CW: mention of suicide
Help is available to you no matter what your circumstances may be. If you or someone you know is experiencing suicidal thoughts or a mental health crisis, please dial the 24-hour campus crisis line at (310) 825-0768 or contact UCLA Counseling and Psychological Services immediately to schedule an appointment.
http://greatist.com/grow/resources-when-you-can-not-afford-therapy
“True peace is not merely the absence of tension; it is the presence of justice.”
Sooo…there’s clearly a massive gap between my posts about my spring break trip. I’ve got plenty of reasons why: I was massively jet lagged when I returned. I had serious family matters to attend to. I fell ill. I got busy.
Yet, that’s not the full story. My words choked in my mouth as I tried to articulate my experience. My writing flowed backwards into my personal story leading up to the trip, and it trampled my emotional state when I needed to clear my head most. I tried to review the work I’d done over the trip in an attempt to preserve my journey and my understandings of the stories I heard. My notes felt childish and short. I was creeped out by my own voyeurism as I inched through my journal and photos. It all made me think of my anthropology classes and critiques: foreign, Western gaze that lacked relevant sociocultural perspective, critical historical knowledge, personal responsibility… I didn’t have to deal immediately with the consequences of what went on in the great “Israeli-Palestinian” conflict. I “didn’t have a dog in the fight,” as my dad said. But that was the point, wasn’t it?
We were supposed to be a third party. This trip was geared towards taking a group of students who were predominantly without close personal affiliation to hear as many different– often almost directly contradicting—narratives as possible. I have no clue what the nature of a “third party” can or should be. Saying people are “too close” to issues, or behave “too emotionally” has been used systematically to dismantle first person narratives and invalidate lived experiences time and time again. Devaluating these understandings against an outside or “third party” voice is counter to everything I’ve learned as an organizer and everything we had been pushed to embrace leading into this trip… hear people as they are, on their own terms as much as possible. Attempts to simply “acknowledge” the multiple “narratives” in any arena has led to erasure of narratives that lack institutional power and normalization of some of the most horrific institutions this world has known, and I know I’m not immune to these effects. I’ve heard more personal stories than I can count on this subject, and I’m not even a quarter of a century old. They feel like separate spiderwebs forming in my memory, some sticking better than others, all occasionally interlocking, but are they forming a larger picture or simply blocking my vision?
So, what actually brought me back to writing? Although it feels a bit asinine, the truth is I finished an episode of Game of Thrones and subsequently began the HBO special “After the Thrones,” where a few knowledgeable folks break down the episode, examine consequences of production decisions in relation to the books, judge TV quality, explain things that go flying over my head during the show, dive into the political intrigue and speculation…anywho, I’d highly recommend. Something said during that particular week’s breakdown struck a chord with me: “No one is innocent.” I don’t remember the exact context of the statement. I don’t remember what was said next. I just know as I sat in pajamas, flopped on my couch, my brain abruptly jerked back to reality, back to spring. One of the evenings in Jerusalem, we had a recap of our thoughts thus far in the trip and one of my peers recounted the memory of two young Palestinian boys we’d seen in East Jerusalem casting rocks at an IDF soldier from a distance using a slingshot. “They were so young, so innocent,” she kept repeating. “They were so innocent,” echoed in my mind.
And I wonder what weight “innocence” carries for the international community when it comes to this land and its many peoples. When the territory contains most of the holiest sites for all three Abrahamic faiths. When literally billions upon billions of international moneys comes through this region in the form of aid, investment, etc. When people year after year after year continue to die. Who is innocent?
I proceeded to flip through my journal again, glancing at the dozen or so partially finished word documents in my folder titled “Israel/West Bank 2016.” Because I will be back.
I’d recommend you check out the full context of this quote here as it’s always revolting to see people piecemeal quotes/ideological frameworks for their own devices, but Dr. King’s words resonated with me throughout the entire trip: “True peace is not merely the absence of tension; it is the presence of justice.”
The other quote that I frequently return to for guidance comes from Lilla Watson, Aboriginal elder, activist and educator from Queensland, Australia. “If you have come to help me, you are wasting your time. If you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.”
That’s the only way I know how to do things. Or rather, the only way I know how to try.
