HOW WE LOOK

I have hesitated to post my sadness and frustration about the tragic death of Trayvon Martin here. Yet, I’m moved. And you know me … when it hits me, I can’t shake it. 

 

Whenever I meet a group of people for the first time — via workshops, classes, or training sessions that I facilitate — one of my favorite introductory exercises starts like this: “One thing you can’t tell just by looking at me is __________. That’s important for me to share with you because _________.”  Participants are then asked to complete the sentences and share with the others their answers. Mine usually goes like this:

 

“Hi! My name is Liza. One thing you can’t tell just by looking at me is that I am an avid runner, I have run half marathons, and I am incredibly physically fit. That’s important for me to share with you because I am a plus-sized woman, I wear a size 16, and most people assume that women with my body are lazy, fat, and don’t care about their health. I’m here to tell you that I’m fit, fabulous, and love how strong my body is both inside and out.”

 

As we go around the room, people share interesting details about themselves and why those details are so important to them. We then talk about how we often judge people by how they look and the dangers of making assumptions about folks.

 

As the mother of a son with brown skin, the wife of a husband with brown skin, the aunt of nephews with brown skin, the sister of brothers with brown skin, and a mentor to many young people with brown skin, I am terrified by the death of young Trayvon Martin and of the death of DJ Henry (a young college student from my hometown).  The men and boys in my life already have learned the rules of “looking suspicious” (rules that the young white males in my life do not need for survival).

 

But, when they have done everything right, and still get hassled, treated as suspicious, or worse, beaten or killed, what is there left to tell them? 

 

Do I tell my son to not leave the house? To never wear a hoodie? As he gets older, we will tell him to always carry ID, to be well spoken, polite to law enforcement, and to cooperate if he is ever pulled over or pulled aside. Though he may be angry at what is happening to him, he will learn that his anger in the face of authority will rarely lead to a good outcome. He will make decisions about whether or not he will want to, or whether his heart will call him to rise up, protest, and refuse to be treated poorly. And, my husband and I will support him. We will love him through the struggles that come with being a young, brown man in our society. We will love him through the “it’s not fair!’ and the “why me?” and the “why are they treating me this way?” Because we have been there, and unfortunately, hearts and minds don’t always change quickly.

 

The other day, Joli said to me, “Mommy, if you were a smurf, I’d call you Beauty Smurf.” I replied, “Oh! You’re so sweet! You think I’m beautiful?” She said, “Well, no, actually. I’d call you Beauty Smurf because you like to put on so much makeup that it covers up your beauty. So, if I call you Beauty Smurf, maybe you’ll stop. Your face is pretty, brown, and beautiful.”

Pretty. Brown. Beautiful.

 

One thing I hope my children, and all children of color, can tell just by looking at me is that being brown is a blessing. It is beautiful. Being brown does not mean we are suspicious. Wearing a hoodie does not make us suspicious.  We are people. We have futures.

 

And that’s important for me to share with you because a family, a community, and a world lost another young person simply because of how he looked.

 

When my brother-in-law, an African American man, turned 25 years old, my sister wanted to throw a party — not just to celebrate his birthday, but also to celebrate an age that many young, Black men do not reach because of violence.  On Saturday, my beautiful, brown son is turning 3 years old.

 

I pray each year that he has many, many, many more. And, I pray that we create a society together that embraces — and does not condemn — him for how he looks.

 

Peace, love, dignity and humanity,

 

Liza

FRESH AIR FUND

Hi everyone!

 

It’s been a long while since I’ve posted on the To Loosen the Mind site. Not to worry, though. I’ll be back up to my regularly scheduled blogging once the academic year comes by again.

 

In the meantime, while we are in summer mode, I encourage you to check out this site for The Fresh Air Fund. When I was teaching on Long Island, a young boy introduced me to the Fresh Air Fund — he was a Black student who was attending the very wealthy, prestigious, and privileged school where I taught. Each day, he would dress up in his collared shirt, tie, and khaki pants and attend school. But, we would spend much of his free period talking about how he didn’t really fit in. He was really struggling.

