racism” as a word should be substituted for alternative words like “divisive” or “discriminatory.” As if those words are interchangeable. I calmly said nothing and went on feeling brown. 

At the end of the week, another white colleague told me the assignment I had created for kids to explore race in today’s world was “wrong” because my examples showed “colorism” not racism. As if colorism fell from the sky. This time I spoke back. I asked him to define both words. He managed to mumble something for colorism. When I pushed for a definition of racism he said, “Judith, we don’t have time to get into that!” As if we weren’t literally talking about just that. Recognizing that he had decided to challenge me without knowledge, I explained that our discussion needed a starting point to dissect where our disagreements lay. He lost his temper. He raised his voice. Through the mask his face was changing color. I looked away. His right hand, sitting on the table next to his laptop, began to shake in fury. He said his wife who had “been to university here” said I was wrong too. I said while I respect her as a person she wasn’t a historian (without even touching on the fact that my PhD was earned because of my work studying the experiences of racialized communities!). He became quiet. I pushed on. I explained the difference calmly. I offered a definition critical race studies scholars often allude to, not as my own but as a starting point. I then told him how the examples showed racism, not simply “colorism.” He said nothing. I gave him a few minutes to calm down. He then suggested some stylistic changes. I agreed to appease.

But I’m no Chamberlain. In the face of a society that has ripped itself apart using a color line westerners may not recognize I will not stand by. Literal war criminals run the government elected to power by vast segments of a society where pointing out who is or has become “kalu” is casual conversation. I cannot even imagine the fear and trauma of minority communities struggling to find their places in a society that continues to exclude them. I will not be silenced or edited in the face of opportunities to highlight the violence. Feeling brown may have caused irreparable damage to my soul but it did not destroy it. I did not let it. I will not let it. I cannot let it. The heart demands action. As I calmly explained to my colleague after his temper tantrum, “I teach heart stuff.”

When the assignment was shown to students much older than the intended group, they welcomed it. “Finally!” was the universal sentiment. “Why couldn’t you have taught us when we were that age, Miss?” They responded to it because they live it. I know the language of my students because I listen to and feel their experiences. They will go on to live and work in a world organized by social Darwinism and perpetuated by those who have not engaged with race studies and proclaim their absolute commitment to colorblindness. Their accomplishments will be ignored. Their expertise will be denigrated. But worse of all they will encounter heartbreak. They will see sympathy in the face of supposed allies and fail to find fury and outrage. This absence will break their hearts to pieces. They will never forget. They might never forgive. I lived their future. They should know what to expect in a world where some people have to feel color.

That’s what brown feels like now.

On roots

Today marks the first time in my life I am eligible to vote. I’ve spent nearly half my life waiting for the fulfillment of this civic duty. At 31, the day is finally here. Yet, now, it all seems an exercise in futility.

It has made me think about roots. Like plants, today our roots are usually grounded deep. Most of us come from somewhere demarcated in biological codes and geographical landmarks. When uprooted and replanted, however, this world tells us that the living are less likely to survive. In a world of nation-states and borders, whether voluntarily or not, an immigrant becomes rootless. Pulled out from their ancestral homeland, the immigrant wanders hoping for new soil. Sometimes the new soil is hospitable. Other times, it is not. In harsh and unwelcoming new soil, the stubborn immigrant persists. The new soil does not give in. Over time, the leaves wither away, the branches break. The immigrant, like the plant, begins to die from the outside in. If among the lucky, the immigrant might return to the homeland with a solemn apology for going away. But time has moved on and things have changed. The immigrant might not be able to survive, having become an invasive species in the homeland. The roots, and the immigrant, again might begin to die.

Is this the inevitable gamble of immigrants in a world of nation-states and borders? Who or what determines the rate or conditions of survival? How many times can one replant? Do the roots stop trusting in the constant assault of rerooting and replanting? Is it akin to what scientists tell us happens with isotopes searching for stability? What’s the half-life of rootlessness? When do the roots give up trying? When do we?

The coming of age has shown that the longing for civic participation so many years ago was a youthful search for hospitable soil amidst a barrage of inhospitable reminders of unbelonging. Growing up is harder because borders and boundaries become visible. The roots needed safety, warmth, and belonging in an exclusionary world of ingroups stuck in a melting pot. After years of attempting to grow roots in inhospitable soil, a move was made. The spirits advised change. Hospitable soil was found back in the homeland. Roots have regrown. Eligibility for participation within the community was established albeit with some reluctance from all involved.

Yet, now, the fulfillment of civic duties seem frivolous and irrelevant (and, of course, dangerous in pandemic times). No longer vested in seeing roots sprout, the heart has grown fond of the rootlessness. Joy is no longer premised on belonging anywhere. The nowhere is home and home is nowhere logic of a traveler never quite able to figure out the art of settlements has become the beating heart, the reason for living. The normals keep explaining yet things seem to be continually lost in translation. Or, perhaps, it is the complete understanding of what normality has to offer that has become the problem.

Rootlessness is the original human condition. For most of our history, humans moved and moved constantly. In the past few thousand years, we stopped moving. What have we lost? We can see the damage this has done and continues to do. Our deep-rooted, nearly innate, nomadic impulse continually traumatizes the imprisoned, the literally jailed, and wreaks havoc on the minds and hearts of trapped, rooted souls, the figuratively jailed. One group lives out the reward of this society, the other its punishment. Such distinctions seem trivial as we see the collective search by both for distractions, a way out of the ordinariness of voluntary and involuntary rootedness. Hypocrites turn to virtues, the honest turn to vices. After all, there seems little use in fighting the only two options seemingly available.

But, what if we could once again embrace rootlessness? What did the nomads know? How did rootlessness color their lives and dreams? What if, in being a part of this world, we embrace its universality of membership and with it the ways of knowing its secrets? What might we gain by returning to a time when everything was learned by experience and observation? Having created a world where everyone has to be from somewhere, involuntarily or voluntarily rooted, and seeing it crash and burn, can we now finally admit that perhaps we were better off when we wandered?

Maybe, unlike plants, humans can indeed thrive in constantly replanting themselves if the world gave them the freedom and flexibility to do so. Maybe in being less rooted we could find a path back toward equality and greater happiness, both absentee propositions on voting ballots these days. Or so I hear.

Reflections and regrets

Change may be in the air. After seven weeks of strict curfew there are indications the state is ready to gamble with uncertainty by easing restrictions. So, while the state and its scientists play dice with our collective health and while the news reports on whatever is the latest version of the state-approved truth, the time seems ripe to take advantage of the ending of the quiet and the calm. A storm may be on the way.