I’ll resume the way I began: focus on my own narrative, give my own experience and try to be as true to the experiences of others, both people from this trip and people from relevant walks of life. This is a reflection on personal experience and a renewed commitment to human rights work, especially in this area, because our liberation is indeed bound together.
“If you have come to help me, you are wasting your time. If you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.”
Remember, lovely,
that no one can pick your battles for you.
It will be your feet that fit perfectly into the prints you leave behind.
They needn’t be alone, but be proud they are your own.
No one knows the weight they bore like you do.
Lovely, no knows your strength better, either.
Remember, lovely,
to take the ashes of old stories that no longer do you any good,
mix them with water and sweat and tears, and make paint.
May you find that burnt grey is not such a terrible color after all.
The color of our ghosts, yes, but it swirls our dreams also.
Lovely, it reminds us there’s so much yet to find beyond our cloudy present.
Remember, lovely,
not to let hauntings dictate your steps.
Shake them like dust from settled sheets that have hidden your furniture for years
Make them dance in light peering through open windows.
Let your skin feel the sun.
Lovely, remember what warmth feels like.
Remember, lovely,
when you lunge for the “success” so many loudly claim,
to please question what you’ve been told you want.
Light your world with actual inklings, echoes, and aspirations of your heart
Don’t be afraid of cheesy wishes.
Lovely, wish them with great noise, or wish them in soft whispers, but wish them always.
Lovely, you ask questions that have been the white noise in my ears for so long…
Lovely, I don’t know if I write these words for you or for me any more,
but I know we can each carry them.
That is what seems to matter.
“What’s the greatest lesson a woman should learn? That since day one, she’s already had everything she needs within herself. It’s the world that convinced her she did not.”
-Rupi Kaur
“Art is a wound turned into light.” -Georges Braque
I’m in a yoga class for survivors of sexual assault. It’s called “Yoga as Healing” and it’s wonderful and that’s all I’m gonna say on that point for now.
I’m not sure what exactly the woman said. Towards the end of a section of class dedication to artistic expression, our featured instructor had us wrap up our first painting. We’d been instructed to react to whatever subject she described with the specific color and imagery inspired by what she said, all in a non-judgmental way. My “safe space” was a green, grassy border with a pale blue sky above. My “letting go of my thoughts” was purple and white wisps, vanishing upwards. My “something that gives me hope” was black imprints of my lips and red imprints of my hands. The reminders of my own power remain powerful, and that’s a comforting thought.
Then she said something, I’m unsure of what exactly, to open the actions for our final canvas. All I know is it was something to the effect of: “You are beautiful. You are enough.” Then there were tears streaming down my face.
I tossed the paintbrush. I dumped paint on the tiny canvas. I swirled it about with my fingers. I noted that I had used so much green beforehand—it represented both “strength” and “safety” for me in other exercises—that none had dripped onto this last piece. The other colors folded into one another until the white rectangle became a blended ying yang-like pattern of black-ish blue and pale-ish pink. My fingertips dotted the opposing corners with petal-like prints from the other side. My hand found the brush again and dug the remnants of green from the center container in my paint set, and I blotted a dot in the middle.
My piece was done, so I wrote on myself-
I picked up the phrase written on the canvas mat by a previous painter: “Trust Yourself”
I added the words that will soon be inked on my skin permanently: “Acenda Uma Vela”
I remembered the words I had written months earlier: “Very Much Alive”
I read the name of the group this lovely instructor now ran: “Inspired Artistry”
Lastly, I wrote the fear that was both lurking in the shadows and dominating my vision: “Don’t Want to Waste”
I considered at lease some part of me a waste. Don’t want to waste paint or supplies. Don’t waste time, either your own or other people’s. Don’t waste life.
The woman was speaking again. “Know that we can move the world from this place and you can always come back here, because it is within you.” We were painting our place of strength. We were painting our place of peace. I must remember.
The final line from Eve Ensler’s “And Then We Were Jumping” came to mind:
“When I wake up I think… Oh, this is it. This is justice.”
The bell I hear every yoga class rings three times. The ringing swirls into silence.
“As you enter positions of trust and power, dream a little before you think.” -Toni Morrison
“There is no such thing as a single-issue struggle because we do not lead single-issue lives.” -Audre Lorde
“If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.”