 

One of the few times I saw him genuinely happy was when he’d talk about his summers in Maine. He was part of the Fresh Air Fund and escaped the city, the stress of his home life, and the temptations of hanging out with kids on the street by spending his summers with a generous family in Maine who opened his doors to him.

 

After a year, the student ended up leaving the school, his home, and the stress and it was his host family that took him in. I’m sure that changed his life.

 

If you are interested in and able to be a part of this tranformative program, please check out the Fresh Air Fund site. You can help create a better experience for a young person in need — right here in our own neighborhoods.

 

http://freshairfundhost.org/

 

Peace,

Liza

DUALITY OF MEMORY

Though I had spent two years of graduate school in New York City, I was not quite a New Yorker. So, when I walked into an advisory meeting at the private K-12 school at which I taught on Long Island, I didn’t quite understand what my friend Mary Alice meant when she said in shock, “A plane just hit the Twin Towers.” It was just after 9:00am.

At that time, the school campus where I was teaching was renovating the Upper School building, so we had all of our high school classes in trailers Modular Units. It was pre-texting and pre-Emergency Management on a global scale. We, as Head Advisers, knew we only had a few minutes until the entire campus would enter into a panic. At a wealthy private school just outside of the city, we were well aware that many of the parents worked in the Financial District. The Head Advisers walked out of the Modular Units only to have military jets fly overhead, so close it felt like they could buzz the top of the athletic center.

Quickly, the high school students communicated and were gathered into a conference room where we frantically tried to call their parents. Teenagers, who just a few hours before were fiercely arguing whether or not their skirts were too short (they had to pass the “knee test”) or whether their collared shirts were, in fact, in dress code, were crying for their Moms and Dads. The Middle School division was carefully addressing what was happening in the city just miles away from the school; The Lower School Division — they had to pretend as if nothing was going on. The teachers, through their tears, needed to be cheery for their young students who could not even comprehend what was happening.

Parents arrived. Dismissal and accountability procedures were set into place.

It was a day that seemed to never end. As teachers, coaches, and the adults who were nearest to the children, we had to serve as their parents until, thankfully, their parents returned to get them.

Except for one.

A student in my middle school class lost his father in the Trade Center.
Countless others lost their uncles, friends of parents, and parents of friends.

I still remember the smell of the air the next morning. It was a mix of metal, fire, burning paper, and acid. As we learned more about what happened, it was a smell of hate. Of sadness. Of pain. Of fear.

Over the past decade, I have grown close to a few military families who have spent more time away from their spouses and children as they have served in the Middle East. I’ve celebrated (virtually) a welcome home, and within a few months, a deployment of my friends. I’ve been a support for a friend whose husband was deployed while her child was going through chemotherapy. I’ve reconnected with high school friends who have served, and some who are still in service to our country today. And, while I don’t agree with war, I do respect sacrifice. I respect bravery. I do respect courage.

I do not celebrate the death of a man, for I know that his death does not represent the death of hate. It does not represent the death of terror. Of terrorism. Nor of intolerance.

My heart races with anxiety when I watch my husband play Call of Duty; I cannot imagine the feeling that the soldiers felt as they were feet away from their target. I cannot imagine the feeling that the families of those soldiers felt as they heard where their son, husband, brother, uncle was going.

Within minutes of reading that Osama bin Ladin had been killed, I felt relief, pride, and closure. Within another minute, I felt sadness, heartbreak, and anxiety. I thought of my student — an American female who wears a hijab. I thought of my former student whose father was not here to see him graduate from the school at which I taught. I thought of the people — who have never sacrificed a day to fight in the war, nor known anyone who had lost their life on 9/11 , nor actively held the hand of anyone who is serving away from their families — who thought the honorable way to celebrate was to party and “Get.Drunk.” I thought of my anger and disgust at the images of select groups of people in the Middle East burning the US flag on 9/11. And, I felt those same feelings of anger and disgust as I saw the images of select groups of Americans cheering on 5/1.

We were no better for doing the very thing that we hated.

Upon hearing about the US completion of this mission, I prayed for the safety of those who continue to serve away from home. I prayed for the safety of my friends and students who are frequently perceived to not “be American”. I prayed for the many victims of hate, particularly in the name of religion.