Before a storm, perhaps some cumulative curfew reflections. In the time spent sitting still over the past five weeks it has been a journey of traveling back in time with old pictures and long buried memories. Funny what the mind remembers and the heart forgets. Old pictures show eager eyes unable to see what was to come. Would she have been better off knowing? Would she have made the same choices? The twinkle in the eyes seem hopeful yet also cautious in embracing moments of fleeting happiness. Maybe she knew without understanding.

I’ve tried to live my life without regrets. At least it’s an axiom that seems cliche in its familiarity to me. But as with the best-laid plans, life objects to any attempt to place it within a box. So I ponder. Is the difference between a reflection and a regret simply time? Do regrets become reflections over time as years bring wisdom? Do reflections become regrets in time as years bring an awareness of the clock running out? Who or what decides? Can life be lived with one and not the other? Which version of life is preferable?

Let’s start with regrets. I regret being afraid for most of my life. Afraid of the future, afraid to try new experiences, afraid to say yes when life presented opportunities. I regret chances that will never come again, friendships that fell by the wayside, grand and ordinary things that went quietly into the abyss unsaid, undone, unexperienced. I regret suffering mental and physical health issues in solitude. I regret that film minor I never pursued. I regret cowering behind uncontrollable circumstances. I regret carrying guilt for actions that were not mine despite what the law said. I regret the forgotten good times, the laughs that don’t echo through time, the smiles in photographs that don’t seem real to me now because the memories have faded. I regret seeing pictures as purely falsehoods. I regret not believing.

Then there are reflections that perhaps should be regrets but are not. I don’t regret the pilgrimage to the desert that broke and changed me. I don’t regret making new friends who are more like family; I don’t regret letting go of family who had become strangers. I don’t regret seeing a therapist when life became too hard. I don’t regret being yelled at and failing in court on my first try. I don’t regret staying the course when I had to and changing course when I didn’t. I don’t regret giving up while not giving in. I don’t regret coming home.

Joseph Conrad once wrote, “it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of ones’s existence—that which makes its truth, it’s meaning—it’s subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible.” Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps it is this impossibility that keeps us straddling between reflections and regrets not knowing which marks our time in the epochs of our lives. Not knowing because we can never know but wanting to nevertheless.

As we lived in an ambivalent futuristic society where capitalism was put on life support while politicians argued, elites fundraised out of boredom by asking the jobless for donations, people became sick and died, and the earth healed itself, I tried to recall the past. Maybe in the hope that the past held answers to questions both asked and yet to be asked. When should course be changed again, if at all? Will I know when the time comes even if there may not be another spirit quest? But then again if Conrad is right it isn’t that the past holds answers because it never could. Settling into the idea that even with careful evaluations of reflections and regrets of the past, epochal life meanings cannot ever be known is what ultimately seems quite impossible.

Life on pause

The sun rises. The clock ticks. The calendar counts.

Yet life remains still.

The calendar embodies what the mind has almost given up trying to understand. The days go by but the monotony of a new and stoic routine has paralyzed the conscience. The mind that used to think about the future hasn’t in a while. Thinking about the future seems a futile effort anyway as it remains undefined. The mind no longer finds it pertinent to think about the future. And soon maybe nothing else.

Even if one forces oneself to think about the undefined future there is little beyond wild imagination, an odd exercise for someone whose livelihood demands a solid grounding in reality. How could anyone possibly know what the post-lockdown world will look like? When might we get there? When will we feel like things have returned to normal? What would normal even mean in the aftermath? Who will live to see it? 

While life remains on pause, the mind grapples simultaneously with the interruption of daily routines and the more jarring experience of cancelled future plans. Plans that are not just rescheduled but are cancelled indefinitely. At the same time there are daily reminders that despite the stillness of one’s own world, the outside world is increasingly marked by sickness and death. Numbers of both keep rising. Governments are ordering body bags in anticipation of funeral parlors becoming overwhelmed. Occasional ambulances in the distance remind of human life outside the house but also of human frailty. Indefinite curfew continues.

Living life on pause is calmly unsettling. In the immediate aftermath there is a sense of relief over freedom from work or strict routines. Few (other than essential service people, of course) are expected to be anywhere at anytime on any day. There’s a momentary celebration of the reclamation of autonomous decision-making in one’s usually over-controlled life albeit in confined conditions. 

Over time, though, this brief interlude in the business of living is interrupted by a single thought: what comes next? It paralyzes the mind, which has just started to embrace the ambivalence of the new normal while rejecting, or at the very least accepting the discontinuation of, previous obligations. The thought disrupts that embrace. It then sets in motion a series of questions that are beyond any conceivable understanding or answer. Stream of consciousness, the very hallmark of the mind’s successes in creativity thus far, runs wildly and madly out of control.

Then the sun sets. The world goes dark. Street lights come on. Soon it will be morning again. 

Waiting for the madness

It has been two weeks since I’ve left the residential property line. There’s talk of the indefinite curfew living up to its name. 

Meanwhile, as the gates remain locked and the state’s goons patrol the streets arresting the poor and warning the rich, one thought dominates the mind’s airwaves. How long till madness comes knocking? Will it wait to be invited in or will it take the warrantless approach?

I don’t mean the madness of the times. Not the madness of a virus covering the globe yet the experts can still hardly explain. Not the madness of watching a world react in horrifying incoordination while the media callously reports body counts and canceled sporting events as if both are of equal importance. Not the madness of some in the so-called affluent world facing the possibility of running out of food, water, and maybe air. Or is it time they’re running out of?

I mean madness of the mind. The madness that comes when strict routines are interrupted. The madness when one is forced into disciplinary behavior reminiscent of school days but one has been an adult for decades. The madness of idleness after a lifetime of marching orders under capitalism’s unforgiving glare threatening starvation for the disobedient. How is one to keep that madness at bay?

Perhaps it manifests itself as a madness of losing control. A local news story reported a few days into curfew that a man had gone mad being forced to stay at home and beat up dozens of members of his own family. Australia has passed millions in funding to tackle domestic violence as a fallout of the virus. France has begun putting domestic violence victims up in hotels as numbers have risen in the first week of their lockdown.

Or perhaps the madness will be akin to zoochosis. A friend recently reminded that living beings with zoochosis are (un)fortunately unaware of their condition. They exhibit behaviors beyond their control and also beyond their knowing as a result of their monotonous, caged conditions. There are only signs to the outside world looking in. But zoochosis seems to take time. Perhaps therein lies the difference: a crack in sanity, madness, does not. Let’s at least hope.

A character in a short story by the great Chekhov once uttered: “Yes, I’m ill. But tens, hundreds of madmen roam around at will, because you in your ignorance cannot distinguish them from the sane.” Perhaps if that time does come, when in the face of full blown zoochosis one loses the very facets of one’s being and thereby becomes colloquially “mad,” the best one could hope for is for such a final, conscious thought. A last laugh to not let the madness or the ignorant win.