Watching the sun set over the ocean…can be an anxiety-inducing experience.
It’s not supposed to be, or at least that’s what I’m told
by people who should know
they seem to know a lot about my experience from what they think they can see.
I guess it’s easy to convince me I’m wrong with this pressing uncertainty of what my eyes tell me.
When their views are coming from every angle, refracting light as it vanishes over the horizon,
I can look for other people who made something different along the beach.
Even in the mistrust of my mind, if I can capture my own view
I can create my own understanding, defy theirs…
But art even blurs the “me versus them” like dyes and powders hunting for the proper hue
What good are yellows, blues, greens of the globe if my eyes are fogged over by my fear of coming night?
Paint splashes shadows of doubt with vibrant life, strength perhaps lost but waking as our memories guide our brushes
My mind reminds me to question the cruelty of this world… and that same world replies by telling me I’m sick.
Get better.
I must find someone to fix me.
In creative work, I can wash their vision of failure with new color, title it “Success” on some days, and other days simply “Survival.”
Do not mistake my sensitivity for fragility.
After feelings of fear comes another sensation
It’s anger, but not the type I’ve been taught.
It’s a spike, yet numbing
thoughts blank, yet tumbling
Nerves on fire to flee a body I longer seem to control,
but I remain trained to this spot.
In these moments of vicious cycling, all I need is some way to disrupt,
But what strength remains in these muscles? Can’t even pull air into my lungs…
Then it’s back. Power to alter the normal flow of motion
Thumping to echo my heart’s insistent beating of blood through my veins
Rhythms to make me move and question my desire to be sane.
Eyes– sealed shut, fearful of what the darkness might contain–
suddenly open to catch my own motions, as finally feet find space they’d lacked
“…and it’s hard to dance with the devil on your back, so…”
now what?
when devils don’t come with fire and brimstone but illusions of comfort that they might let us alone.
To shake their floors it takes more than just my weight, but that won’t stop me from getting myself off the ground.
Yes, we move across the same topography, but as long as your shoes are on, don’t dare tell me what the sand feels like beneath my bare feet.
Even in my attempts at defiance, I still sometimes appear to be some version of myself I don’t recognize.
Amidst these fissures in my reality,
my own truth as I so certainly once knew it to be,
I can form the words to allow me to occupy the in between,
poetry to say things that have many meanings when I really don’t know what I mean.
When institutions show me just how crazy I am, this art can validate my existence beyond any dream.
Why settle for pacification when we can have creation?
I’m longing to scream “I want it back,” but I haven’t flexed my vocal chords in so long.
Precious, drawn out music notes reconcile frailty with endurance
and it feels better to sing than scream,
Remind the other, you have no idea what I’m capable of,
No clue how much I’ve grown.
As I slowly learn not rely upon their imposed narrative,
I will find new stories or better yet conduct my own.
Though the sun slips away, the sky is doused with night
and I know my vision’s slowly fading
Stars peek out, my sight can sharpen, I adjust to dimming light
for I know beautiful things are waiting.
Well, Bruins, Zero Week is next week. The best summer of my life is officially coming to a close and there are countless people to thank for it. Warning: this post is lengthy (but still doesn’t do this summer justice) because I just have a lot of feelings.
ASUCLA retreat was a bittersweet close and an exciting beginning. This has been one of the most challenging and empowering roles I have ever had the fortune to serve. Old board has served as irreplaceable mentors and friends. New board is ready for action and I can’t wait to see what we become.
Raven was finally able to convince me I “had time” for UniCamp this year. Now, my heart is absolutely bursting with the love I was showed by our campers and everyone involved in this exceptional organization. I pray that I have made even a fraction of the positive impact on your lives that you have made on mine through our work on mental and emotional health. Even moving campsites couldn’t stop my fierce co’s and the rest of our session. Our LShip of Tres, Red, and Panda were a force to be reckoned with and I don’t think I have ever laughed so hard with anyone else in my life. Raven. Head Counselor. Oh captain, my captain. You are the brand of leader I hope to be. I will never be able to thank you enough. Columbia is lucky to have you.
