Trust Me, You're Alive

shame 

Once when I was 17, I received a text from a boy I’d been texting. I heard the notification from the kitchen and, realizing my phone wasn’t with me, ran to the living room. I found the phone left alone on the couch, my father standing beside it. The text said I love you :*. It had already been marked as read. 

My mom teased me a couple of times about the boy. My parents both laughed while I sat there flushed and held hostage with nowhere to go. But my takeaway was, they found the whole thing amusing and were forgiving when compared to the moral policing all of us girls encountered at my convent school, where it trickled down from a handful of nosy teachers to self-appointed vigilantes in friends’ groups. All I wanted to do at the time was belong, so I thoroughly internalized this shame taught at school, my only haven, no matter what parts of me had to be sidelined or shut down. Of course nature trumps shame at some point (thank god for evolution), and while my family drilled into me guilt about a lot of things, boys/men wasn’t one of them.

So whenever I write about men, it still feels like a minor fuck-you to that culture I grew up in, to the former vigilantes who must squirm in their seats as they read the words sex, kiss, penis, whatever on my blog. Of a gender forced to feel shame about desire, accused of being bad as if it’s an unnatural disease in you and not the most natural thing in the world.

This hyper-concern backs off only when the girl/woman gets married, is betrothed and safe, since that is the ultimate goal – your modesty and honor lie in not having storiessurrounding boys/men(/girls now I suppose, though it wasn’t as major a concern for the public back when I grew up as it is now). Many girls took great care to keep their dating lives under wraps. It was an act of selfishness and betrayal if their boyfriend mentioned it to his friends, for it came with clout for the boy and a less-than-perfect reputation for the girl.

This was the most absurd thing to me growing up, especially in undergrad, where I decided I didn’t have the bandwidth for another heartbreak and spent four years indulging in anything but romantic relationships. But anyone who could even entertain the idea of one, I recognized, was lucky, for it meant their life wasn’t tormented by other impositions. Yet somehow the world had them feel shame for that too? Of course I can respect people’s concerns about “privacy” but truth of the matter is, it was/still is centered around the conservative mindset that a culture carried, that we teens and young adults in turn had to carry on our backs.

So that’s partly what I try to do with my writing. Minor fuck-you’s.

the unsaid, impolite truths 

I was once discussing the delightful diversity of Atlanta with my coworker, and I spoke about how happy I was to move here from Texas. I offered up my truth, that even while all the office folks back in Dallas-Fort Worth were more than welcoming and some of the warmest people I’ve met even in my life perhaps, there were times I felt unwelcome while in the city, due to my identity. This shouldn’t come as a surprise if you know someone who lived in the state. My coworker told me their experience was similar, how once when they lived in the Midwest someone asked their family to not speak in Chinese among themselves. We continued on about how we like Atlanta.

In general when I share personal experiences, I do not hope for reciprocity. I just find it more mentally taxing to beat around bushes, it’s far easier for me to be authentic. But when it is reciprocated, a moment is created, and you connect with the person on the other end a little bit more. And isn’t that what humanity is about?

the public airing of flailings

If I was accused of socializing my tragedies more than my happy stories, I’d probably accept it as an accurate judgment. I do it not consciously but because I like to do my part in publicizing and building a culture of sharing sad stuff – and sometimes I have been guilty of overcompensating given the social media culture we’ve witnessed in the past years, what with the toxic positivity, the need to keep your feeds and your timelines whitewashed of anything depressing. 

Of course I do it for selfish reasons too – I like people checking up on me and validating my concerns. While I have a group of close friends/family who I am absolutely reliant on in times of emergency, I like to know people care. What can I say? I have no shame in asking for help and I’d extend my hand if I knew someone I cared about is floundering too.

This maybe another minor fuck-you, but I enjoy the act and the aftermaths. (: If you want to keep your business to yourself as they say, go on, but it’s nice to hear from community sometimes, and to give them a chance to make space for you.

A long time ago, I wrote about my middle class upbringing that many of my friends, extended family, and strangers on the internet related to. They reached out to me (the best part of any published work, I would think), and I got to hear them share their own childhood stories. How they had skipped picnics in kindergarten without mentioning it to parents because they believed their family couldn’t afford it, how they too had thought they were poor and didn’t know of this middle class tier we all belonged to. Looking back it was one of the warmest receptions any of my articles have gotten, and easily among my best experiences with humanity.

nobody should be alone

The truth is nobody’s misfortune is unique, no one’s journeys have to be lonely. And if you feel you are too much or have been made to think your stories are too much, maybe they are for 90-95% people you meet, and maybe that’s a fact you can’t shy away from, so neither will I. While we need the 95% in our lives, make sure to also find the 5%, because it’ll be worth it. 

All I want to do with my writing is the little I can, to make life a little easier for all of us.

All you have to do is write one true sentence. 
Write the truest sentence that you know.
– Ernest Hemingway