I prayed for the people of all religions, who are often taught about exclusion rather than inclusion. I prayed that our nation, our world, and the world’s people find equal opportunities to celebrate life. I prayed for the closure that this event brought to many families. And, I prayed for the road ahead for many families who may now be called into service.

At first, I struggled with the duality of this celebration — the celebration of both death and life. But, I am realizing that the event can have multiple emotions because it is not a singular event. Rather, it is a moment that brings both sadness and joy; peace and heartache; success and defeat.

It brings closure to some and open new wounds for others.

I most certainly do not take a position of telling anyone how to feel. I do ask that we reflect deeply upon what has occurred, did occur, and will occur.

My thoughts and prayers for peace go to the families of those who were lost on 9/11, the victims of hate based on religious and cultural identities of Americans in the years following, and the safety of all those who have lived in service to our nation.

I pray that we respect the duality that this brings,  that we understand our community of memory is both shared and different, and we uphold human dignity by seeking to  unite rather than divide.

AMERICAN MANNERS

Cross posted from ASPIRE

 

While brushing my daughter’s long, tightly curled hair (which she inherited from her Puerto Rican’s dad side of the gene pool), she hesitantly asked me about a “bad word.”

“Can I say it, Mom? Can I tell you what the bad word is?” she asked me.

“Go ahead, honey. Tell me what the bad word is.”

“D-u-m. Dumb. Is dumb a bad word, Mom?”

“Well, first of all, it’s d-u-m-b, though I have no idea why, and it’s a bad word if you are calling someone dumb or if you are making fun of someone. Otherwise, it’s just a word. Why? Where did you hear it?”

She smiled widely. I heard it in this song, “Chinese people, Chinese people, Chinese people are so dumb!” She extended her forefingers. I knew exactly what was happening next. My early childhood years stuck me in my stomach, and I could feel the heat rising from my bile. She pulled at the corners of her eyes, mimizing her wide Latina eyes into squinty, chinky, silts of skin.

“Jo! NO! That is NOT funny.” I could hear the anger of a thousand Asian children in my voice. I could hear my own timid, shy, and careful voice hush my rage.

“But, all the kids laugh when Robbie sings it at school! I think it’s so funny!”

We sat down against the rim of the bathtub, placed the wide tooth comb on the floor and held hands. We talked for the next few minutes about the song, about her family — the other half of her Puerto Rican/Filipino heritage — and that the song makes fun of people who look like her mother.  We talked about how making fun of people — any types of people — is hurtful. She said she didn’t want to say anything to her friends because she was afraid they wouldn’t like her anymore. She was afraid that if she told them about her mom — that her mom was Asian — then they wouldn’t want to be her friends anymore if she didn’t think the song was funny.

She’s seven. And, the truth is, the kid in her class heard it from somewhere. He heard it from somewhere, someone, who thinks the song is funny or who thinks Chinese people are D-U-M.

They are seven. Though obviously Asian, I grew up on these songs, too. I heard all sorts of racist and homophobic songs growing up, many of them I can remember the words to even 30 years later.

But, someone taught these seven-year-old kids this song. And, with the latest viral YouTube video here (reposted from Colorlines since the original was pulled down), these songs, beliefs, and language that disparage Asians are still prevalent today.

Organizations like ASPIRE fill a need for so many of us. Some of us need ASPIRE so we can feel connected to a family. Some of us need it so we can  feel connected to a cause. Some of us need ASPIRE so we can feel connected to ourselves. But, for all of us, we need ASPIRE as a statement of Asian sisters participating in reaching excellence.

WE ARE HERE: ASIAN AMERICAN LEADERS

Asian Americans are widely viewed as “model minorities” on the basis of education, income and competence. But they are perceived as less ideal than Caucasian Americans when it comes to attaining leadership roles in U.S. businesses and board rooms, according to researchers at the University of California, Riverside.

This study is so obvious fascinating for so many reasons.