Four weeks on the road with someone I kindof-sortof knew(about) gave me one of my dearest friends and the courage to be honest about what I want in life. This grand chaos included catching a sunrise at the Grand Canyon, sober karaoking in a town you’ve never heard of, marveling at how beautiful Texas actually is, befriending oyster shuckers in New Orleans, enjoying all-star treatment at Disney’s Animal Kingdom, Prius off-roading in the Everglades, experiencing a new level of fear during a ghost tour in Savannah, watching the sun set over the National Mall from the roof of the W in DC, falling in love with NYC all over again, and so much more. Photos and more stories to come.
In an effort to follow through with my commitment to doing things I love that scare me, I wandered out to an audition for Foundations Choreography after being promised by dearest Miyagi that they don’t cut people. What I found was a beautiful family of people committed to sharing their passion for dance with beginner and intermediate dancers. I am honored to be a part of this fam with Squirtle Squad, Gen1. Como mi madre siempre dice, sigue bailando.
My life is currently a hot mess of nearly finished projects and exciting new horizons. I’m keeping the strength to say no to things I don’t need and yes to things that I love. Here are a few notes to people I love.
My roomies: you are everything I could have hoped for and more. Here’s to adventures to come and our wonderful home.
BOD: y’all kick ass. I’m ready to work and I know you are too.
ResLife: I can’t escape (probably because I don’t completely want to) and I thank you for keeping me in your hearts.
UniCamp Sesh 2 aka Two-Rexies: you make my soul sing. You also reminded me how to love myself.
Kelsey: you are Indiana Jones, Jack Kerouac, and Amy Poehler rolled into one and then some. Can’t wait for our next adventure!
Literally everyone we saw/met on our road trip: thank you for reinvigorating my life.
Squirtle Squad: Squirtle squirtle squirtle, squirtle squirtle squirtle squirtle SQUIRTLE! ❤
Moriarty: you keep me sane and remind me it’s ok to be “crazy.” I’m so proud of you.
Watson: revolution is coming. Glad you’re still with me after all these years.
Mycroft: you and Nikkie are the reasons for everything I am and aspire to be. Never forget that.
Irene: my beautiful, powerful, incredible human rights partner in crime, stay gold.
“The secret of change is to focus all of your energy, not on fighting the old, but on building the new.”
5th year, let’s go.
I’m pretty sure I’ve had anxiety issues since I was fairly young. It showed up in unique, but often related ways. There are memories of my parents teaching me ways to curb my perfectionism and of them reminding me things were ok during somewhat paralyzing instances of embarrassment over seemingly menial things. It manifested itself differently when I got to college. Freshman year was a classic fever of excitement over a new school, new people, new organizations, but I had let go of many outlets and underestimated their importance to me, especially team sports and writing. I never thought what I was feeling was “bad enough.” But who the hell gets to determine that? The guilt was maybe the worst part. It was my fault that I couldn’t handle what I was feeling. The conviction that I was somehow doing this to myself and could end it if only I were more focused, more disciplined…but also less intense, less overwhelming. I didn’t identify it at the time, but there is a persistent shame in feeling like I’m causing people who care about me and I care about to worry. I’m a fixer, not the thing that needs to be fixed.
Junior year I stepped out of spaces that I thought were exacerbating all this. I figured I just needed a break to get my feet on the ground again. Maybe I could prove how fun I still was. Instead, I didn’t want to engage at all anymore. It was honestly surreal to feel like I didn’t want to be at the school I loved so much and was considering taking time off. Ultimately, there were so many opportunities and so many people I loved here that I knew I wanted to stay, but some things needed to change dramatically and it would take more than just me. I thought it contradicted so much of what I knew about myself…how mentally tough and independent I’ve always been— in sports, school, or socially. I think this confusion is what damaged my confidence most and best highlights how deep the stigma surrounding my experiences remains. Even surrounded by people fighting such stigma, I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe it when it came to myself. That these things really happen to people. People I know. Me.