After all, in a world gone mad, who is to decide which of us remains sane?

Under Water

Since I can remember there has been a sense of distance between me and the experiences happening around me.

At concerts I’d have more fun watching people watching the show. At sporting events in the stands or watching them on tv, it was always more fun watching people watch the game. Witnessing their excitement was, for some reason, always more thrilling.

And then I went under water. While snorkeling, I experienced first hand a sense of marvel that I hadn’t for years. The last time was probably when I had flown into Los Angeles at 11 years of age thinking, hoping, and wishing I’d live there forever. I couldn’t believe the plane ride was happening to me. I felt it. Then life happened, of course.

With snorkeling there was no one around to watch to filter the experience. It was just me, the fish, and the corals (and supposedly a shark but that remains hearsay). I felt the water, the waves rushing against me. I could touch the corals below me. I was astonished that anything could be this beautiful. But mostly, I was astonished it was real and it was happening to me. For the first time, in a long time, I was there. Somewhere.

Breathing under water for the first time will be unforgettable. The apprehension of letting go, going deeper under water, and seeing the surface slip away. The taking of that first breathe when there’s a moment of further apprehension whether it will all go as planned or whether life itself ends at that point. And then the exhale, the bubbles crowding the space around me as they floated away.

I realized how long it had been since I was truly anywhere. Having finally been somewhere, been and felt, it seems I should return to the water as often as I can. After all, it seems I can feel life the most under water.

Five Days in the Future

I was ambivalent about seeing a place I had been to but don’t remember.

Everything is neat and tidy. An urban planner’s dream with accompanying instructions on rules of conduct. Rules that if broken will cost money or your life. But the ominousness of that is eased by cartoon characters like Stand-Up Stacy and Give-Way Glenda who suspend belief in reality and make you think you are embedded in a children’s tv show while riding the subway.

Lack of visible police officers or police cars. Having lived in a police state for 18 years, this was refreshing. While penalty signs were prevalent no one seems to be watching for enforcement (not withstanding the CCTV cameras, of course!). In that regard, plenty of people (both locals and tourists) seem to casually J-walk. Even the occasional pieces of trash tossed onto the sidewalk or lawns make an appearance.

I’ve heard many people say how Sri Lanka should be more like Singapore. It’s got me wondering what sacrifices must be made to achieve such a remarkable level of population compliance. That reminded me of Bakunin’s take on Germans in the 19th century, “To them life is simply inconceivable without government, that is, without a supreme will and thought and an iron hand to order them about. The stronger the hand the prouder they are and the more cheerful life becomes for them.”

Although I didn’t quite witness cheerful lives while there perhaps they do exist.

As we walked out of the Story of Forests at the National museum, someone commented, “I wish the forests appeared more real.” But having seeing Gardens by the Bay on the last day of our trip, perhaps it is the future that awaits us. If capitalism continues to pursue its seemingly endless quest for land and resources, nothing “real” will remain. Perhaps then in that dystopian future, Gardens by the Bay will appear beautiful, instead of simply terrifying.

Death on Easter

A week after the New Year. Death while resurrection is celebrated.

First the bombs.

Then the bodies.

Next the curfew.

Childhood came calling.

In the shock, horror, despair, and tears there comes the inevitable search for causes. The who, how, and why must be known.

There’s playing into racist stereotypes as if the wrongdoers can be predicted in their wrongdoing by some purported formula. There are politicians vowing to catch the responsible as if their script allows them to say anything else. There are religious leaders publicly proclaiming the culprits must be pursued “mercilessly” as if their day job didn’t involve preaching forgiveness. There are cops taken off leave as if the state’s henchmen will restore order and bring justice. There’s outpouring of thoughts and prayers as if that will resurrect the dead. There’s censorship to control information spread. Then there’s curfew to control people spread. The search for causes will continue until those in power come up with a narrative a majority can believe or at least can pretend to believe. 

Yet none of that seems helpful.

Perhaps then we may take to assessing general numbers. Number of bombs. Number of bodies. Number of injured. Number of loved ones. Number of funerals to be planned. Number of culprits to be punished. Number of years since a time like this had come to pass (10 by some accounts referencing the end of the war). We may gravitate toward the numbers because they provide a sort of respite from the irrationality.

Or numbers might hold personal meaning. I was born in a time of curfew in 1989 that delayed the registration of my birth. I was terrified of the c word as a child internalizing the inevitable gloom that even the Colombo sunshine could not burn away. The word no longer strikes terror but is nevertheless still unsettling as I found out today. Maybe age makes one numb to fear. About 7 months after moving to the US, the Twin Towers were attacked. I’ve been back home a little over 7 months. Numbers seem just as unhelpful.

In War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy writes, “The more deeply we go into the causes, the more of them there are, and each individual cause, or group of causes, seems as justifiable as all the rest, and as false as all the rest in its worthlessness compared with the enormity of the actual events, and it’s further worthlessness (unless you combine it with all the other associated causes) in validating the events that followed.”

His answer: “Historical fatalism is the only possible explanation of irrational phenomena.”

That does not seem helpful either.

Darkness and Silence

For most of my life, I’ve thought about darkness. Yet, for a few months now, I haven’t. I’ve been wondering why.

While daydreaming instead of studying for a law school midterm in the spring of 2013, I wrote the following words. I suppose in some ways it was a climactic time. It was the first time I realized I could not pursue law as a career. The time when I knew there had to be a different way forward but felt like I was lost in the fog. The time when the many contradictions of the past were about to come to a head and only sensing that such a collision might be inevitable. It was perhaps the most uncertain I had ever been.

I wonder if I was generalizing through those words or actually confessing. It seems once the trauma of a religious upbringing subsides, questions linger about the extent of unlearning that must take place before life can go on. For me one key area of questions stems from the Catholic exclamation that everyone is a sinner. From there I had built a whole universal framework to explain right and wrong, good and evil. As a starting point, if sinning is evil and everyone is a sinner, then everyone is evil. Was I evil? That question preoccupied most of my childhood into my adolescence.

After the pilgrimage to Arizona when I lost the church and a monotheistic god but found the spirits of the universe, that question no longer remains prominent. However, another remains. What had I lost when I stopped thinking about it? When I spent my days thinking about darkness, perhaps even living in its fog, there were words that came from no discernible place, at least no place I can point to. For years, I could hear words rhythmically ordering themselves without my assistance in my head usually when I had to internally and silently cope with external obstacles. There was no music, just words. Poems perhaps although with no formal training in literature I dare not qualify them as such. They were words about family, friendship, loss, love, and happiness. Heart stuff if you will. I would write them down, edit them for clarity, and save them for a time in my life when I’d appreciate them more.