I go to meeting after meeting, professional conference after professional conference, panel discussion after panel discussion, and I am usually the only Asian American in the room. Sometimes, no lie, the only Asian American in the building. Okay, I’m lying. I’m probably not the only Asian American in the building; but, I’m sure as heck one of the few who I see out in the public light speaking my mind, facilitating workshops, stirring up controversy, and doing what I do best: BEING A LEADER. What do we need? We need more Asian Americans in leadership.

 

That’s why I love ASPIRE. ASPIRE is an organization of amazing Asian American women who are committed to learning about, sharing, and passing on leadership that empowers others. ASPIRE rooms are filled with dedicated, motivated, passionate, and socially just women who strongly believe – and practice – thoughtful mentoring. And, through these interactions, meetings and shared spaces, we encourage leadership.

At a fairly early age, and I mean in my 20s, I was taught I could be a leader. I was taught that I had the confidence, the intelligence, and the maturity to actually influence minds, hearts, and pocketbooks of people. I was encouraged to study Public Speaking, was mentored through effective lesson planning, lead professional workshops, and facilitated difficult and meaningful dialogue. I took charge over groups, programs and projects. Outside of my family, (my parents still believe in a “low profile” kind of existence) I was taught to tell my story, to serve as a spokesperson, and to be the public face of a number of causes and organizations. And, I was speaking out about things that my family – my culture – told me I shouldn’t be talking about: race, power, racism, privilege, personal issues, strength, and leadership.

 

In short, I was groomed for Leadership.

 

But, don’t get me wrong. I fought for every single step I’ve taken. I’ve had to battle stereotypes, bust through some glass ceilings, and work 200x harder just to get a seat at the table. And, despite my ability to work across the aisle, to approach situations with confident assertiveness, and possessing the qualities of  an outstanding leader, I walk every day in a body that is still poked with the glass shards from above me. I feel the sting of the bamboo ceiling, the cuts of the glass ceiling, and the every day assumption that I am not a leader. And, if I don’t walk carefully or duck my head low enough, the glass ceiling reminds me that its there. Every day.

If there are no examples of leaders of your race or gender, you’re less likely to believe you are leader-like and consequently you don’t aspire to be a leader,” he explained.

I’m 35 years old young. I’ve been a professional student since I was 5 years old. I’ve seen a lot of people, been to school with a lot of students, and played with lots of kids in the school yard, study room, on the athletic fields, and in road races. I have never had an Asian American teacher. Never. I have never been in a classroom where an Asian American stood in front of me and taught me, encouraged me, or learned with me. Now, the statistics show that Asian Americans are high achievers in education, in doctoral programs, and in post-doctoral programs. Yet never, ever, have I had an Asian American (or Asian national, for that matter) educator.

I’ve never had an Asian American coach.

I have never had an Asian American supervisor or boss.

I have never had an Asian American adviser or mentor.

And, only last year, did I work on a staff with an Asian American colleague.

I am currently the only Asian American director at my work.

 

I’ve been around the educational and professional block a few times, and yet the neighborhood has looked remarkably unremarkably the same.

 

So, if We are a model minority. If We are a culturally educated population. If We are supposedly surpassing the majority population in jobs and taking over coveted spots in higher education, then why are We not in leadership?

Asian Americans represent approximately 5 percent of the U.S. population and are projected to account for 9 percent of the population by 2050. However, they account for only .3 percent of corporate officers, less than 1 percent of corporate board members and about 2 percent of college presidents, despite their higher representation in business and professional occupations.

While there are institutional and structural challenges (along with inherent biases) for Asian Americans in leadership, I strongly believe that the first step is in being aware of the very stereotypes that we, and others, hold of us as Asian Americans:

Traits often associated with Asian Americans, such as social introversion, emotional withdrawal, verbal inhibition, passivity, a quiet demeanor and a reserved manner.

 

For many of us, those traits are true (just as they are with any person, regardless of race). Our challenges as Asian Americans — if we aspire to leadership positions — is in breaking down those stereotypes in a genuine and functional way. Know the stereotypes. Come up with a personal strategy that is comfortable for you, genuine to you, and resonates with you. Then, use those strategies to bust through the glass/bamboo/shit covered ceilings. Once you do, once you’re on your way, inspire other Asian Americans. Let them know it’s possible. But, do more than just tell them. Show them. Help them. Work with them. Mentor them.