In an Everyday Feminism article called “3 Radical Reasons to Be Okay with Not Being Okay (And 4 Ways to Manage the Feelings)”, author Akilah S. Richards notes that “Naming Our Emotions Can Offer Access to Personal Power.” Being honest about how we experience the world, regardless of how we may assume we should feel, is both liberating and critical in making steps towards figuring out what we need. It’s different for everyone, but we don’t have to experience this alone. As this campaign says, we may not all have a mental illness, but we all have mental health. We can get help and determine what we need together, whether it’s family, friends, coaches, therapists, psychiatrists, whomever. What I thought I needed has changed repeatedly, and will continue to do so, but the tools and resources I’m aware of have increased while the fears associated with using them have been stifled. I won’t pretend I have this figured out, but I know I’m better than I was a year ago, and even better than the year before. There are times when things come crashing down, but that’s life. Overall, my life is incredible. My friends are the best people I’ve ever known. My family is absolutely everything.
There are many things to do to eradicate stigma and get people the help they all deserve. Singular actions won’t instantaneously restructure society, but they can challenge the way people think about mental health and how they will take action in the future. It takes me. It takes you. It takes #AllofUs.
I wanted to write love poems
and clearly I wasn’t the only one.
I wanted the neatly packaged version of love I’d heard so many times.
Word are plenty, though sometimes empty on the subject,
but some words cling to your soul just a bit longer.
These are the kinds of words that strike deeper, reach further.
Cornel West once said, “Never forget justice is what love looks like in public.”
Now, those words don’t distill love’s identity, but project it instead.
It’s simpler to obsess with just words of romanticism
and the pre-processed,
company-approved anecdotes
that are ready made to explain what justice looks like.
However— in public, the reality defies the trite sound bites that frequent our songs, news and history books.
Some say love is blindness, but no.
No, no, no, no…
Love is blinding clarity of consciousness you dare not ignore.
It is the awakening of a strength of emotion
you and I may fear to face in anticipation of the revolution it demands.
Stuff of daydreams solidifies and suffers in our presence,
but where do I turn my attention?
It is jarring to realize that blind passion is not enough…
Real love? Real love is work.
But that’s not the story we tell ourselves.
It’s too far from the tolerated narrative that dominates our ears.
We miss the intellect of love that embraces wholly and does not disregard circumstances
simply because we do not recognize them within ourselves.
I wanted words to paint images of the romantic run off into the sunset…
to capture the photogenic fists thrust into the air in protest…
the fleeting glance at opponents of injustice.
It lacks the other human sensations we might experience if we were more than fervent observers or acute documentarians.
Ears won’t hear the shuffling and dragging feet of any march,
nose cannot inhale the scent of sweat off of any body described in a poem,
and our tongues will not taste salt of tears nor the rank of blood.
for love is not a single moment. And the pursuit of justice is never final.
We want these so desperately up to the second they inconvenience us
they step out beyond our personal frame.
We will cheer on labeled heroes from the comfort of the cheap seats,
stay satisfied with cheap victories passed by those whom we dared not join in their moments of tribulation. Only the most refined of histories can we consume easily.
Where is passion when we sleep too deeply to light any fire,
let alone one large enough to draw the eyes of those too attached to the safety of their own comfort?
While we occupy institutions so occupied with protecting brands that they forget to live up to them,
this steady atrophy of empathy grows normalized so that we can hide from the title coward,
but live in cowardice nonetheless.
It is a willful, self-sedation that lets slip the agony of others from your mind…
and nothing but the thoughts administered to us may be heard over the echoing silence of inaction.
But…
BUT
If you love someone,
your head does not turn away
whether from suffering you don’t understand or from joy you have yet to grasp.
More than words of kindness, this world demands active compassion.
We hope to claim ownership over selflessness, but then cry out in cold shock when we shop for agape and realize it was never for sale.
Words are never enough, but they can be a beginning. Maybe a love poem is just reflection of the bits of us that have been shattered and remade by our own lives before taking up the search for emotional consciousness.
Renaissance of soul marks awakening of life
not fractured, at the expense of a history unacknowledged,
but whole.
Rooted deep.
Liberating.
I want to write love poems. I want to grasp love.
and some part of me feels what Dr. West meant when he told us,
“Justice is what love looks like in public.”
I want justice.
I lack an obligation to secure your comfort
I am not employed to protect your ignorance.
Rage may not be good for my health,
but outrage…
My outrage at the mighty gap between how things are and how things should be
is valid.
-Sherlock
CarlyDreme 