I haven’t heard such words for months, maybe even a few years. I wonder now if the words came and went with the darkness. Without being weighed down by catholic guilt and benefiting tremendously from books recommended by genuinely good people, the darkness seems to have dissipated. Or, I wonder if the years took the words away. Whether the words were childhood musings about dreams and hopes and ways to cope with a world that kept spinning outside of my control but time calmed the storm. Or, maybe I just ran out of words.

Regardless of whether I miss the words, what I don’t miss is the darkness. Without it, at least without its constant preoccupation of my time, life seems to operate in color. In a world seen in color, the spirits seem friendly. If the words from five years ago were intended as a self-reflection, then maybe my life has indeed bore witness to the event. Even without me hearing about it in my head.

The Where in the Why

Change is coming and there are questions as to why. It is argued the change is self-imposed, rash, and perhaps uncalled for. If I would just see reason, some say. If I would just be patient and give it some time, others argue. If I would just listen.

There is an old report card I found from when I was very young where the teacher wrote that I “finally settled down and was obedient.” That seems to have remained true for most of my life. Since much of that time was spent within the walls of an educational institution, one could even argue that I had mastered the art of obedience. Now, however, another way forward is in order.

My New Year's resolution this year was to jump fearlessly. While I can’t say I’ve completely mastered the fearless part as periodic jitters come and go, I will be jumping. But before I do, I’ve been thinking about what I’m taking with me as I jump and what I’ll be leaving behind. In those reflections, perhaps there is a why.

Memories.

What makes a memory last? Driving down the I-5 south toward Fullerton to meet an old friend from high school last weekend, I turned the bend and as the downtown LA skyline appeared amidst the traffic and haze the radio played "Don’t Stop Believing." In that moment I was transported through my high school class song to graduation day back in June 2007. As the song played fortuitously, I remembered being high-fived by my favorite history teacher after receiving the diploma cover. The more than a decade-old memory was so clear. I could feel the warm breeze on my face.

Does a lasting memory depend on the people around at the time? Will I always remember the bus rides after tennis matches when the team sang songs too loudly? The music seems to echo through time and space. Will I always remember the retreat to Mammoth with board members of the Pre-Law Society? Will I always remember being sworn into the bar on a chilly December night uncertain what I was doing there? Those days were filled with a dangerous combination of youthful optimism and blatant obliviousness. Will I always remember the time a friend helped interpret during an intake interview with a deaf client? Will I always remember the water runs down at the border in Arizona? Will I always remember feeling proud as I watched students in my class grill an ICE agent at a detention center and then being asked to leave? Will I always remember seeing friends walk on water at the Salt Lake? Will I always remember walking through the redwoods on a cold August afternoon, seeing an enormous tree, asking my friend what we should name it, and then agreeing to his response?

People.

It seems memories interwoven with people carry us forward. Yet, as with any life altering change, there had to be goodbyes. Some difficult, others casual. I've been wondering what decides the difference. Is it the impact they’ve made in my life? Is it the length of time I’ve known them? Is it knowing I might not see them for a long time? Is it accepting that no matter how difficult or not being able to because distance and time will separate souls that have learned and grown together?

It's been strange coming to the realization that certain people seem to come into our lives at the exact right time and with them we can have experiences together that change the core of who we are if we are open. It's been strange realizing that others who have been around a long time can make their mark years later. Talking to the old friend from high school, we talked in a way we never could have during the past 18 years we've known each other. Until now. Until we had both traveled away from home, finished our education, become licensed professionals (in search of work coincidentally!), and learned to listen to the universe. She had always listened because she had always seen. I had started to after the Arizona ghosts. For a brief moment, we shared stories about our lives that would solidify our bond for a lifetime. 

Places.

What makes a place speak and thereby last forever? Does it depend on the audience or ourselves? I can close my eyes and be standing on Mont Blanc at the top of Europe on a clear day surrounded by snowy peaks and blue skies. Or be standing by a beach in Barcelona on a Christmas Day many years ago with family members who are Buddhist.

The change and the jump was inspired by an adventure, a road trip taken with friends, a “spirit quest” with an unintentional outcome. I am told we almost didn’t make it at one point driving through the slippery mud on the Navajo reservation but I was far too naive to realize that at the time. During the trip I saw a painting at our first random right. The painting was of a girl standing at the base of a mountain during sunset. You can't see her face. The moment I saw the painting I thought about how incredible it was that she was home. From there, I had to go home too.

The Where.

I may crash and burn. I understand that. But at least I would have tried. Even if the crash and burn is the end result, I will be able to say that in a world attempting to place everyone in boxes of one sort or another, I resisted. In a world that unjustly rewards the most fortunate (where fortune is rarely credited) while so cruelly punishing the less, I failed to conform to educationally-driven hierarchical expectations about my place in society. The paths I was supposed to take left untaken. The work I was supposed to do left undone. The choices I was supposed to make left unmade. Perhaps in that resistance, I will fail to achieve any tenable outcome. But at least I tried.

The why is too complicated to comprehensively explain so I’ll just say this. The desert speaks only the truth and when one is forced to confront it there is no turning back. Once you hear the desert you can’t unhear it. It’s not answers I found in the desert. It’s questions. And if the desert is clear about any one thing it may be this: where one goes to find answers to the questions that keep one up at night may be far more important that both the questions and the answers. 

So to answer the why, it is about the where.

And for the where, the journey is just beginning.

A Last Sunset

Tonight, watching celestial powers playing with the color wheel of the Arizona sky, a last sunset brought an end to a four year journey. The past few months have been a time of reflection both of the past and the future. As the sky put on an unforgettable light show once again, I thought about the first sunset I remember watching in its entirety. Fortunately for cloud storage, my words from four years after seeing the first sunset were preserved.

The final paper of a memoir writing class at UCLA.

Towards the end of the paper

Reading those words almost a decade later, it seems oddly familiar and yet also strange. I was no longer the writer yet the writer had become me. I remember going to school the following Monday after that tennis match and trying to help a friend get over the loss (after an undefeated season). I tried to tell her how we should forget about it and move on. But our coach overheard the conversation and said, "You'll never forget this." I remember thinking how callous that was at the time. But I soon realized he was right. Years passed and the memory didn't fade. I guess at some point between that conversation in November 2006 and the memoir writing class at UCLA exactly four years later, I had tried to make sense of it. In that process, I, the writer, had narrated the first sunset as the end of a journey.

In some ways, with many more years behind me now, that first sunset hardly seems significant at all. Much of my life remained the same afterward. I continued to live with my parents in California (while occasionally moving away during the week for college and law school). I never worked full-time. I remained a student even a decade later. While facing various moral, ethical, and even philosophical contradictions throughout college and law school, the center did not give way. In a state long battling actual fires, I found shelter and safety. Life went on as it did before. Just with less tennis. After all, California had always protected me.