 

It’s not that we aren’t good leaders.

It’s that we are perceived not to be.

But, the perception isn’t just in the mind. It’s institutional. It’s structural. And, it’s real. We need to find ways to productive increase Asian American leaders in positions of influence so that we can show — as a community of people — that we are good leaders. That we are agents of change. And, that we are here.

OH HAPPY DAY …

I grew up in a white, Irish Catholic suburb of Boston. My town was so overwhelmingly Catholic that I saw my same school friends 6 days a week — Monday through Friday I saw them at school; Sunday I saw them at CCD, a Catholic education program that teaches children about sacraments of the church, biblical readings and how to always feel guilty for bad thoughts and deeds.

 

As kids, we always geared up for Christmas and Easter. I’m sure the few Jewish students and the even fewer Atheists at my school somehow managed to get swept right into the mix of Catholic and Christian holidays.
But there was one day — one day — where everyone seemed to share the same interest. The same background. The same heritage.

 

That day was St. Patrick’s Day. A day when, no matter if you were Asian, Black, Hispanic, Jewish, or Italian, you were Irish.

Sure, slight correction. You may not have been suddenly and magically made Irish for the day, but you sure as heck wore green. A sea of children became unrecognizable as the chill of the March landscape became overwhelmed with kelly green, lime green, dark green and white green. If we moved fast enough, our group of children appeared to be wisps of grass blowing in the cold March air.

Everyone wanted to be Irish.

Working at a Catholic college, the ramp up to St. Patrick’s Day reaches epic proportions. Though many do share the ethnic Irish heritage, few embrace foundations of the religious meaning of St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland. Rather than attend church in observance of a holy day of obligation, many go to the local church, the Church of Beer. And, like nearly everything on that day, even the beer is green.  No matter where you go or who you are, you are wished a “Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!”

Though my family is not Chinese, we celebrate Chinese New Year. We don’t go all out — we don’t close up shop, surround ourselves with family, nor eat until our bellies extend past our knees. Rather, we take key aspects of the tradition and share it with our children. Admittedly, we Google which Lunar New Year it is and which animal sign is associated with that year. We wear red. We clean the house thoroughly the night prior. We sometimes get a new haircut (if we’ve planned enough in advance). I have a stash of red envelopes in my office drawer that I take out once a year and present to my kids.

 

On that day, I wish everyone I meet a “Happy New Year.” Mostly, I get funny looks. Usually, I have a second to explain that it’s Lunar New Year. Then, I nearly always get “But, Liza, you’re not Chinese.”

 

My response: “Recognizing that others celebrate traditions around the world isn’t dependent on me being that identity.”

 

I’m not being un-authentic. I know that I’m not Chinese. And, I know not to go so far as to offend a cultural tradition that spans thousands of years. I don’t pretend to be Chinese nor do I pretend to know more about Lunar New Year than the average person. But I do know that we need to expand our view of who’s holidays we celebrate, who’s holidays we hear about, and who’s holidays we see as weird or strange.

 

I want my children — my students, my colleagues, my friends, strangers — to be reminded that our country is made up of many different cultures and traditions. That the beauty of the United States is that people have the freedom to celebrate their faiths and beliefs without persecution. And, of course, we don’t always live up to that foundational belief of our country when we deem other people’s cultural traditions as “not-American.”

 

I recently was having coffee with a Vietnamese friend of mine who said that, earlier, a white woman smiled at her and said, “Happy New Year.” Though the exchange was brief and seemed friendly, my friend was pissed off. “Why the heck does she have to assume that I’m Chinese? This whole we-all-look-alike mess has got to end!” she exclaimed. “Girl,” I replied. “I kind of give that lady props for even knowing it was Lunar New Year. After all, how many people don’t even give a damn right now or who think that celebrating lunar-rabbit-anything is some ancient Chinese secret?”