But in other ways, that first sunset had marked an end. There were no more bus rides with the team. No more uniforms. No more after-school practices. No more "undefeated" chants as the bus turned the corner and made its way up Diamond Avenue to park in front of the gym. No more cheering on teammates from the sidelines. No more sharing snacks and stories between matches. No more matches. No more competing. No more hiding on the tennis court because forehands were preferable to real life. When I met up with my coach last year, he remarked how our team was not only the most successful tennis team to have ever played at our high school, but we had attained a remarkable level of professional success as adults (with doctors, lawyers, teachers, and a range of other medical and scientific degrees and professions currently represented). The skewed demographic of the team considering the socioeconomic standing of our city probably made that somewhat inevitable. Yet, it is fascinating to think of those high schoolers dressed in orange and black who disembarked the bus that night to never board another as a team again. In that collective finality, individual lives would change. No matter how obviously, or trivially, it had been an end, the end of adolescence. 

Perhaps it is only right then to say that this last sunset in Arizona marks a beginning. The last night in a now empty apartment, will bring the dawn of a new adventure. No longer under pressure to perform academically (since school is finally done), no longer under first-generation-immigrant driven expectations to succeed within a narrow definition of success (since I can't seem to grasp how capital accumulation leads to happiness), no longer under obligations to not rock the boat and play by the rules (since what is read can't be unread), the last sunset in Arizona seems to be the start of a new way to live. A new way to be. 

In Arizona, I learned that even the sky can be set on fire. At some point during four years of incredible sunsets, amidst all those fires in the sky, a place that seemingly neither requires nor tolerates filters, intentionally or unintentionally, had also set me on fire.

Clear as Mud

---

And so, the first time around the mysterious academic job cycle came to an end. In a way, it was quite opportune for things to work out as they did. At the end of a long year, I am left with two thoughts. One, I'm glad I got to see. Two, I'm not sure if I want to see any more.

I decided to write this post because it seems so much of this world is hidden. As a faculty member recently put it, "Academic bureaucracy is as transparent as mud." So, with mud on my boots, I'm detailing my first year on the job market below in hopes that it may help someone in the future.

I applied to 21 positions.

I had four Skype interviews, one phone interview, and two interviews at the American Historical Association (AHA). (I'm still wondering why and how interviewing at the AHA is still a thing). Three of the Skype interviews led to on-campus interviews. One of those was at an R1 school and two were at liberal arts schools. I've heard from several faculty members how this constituted a "good year." Despite finishing my Ph.D. in four years as well as having extensive teaching and public history experience, I had doubts whether I would be a competitive candidate. When I asked for theories about how all the interviews happened—since I was told repeatedly that it was typical to not hear back the first year on the job market—the responses usually referred either to my law degree and CA bar license or to my "topical and timely" research. Since I cannot know for sure, I'll leave it up to you to decipher. That is, of course, assuming there is any method to the madness.

My first ever on-campus interview was at an R1 school a few weeks before I turned in the first full draft of my dissertation to the committee. I'm not saying that to be cavalier, but I am curious of the dynamics between what is rumored as purported requirements before even applying to certain jobs and the ways in which the interview process can actually play out. I had no academic publications and an R1 school invited me for an on campus interview? Why?

The interview was quite the experience. The most surprising part to me was that when I inquired about whether the terms of tenure were negotiable—a pattern that would continue with most of the other interviews—the responses were underwhelming (and somewhat condescending since most people seemed to assume I did not understand how tenure worked). I simply wanted to know if they were the sort of people who thought outside the box. Meetings were followed by what felt like a very confrontational lunch session (for other reasons I cannot quite yet understand) where it seemed like I was testifying before Congress.

Meeting the graduate students provided a temporary reprieve. I asked them where they were at in the program and when some mentioned their apprehension of starting their teaching assignments, I offered some advice that I hope was helpful (namely, to use monographs, teach topics of familiarity, and clock out after 20 hours to focus on research and writing). We then had a great time discussing what books should actually be assigned in historical methods so we can stop the cycle of generational grad student confusion stemming from that particular class. Coming directly from law school, that confusion lasted more than a year for me and was finally alleviated when a friend gave me Callum Brown's Postmodernism for Historians. That Christmas gift may have saved my graduate school education.

The full day of meetings at the R1 school ended with the job talk. Knowing that the end of my talk would include some heavy content (in particular, tragic deaths at a detention center), I had to start off by engaging people with laughter. There is something quite entertaining (and challenging, of course!) about trying to get a room full of academics, who are also complete strangers, to laugh. I was definitely lucky because that particular audience brought the energy. As I walked back and forth, sometimes swinging my arms upward and other times pointing to the screen, it seemed they kept their focus on me the whole time. Regardless of whether they laughed, smiled, or nodded for the puns and sarcasm out of politeness or genuine entertainment, it certainly helped me perform at a higher level.

It appeared to me that my talk was well received:

Despite this, the Q&A session after my talk unfortunately provided me with the answer to my outside-the-box question. While many of the questions focused on historiography, future research, and teaching methodologies—with one faculty member asking me what "adaptive learning" was—the search committee's questions attempted to place me squarely within the parameters of the box of their ideal candidate. Despite recognizing their attempts to fit me into their box, I tried not to waver in my resolve to remain outside of it. What a fun game to play. When my answers were received with eye rolls visible to me from the front of the room, I had a feeling how the rest of the game would play out.

I did not hear back. Months later, I followed up out of curiosity. At least the chair apologized for the delay...

At my second on-campus interview, a dean asked me whether I had a minimum salary. Seeing as how I have been in school my whole life and have never really had a full-time job, this was puzzling. I managed to muster up a quiet, "Honestly, I don't." Not to say that I actually don't but I was confused why someone would ask about a minimum salary before a contract is discussed. Wouldn't that be showing your hand even before the game begins? 

When I spoke with a group of students at that school over lunch, I mentioned how crazy it was that law schools tend to ignore prominent historical court cases like Dred Scott, Plessy, Buck, and Korematsu, and train attorneys in criminal law and procedure without ever mentioning mass incarceration. After I encouraged all the students to stay in touch if they had further questions, two African American students stayed after the meeting to pick up my business card. As we walked, one of them said, "I'm glad you said those things. I've never heard a professor say that."

That rejection notice came by snail mail typed on a letterhead.

Other notices continued by email.

Interviewing at the AHA was a fascinating ordeal. When I inquired whether I needed to pay for the whole conference in order to attend the interviews since I did not plan on attending the conference, I received the following response: "If the interview is at a table in the Job Center room, you do need a badge. Our policy is that interviews in rooms require badges as well, but there won't be anyone checking at those doors. We do hope that all job candidates are able to take some time to take advantage of all the offerings at the meeting, such as the Professional Pathways career development space. We do have reduced rates for job seekers under the Unemployed/Underemployed or Student category that you would be welcome to utilize. We don't have single-day passes." Both my interviews were in rooms (one at the end of a long hallway several floors above where the conference was taking place). I had a badge just in case. After four years in Arizona, one gets used to carrying papers to justify being places.

A faculty member at one of the AHA interviews replied to my thank you email with an offer to provide feedback. I was curious so I followed up.

The comment about primary sources made me laugh. I'll offer an explanation for the record. During my research—ongoing at the time of the interview—I analyzed ICE reports of people who died in detention. I was told I had to take them seriously for my work to be considered "serious scholarship." But the reports spun tales so far removed from reality that they veered into the comical. So, it was a bit difficult to take the mention of primary sources seriously. Not only do I run all my classes in a discussion format, I use primary sources in almost every class; however, since I do not teach the exact same class twice, they are usually based on a timely topic I find interesting during class prep the day before. After all, I had just assumed Alfred North Whitehead was on to something when he wrote, "Knowledge does not keep any better than fish." But maybe I need to memorize a fixed list of primary sources?

The main "political view"—I contest the moniker—I may have expressed during the interview was that my teaching philosophy stems from a prison abolitionist perspective because people should not be held in cages. So, should I have not mentioned that or toned it down? Having taught immigration history courses in Arizona, I have had students who wanted to change the asylum policy to no longer grant asylum to members of the LGBTQ community,  to plant snipers at the border to shoot people coming in, and to bring pulled pork to class (which coincided with Ramadan) knowing there were Muslim students in attendance. Having a "range of political views" is certainly one way to put it. Sometimes I wonder how far this "range" can possibly extend in a society where both political parties agree on wars and prisons. Yet, even then, prison abolitionism is not my "political view." It's a lens through which I teach historical events and processes as a way to understand the world considering this particular society's tendency to resort to the cage en masse. How did society function for most of human history without human cages?

While I detest politics of thought, this seems rather unsurprising in a profession that has long delayed the field's assessment of its own relation to the state, unable to stand against the tide of state interests. Will historians ever take the high road? For instance, consider the increasing move toward online teaching. Are we open to discussing the implications of online history teaching under the sometimes heavy-handed interference (or, guidance, depending on your experience) of "instructional designers," a growing field with roots in military training? Or, are such discussions complicated by the "politics" of it all as departments grapple with fiscal concerns and appeasing higher-ups? Are historians willing to rise above? As a brilliant colleague once remarked, "I am still in shock that professors haven't freed themselves from the swamp of American politics." One must look no further than the transparent-as-mud search process to see the consequences when those unable to escape the political swamp hold sway. There were three people at that particular AHA interview. Did that mean a single person broke the tie because of "politics"? I wonder why historical knowledge and teaching ability, both uncontested, were not able to overcome.

Leaving aside all that, what struck me most about this job cycle was the unoriginality of the questions asked. It seemed at each interview, everyone in the search committee had a neat little form in front of them that they filled out as I talked. They asked the same questions, took turns going down their list, and did not often stray regardless of whatever I felt like throwing into my answer. That was disappointing. As an oral history practitioner itching to go off-script based on verbal and non-verbal cues, it was remarkable how collectively terrible the follow-up questions were. But I suppose it must be that way to make sure the candidate fits the box(es) and whatever standard of equality is presupposed to maintain external credibility of the search process. I hear appearances are everything. And I guess I should not be surprised being in a society that has long embraced mandatory minimums as the gold standard of equal protection. But I certainly wish it was different. So, be cautious, future job seekers—make sure you fit the box(es).

Yet, even then, mysterious circumstances (or, "politics") can uncheck the box(es).

The last email, which appears at the start of this blog, was bittersweet. After the job talk/teaching demonstration, the chair was ready to offer me the job and told me in no uncertain terms that I was their first choice. First choice. The chair said to expect a call from the dean with an offer and that I should feel free to negotiate. It felt like I had made it. The email a week later informing me that I had not was a reminder that perhaps it was not a world in which I wanted to make it, if making it required fitting into a box subject to mysterious circumstances. First choice or not. I want to say that I will take some time to work on the "politics" of my research and teaching as recommended but that seems highly unlikely bordering on never. Trying to fit into a box on a form seems absolutely terrifying, even more so when fitting into the box ultimately becomes irrelevant.

What I have grown to love most about history is the potential to transcend the box in whatever shape or form. Going through this job cycle, however, it was heartbreaking to see that potential not realized, the discussion points never picked up, and the hints dropped never pursued. I wish someone had asked how I knew what blood looks like on tar. Or if I could identify detention centers with my eyes closed. Or what it feels like to walk a desert filled with ghosts. I've been wondering if it is just me. Norman Maclean once wrote, "If a storyteller thinks enough of storytelling to regard it as a calling, unlike a historian he cannot turn from the sufferings of his characters. A storyteller, unlike a historian, must follow compassion wherever it leads him. He must be able to accompany his characters, even into smoke and fire, and bear witness to what they thought and felt even when they themselves no longer knew." If the distinction holds, perhaps the title most fitting for me was never a historian.

Regardless, I'm grateful for all that I saw this past year. I traveled to parts of the country that I'd never been to before. I told more than 100 people about my research and teaching. I honed my presentation skills. And I still smile when I think about the time during one of the on campus visits when I walked myself across the street from the hotel to a restaurant for a dinner meeting and the chair was visibly upset that I had done so without waiting to be escorted. One would think a candidate being able to find their own way would garner at least a little respect rather than annoyance.

But clearly, there's so much I don't understand.

The End of a Role

And so the final curtain call. After 26 consecutive years playing the role of a student attending an educational institution, it is time to say goodbye.

Playing this role has been remarkable. I was too young to have memories of when it first began but can say with some certainty that I remember most of the performances. I traversed the planet. I learned languages. I studied abroad while studying abroad. I saw fireworks in four different countries on three different continents. I went by different names. I played the extrovert and was told not to talk in class so much and yet was selected for school plays and church readings. I played the introvert and was told to speak up in class and not be shy. I read a lot; it turns out mostly the wrong books. But at least I learned to read. I wrote a lot too; it turns out that was helpful for when writing became part of the job. Good thing the voices were always so chatty.

What strikes me now is that playing this role has been the sole focus of my life so far. It is all I have ever done or known. That focus gave me expertise. I honed the skill over the more than two decades of practice. It was validation. It provided safety. It was home. I am not sure who I am without the part. In some ways, I am hesitant what the next phase brings after such a long-term role. It is not that I will stop learning like a student. But I wonder what happens when the goal of getting a degree or graduating is no longer part of the life timeline. I wonder if the skills that translate (assuming any in fact do) to whatever it is that the adults call the real world are still limited without that particular end goal. And I wonder what that end goal is in the so-called real world.