 

I admit. On Chinese New Year, I wish everyone a “Happy New Year”, too. But, it’s not because I ignorantly think everyone is Chinese; I do it because I want to honor that we almost never get to celebrate our cultural heritage and most certainly never have it recognized by our fellow Americans. When I wish you a “Happy New Year”, it’s because we share a community of memory, a shared experience of simply having black hair, almond shaped eyes, and an assumption of what we sound like even before we open our mouths. We share a common experience of being both invisible and being a model of success. We share a common experience of being both loved and hated. We share a common experience of being both motivated and overbearing.

 

While we may never be able to know every cultural holiday nor every cultural tradition, it is important for us to include the diverse perspectives that make up our country and society. So, if I wish you a Happy New Year or Happy Saint Patrick’s Day or Happy Easter, Rosh Hashanah, Eid Sa’eed, or Happy Earth Day .. it’s because I want you to know that we can respect traditions of others. That, to be a truly inclusive society, we must include the traditions of others.

 

So, happy day to you!

WHAT ARE YOU?

Though I’m full-blooded Filipino (which, only means that both of my parents claim Filipino birthplace and identity), I often get the “What are you?” question.

My heritage roots come from a series of islands that have indigenous villages of people who would mistakenly be identified as African. Through colonization, immigration, and cross-pollination, I have roots of Chinese, Spanish, and local Pinoy. My skin is light, my hair is light, my eyes are colored light brown while their shape are distinctly round-and-almond. My brothers have coarse hair, dark brown skin, dark brown hair, and wider noses than my own. Yet, we come from the same two parents.

In this latest NY Times article “Black? White? Asian? More Americans Choose All of the Above”, I am reminded of both my own What are you? questions but also that of my children, who in my opinion, truly identify with two distinct heritage backgrounds: Filipino and Puerto Rican. Like with any marginalized group that experiences isolation, young people of mixed heritage backgrounds are finding solidarity and a shared experience with one another. Where the what are you? question is usually served with a heaping dose of eye-rolling, individuals from blended heritage backgrounds are sharing stories — some painful, some hilarious — of “that totally happened to me, too!” and “I know what you mean!”

Many young adults of mixed backgrounds are rejecting the color lines that have defined Americans for generations in favor of a much more fluid sense of identity.

Does the increase in multiracial families mean, as so many like to leap, that “racism, prejudice and discrimination are slowly losing their power”? I always say, there’s personal racism/prejudice/discrimination which, I guess, you might be able to say blended families are beginning to deconstruct. We are starting to embrace the fluidity of identity, a concept that human development practitioners have always believed. That, with each life stage and each new experience, we have opportunities to grow and incorporate new ideas into our lives.

No one knows quite how the growth of the multiracial population will change the country. Optimists say the blending of the races is a step toward transcending race, to a place where America is free of bigotry, prejudice and programs like affirmative action.

Pessimists say that a more powerful multiracial movement will lead to more stratification and come at the expense of the number and influence of other minority groups, particularly African-Americans.

 

I have noticed an interesting occurrence as I work with college students around issues of identity. For the population I serve, there isn’t a formula for how students identify: I have some students of mixed heritage of White and Black or Asian who strongly identify with one or the other. As the aunt of a few biracial children where 1 parent is White, I want them to know that the “White” part is just as relevant — just as important — as the Asian or Puerto Rican side. They need to know that being 1/2 White holds significance, that it holds information about what they will know about and experience about the world and our society.

 

While I don’t believe that multiracial identity signals the destruction of racism (if it was only that easy!), what this does signal to me is movement in the direction of not just having to choose ONE thing. I believe this signals a move away from everything being so black and white (no pun intended!). That we can, indeed, be both black and white. We can, indeed, be both White and Asian; Puerto Rican and Filipino; or all four and more. In recent months, passport applications have changed to include “parent name” from “father and mother.” More and more places are adopting gender neutral bathroom signs; more and more people are referring to “parents or guardians” rather than just “parents.” And, more progressive environments are moving away from the assumption that everyone has a father, mother, one of each, or both.

None of us want for our children to be excluded. Whether it’s a spot on the soccer team, a seat at the cafeteria table, or a chance to be in the school play, we seek to include our own children. That seems a natural role for us as parents.

How are we including the stories, lives, and experiences of all children — of all adults — in our world?

Make it a daily practice to ask yourself, how am I including all voices and all people in that which I do.