Living in Arizona for nearly four years, the real world certainly came knocking. In Arizona, I found two things: the desert and the ghosts. One is beautiful. The other tells stories. So I learned to stare at the colors of spectacular sunsets and listen. I was a scribe to the stories of the desert ghosts. I wonder if that ends with the end of this role. I hope not. I suppose before I leave this state, I may have some sort of real world end goal. Or maybe not. Perhaps it is time to be without. It would be a first.

I suppose time will tell. What I hope now more than anything is to be able to look back on this role with gratitude. To appreciate these final days and the final performances. To think about the performances, the terrible ones, the awesome ones, and everything in between and smile. If, for nothing else, believe that the performances were every bit worth it.

And then take a bow. After all, it has truly been a role of a lifetime.

Painted with Memories

For three days in August
There was beauty
A blue lake
A black butte
A yellow cove
A gray sky
Smoke
Sights
Colors
Sounds
Silence
Unreal
Unimaginable
Like paintings come to life
But better
Like dreaming in color
But better
Like landscapes in heaven
But maybe better
More real
But landscapes beyond reality
Landscapes with no end
No beginning
Only without end
Landscapes with ghosts
Sighing
Singing
Breathing
Laughing
Dead and alive
Past and present
Traveling with stories
Painted with memories.

Perhaps it's Time

The gates with the lions are gone.

Recently, it occurred to me how influential those gates had been. Each made of metal had the outline of a lion facing the other. They were green. I'm not sure whether Statue-of-Liberty green or not. But they were hardly a sight to behold. Rusting, old, creaky. At least I think creaky. I don't remember anymore. It's been nearly two decades.

I do remember standing on them, my feet fitting perfectly on the feet of one of the lions. I used to stand on the left lion, the left gate. I'm not sure why. Probably didn't give me the best view of the street. But there I was spending afternoon after afternoon under the hot tropical sun standing at the rusting lion's feet staring into the busy, noisy street. That I remember. It's hard to get the honking out of my head. I'd fold my arms and rest my chin on them. Sometimes the metal was too hot. On those days, I'd just stare. Always I'd dream.

I'd dream about being away. I'd dream about flying. I'd dream about making my way to the airport because I knew then I could fly. I'd dream about being somewhere else, anywhere else. I never told the lions. Never even whispered it. But perhaps they knew. Perhaps they too wanted to be somewhere, anywhere else.

It has been strange realizing that she, that I, never got off that gate. That she, and I, had spent two decades standing on the gate staring into a busy street dreaming of being away. Whether it was the grip of the left lion, or something else, I never got off the gate. Regardless of all the travels, of all the places I have seen, I had stayed tethered to the green decrepit metal always dreaming of being away.

Perhaps it's time to look around to flip through the moving pictures of the past and find stillness in the memories of the present. Perhaps it's time to realize the lions had let go a long time ago. Perhaps it's time I did too.

Birthdays and Count Up Time

I want to start with two thoughts. One, happy birthday, Ammi! Two, I'm sorry I can't be there to celebrate with you.

Seeing as how I am more than 9,500 miles away from you on this birthday, I cannot help but think about your last one when those miles were surmountable. When I was able to wish you in person very close to the day of your actual birthday. And the year before that. And the year before that. In fact, every year I've been alive, I think I have spent your birthday with you. Until this year. And it got me thinking about time. I thought how strange it is that since the two of us have been separated by borders, I have kept track of time differently. Normally, I would count down to various events -- birthdays, graduations, holidays. I would cross days off in a calendar. But since I saw you last May, I no longer cross off. I no longer count down.

I count up.

It has been 358 days since I last saw you in person. It will likely be as many and more before I see you again. When the sun rises tomorrow, the number will go up. And I will keep counting. I don't think this is unique to me. I've heard it before -- when I visit people in detention, they have often told me exactly how many days they have been in lock up. I don't mean to compare experiences. Just that sometimes distance and time may feel the same. They don't know when they will get out. But they know how long it has been since they last saw their family. They count up in days, weeks, months, and years. I suppose then there is count down time and count up time. Count down for those who know when. Count up for those who do not.

But for now, a virtual hug from me with a phone call.

Someday soon, in time, a real hug.

Happy Birthday, Ammi.

I love you.

To Vote or Not to Vote

Over the last several months, and perhaps over the last year, I’ve had the pleasure of listening to citizen-friends discuss the implications of this election cycle. Among the voices were those hell-bent on making their voice heard at the polls and those similarly hell-bent on making their voice heard by purposefully disregarding the entire voting process. And of course everyone in between.

From the perspective of an aspirational non-citizen voter-to-be, it was initially difficult for me to understand the point of view of voting by not voting. I couldn’t quite figure out how by disregarding the entire process, a citizen-voter can still be heard. Slowly, I’m beginning to see that point of view. If one considers overhauling the entire system on a structural level, then perhaps that viewpoint holds sway. Perhaps collective disengagement can provide a starting point for systematic restructuring. This post, however, leaves this group of strict non-voters out of the momentary picture with the implicit hope that the revolution, in whatever form non-voters hope for, may come in due time.

So, while we wait, dear citizen-voter (potential or actual),

I know that many wonder if their vote even matters with the way elections are structured. Whether it really makes a difference one way or another if one person shows up to the polls or not. Yet, I wonder if I could be so bold as to suggest an alternative framing.

What if I asked you to consider the power your vote could potentially hold in the life of someone you knew? What if I asked you to consider those in your life who cannot vote? Perhaps you know someone who is not a citizen? Perhaps you know someone serving time behind bars? Perhaps you know a family without legal status? Perhaps you know someone who has lost their right to vote? You knowing someone who cannot vote means you might know their story. Perhaps then you might even support their interests. Policies that benefit you could be aligned with policies that might benefit them. 

Would it then be a stretch to think of your vote as also representing theirs? Would it be a stretch to say that when you check yes or no or choose one candidate or one proposition over another, they are in your mind? Could their stories occupy that voting booth with you? Will their voices blend with your thoughts? So, by you voting, are they also voting? 

I encourage you to consider for those whom you speak. Those you represent. You represent your friend who is not a citizen (according to one estimate, there were more than 22 million noncitizens in the US in 2015). You represent your neighbor behind bars (48 states have some type of felon voting laws). You represent your friends without legal status (according to DHS, this number is more than 11 million). You represent your coworker, neighbor, friend, ally, and stranger who have never had a vote or have lost their right to vote for one reason or another.

I hope you represent those without a voice. And if in this election cycle you take the time to do so, then from one non-citizen, non-voter to a citizen-voter, thank you.

"No one case is worth your license."

The day began as a day of firsts. My first time as an attorney in a courtroom. My first time as an attorney in an immigration courtroom. My first time representing a client in said courtroom. My first time stating my full name and then the words "for the respondent." Needless to say, it was the first time I ever felt that nervous.

What should have been a short hearing on a procedural matter turned out to be a terribly tragic drama. After the judge entered the courtroom, she sized me up, warned me about being careful about what I say into the record, and stated (off the record), "No one case is worth your license." I was perplexed. What on earth was she talking about? Why would I lose my license to practice law for showing up to represent someone in immigrant detention as a pro bono attorney?

After dismissing the procedural matter that I was there to represent the client for, she immediately moved on to the second matter at hand. Long story short, there was no way I could ethically take on representation for the second matter as I had little to no preparation. After I admitted this to the judge and asked for more time, she rejected the request, excused me, and proceeded with the second matter.

I watched helplessly as my client was grilled for three hours and then ordered removed from the country. There was nothing I could do. Despite the three years of law school, despite acing Immigration Law, despite passing the CA bar, I sat helplessly as a person in a black robe sitting in front of a sign that read "Qui Pro Domina Justitia Sequitur" brought an immigrant to tears. My client, better known as the "case" at hand, became one of the thousands thrown into the pile of refuse, the rejects "justice" deems unworthy of living among us in this great nation of immigrants. There were six people in that courtroom. All have undoubtedly made mistakes in their lives. Yet, only one was handpicked by "justice" to suffer and pay for her mistakes by being removed from a country she has lived in for nearly 20 years.

On the way home and for days later, the statement still rings in my head. I keep going over what happened and wonder whether I could have done something differently. Realistically I know that I could not have possibly represented her in the second matter. But the sting of what happened remains with me. And the echo of those words remain hanging in the air. I wonder if there would be a "case" that was worth a license. Maybe she is right and no one "case" is. But maybe because they all are so no one "case" can be. Because behind every "case" is a person. And every person, regardless of who they are, would be worth it, right? 

It seems regardless of the work or the effort or the skills or the time or the pure dumb luck it took for me to earn that license, it is not the most important thing in the world. Far from it. As I try to move on from the echo of those words, it seems to me that there would be no greater privilege than losing a license if it happened in defense of the most vulnerable among us. Because at least then I would know I tried.

A Complicated Day

I must admit it was not my first thought of the day.

Until Facebook decided to not-so-subtly remind me, it did not occur to me that today is Father's Day when I woke up this morning. I had heard some commercials on the radio last week. I had seen some posts on Twitter. But until I saw the trending topics of the day, today was going to be another Sunday.

And then I realized it was not.

As I scrolled through my newsfeed looking at friends and family celebrating this day with pictures and words I realized something. This day will always be complicated. Regardless of the year, the third Sunday of June will always be a day of confusion, like a national holiday marred by a complicated history reflected in a tumultuous present and a uncertain future. A Facebook post could never reflect this complexity.

I'm not sure if words could either.

Even if I could begin to decipher the origins of a relationship left in pieces, it seems difficult to identify a beginning of where it went wrong. I remember a time when he was my hero. A time when I thought he hung the moon. A time when he picked me up and held me upside down in our kitchen and showed me the world in a new perspective. I remember a time when I waited for him to come home from his many trips abroad. A time when I envied his large stack of passports indicating his travels to many different countries. A time when he brought all sorts of goodies from faraway places. A time when a hero could do no wrong.

And then I suppose life happened.

I suppose life stressed him out. I suppose circumstances turned him unkind. I suppose situations became too hard to handle. I suppose at one point he broke. I suppose then cruelty and emotional distress became a new way of life. I suppose that's when the house turned cold. I suppose that's when we stopped communicating. I suppose that's when I stopped caring.

It has been 547 days since I last dialed his number.

In that time, I have changed. He used to tell me to first save myself before I can save others. I no longer believe that. I have no desire or intent to save anyone. But I do want to help. I want to help as many people as I possibly can while I'm still here. I want to help despite my own troubles or circumstances or uncertainties. I want to help despite not knowing what the future may hold. I want to turn my attention to the world around me. I want to understand the problems we are facing and be a part of the solution. I do not want to ever let my life be about me. In that way, he is the foil. Regardless of the questionable genes I have inherited, I want to do good. I want to do and be good. So, in a way, I am grateful for the antithesis. Maybe someday I will be able to celebrate that.

But not today.

Classroom Confessions

"I used to be a racist."

Four days into my summer history class, I began my lecture with these words against a dark backdrop of a Powerpoint slide reading, "My Confession." The class is about immigration. We cannot talk about immigration without talking about race. So, I was trying to talk about race.

In some detail, I recalled my segregated elementary school days in Sri Lanka. I attended class with Sinhalese kids while never even interacting with the Tamil ones. I had friends who were Catholic, Buddhist, and Islamic but none who were Hindu. Even after I was taught Tamil as a second language, I never bothered to make any Tamil-speaking friends. Because at the heart of it was a fear. Whenever there was a suicide bombing or some other act of violence related to the civil war, I would come to school and mentally blame the kids in the segregated classroom I never entered. I never learned their names. I never even saw their faces. I blamed and feared an entire group of children for the actions of a few people simply based on race. I used to be a racist.

I did not tell this story to be controversial. I told this story because the fact that I learned to unlearn my childhood racist ideas meant that I was open-minded when it came to race. It turns out, I'm also open-minded when it comes to gender. However, I contrasted this with religion. I told the class that when it comes to religion, for better or for worse, I'm not open-minded about it. I neither want to debate nor discuss it with anyone. That I had to learn about myself.

Why did this matter? I believe open-mindedness opens the door for sympathy. Sympathy can lead to empathy. Empathy can lead to understanding. Understanding can lead to learning. Along the way, there is no guarantee of each step leading to the next but there is potential. In order to learn about immigration, the students would have to question where they stood when it came to race. Without having that conversation with themselves, they may learn precious little in conversations with others or in the class.

Last week a friend insisted that while I could admit to being a former racist in an undergraduate history class at ASU, he, as a white man, could not. I have no doubt that whatever prejudices he may have had in the past (assuming he had any at all), he no longer does. That is an absolute certainty. Yet, somehow he could not admit that.

But can this be different? Can we openly discuss our inherent biases and prejudices? Can we understand where our ideas about other people come from? Can we openly confess our pasts? Can we explore why we see certain lives as more important than others? Can we ask these questions both individually and collectively regardless of our own backgrounds? Or are we doomed to continue to discuss and learn about topics without possible root causes? 

Toward the end of class, a white, male student from the South admitted to being a “recovering racist.” I stood there and took in the moment. Two people who had vastly different childhoods, born on two continents, yet raised in similar bigotry, had publicly confessed to what few would dare say out-loud.

Maybe we can have conversations about race after all. And maybe then, we can talk about immigration.