Alien Suite by Safiya Elhillo

Heard this the same weekend I saw Joshua Bennett and Miles Hodges. This was probably one of the most impactful pieces I heard that night.

 

There is a Fountain

There is a fountain filled with blood, drawn from Emmanuel’s viens

And sinners plunged beneath the flood lose all their guilty stains

Say It, Sing It As the Spirit Leads by Joshua Bennett

Just saw him last weekend at the New York Public Library, where he performed this poem.

 

Don’t Walk By

This past weekend, I participated in a city-wide campaign to provide housing for homeless people in NYC. 

I don’t write this to communicate how great of a person I am: I got roped into participation and up until Friday night I was trying to ascertain some way to cancel at the last minute. I’m not an especially good person and I tend not to feel much guilt when I do walk by. 

But on Saturday, I had to reconfigure my whole attitude. Instead of avoiding the homeless I had to look out for them, since my natural inclination is to avoid eye contact and look away. I had to engage in a way that sometimes felt uncomfortable. 

These kinds of events are ones I can often justify not going to by making reference to my spiritual gifts. I don’t think my gift is evangelism and so I can often simply remind myself that my mere presence there is all that’s required of me. But I know that’s not true. 

While not walking by, I met a man named Wesley. His voice was quiet – so much so that I couldn’t hear him responding to our questions. We invited him back to the host church but he seemed to decline for fear of being uprooted and displaced. We gave him a care package (with items that seemed a bit useless), prayed for him, and went on our way. 

In a recent hankgames video, John Green makes the comment that we (as a society) bestow personhood and a sense of self on individuals. Though I don’t completely agree with that statement, I think there’s some truth to it. In my last moment with Wesley, as I went to shake his hand, I so wanted to withhold the common courtesy, respect, and personhood I would freely give to any stranger on the street. I wanted to immediately wash my hands, remembering the interaction but forgetting the actual significance of it. 

I don’t have some amazing epiphany to end this post with. I’m considering participating in the weekly DWB events. I’m flooded with countless scriptures. I’m wondering if I’ll actually do things differently in light of Saturday. I’m realizing that that’s mostly up to me. 

I Can’t Get No…Satisfaction

I never wanted to live here.

For 22.5 years, growing up in a New Jersey suburb an hour outside of NYC, I hated coming to the city. Coming to the city meant hanging out with family members I didn’t know that well, walking around a crowded Times Square, and constantly feeling out of place and overwhelmed.

Then one day, only a little more than 2 years ago, I hopped on a bus to visit a friend and attend a conference at Redeemer Presbyterian Church. And as I sat on that bus, entering and exiting New York City, I was overcome with an emotional attachment to this crazy town (I wrote about it on this blog but I won’t link to it because I don’t want to look two years back).

When I first moved to the city a year and a half ago, I loved it. I did all the bucket list stuff with friends (more accurately with my two friends because I was kind of on my own for the first year, especially during the spring). It was magical, and I didn’t even have anyone to share the magic with. I would go to bed some nights and marvel at the fact that I was living in one of the greatest cities on earth.

Coming back to New York in the fall, I was as excited as I had ever been even though I was also probably the most friendless I had ever been (for anyone counting, I had only 1 friend that I hung out with on a semi-consistent basis at the time). Little did I know how much things would change. My love for the city grew as I began to explore it with new friends. I spent late nights at bars downtown and early mornings in rooms on the Upper East Side. Each day had its purpose. Whether it was Mondays filled with discovery, Thursday night trivia, or spontaneous Saturday opera trips, I was constantly indulging, experiencing, enjoying, and growing. And it’s been such a blast.

Before this weekend, I figured I’d spend at least the next 3-5 years of my life in this city. I love it here. I have a bunch of friends here (I went from being friendless to being pretty popular in these parts), I make enough money to live and I could easily get a real job if it came to that, and I sometimes legitimately feel like I can do anything. But after this weekend, I’m much less secure in my desire to spend the next few years of my life here.

My best friend* is moving upstate.

That probably doesn’t matter much. We’ll still be friends. But I know I’ll see her less. My brother’s planning to get engaged soon. My erstwhile best friend (or, more accurately, my best friend with whom I’m not currently interacting. To be honest, I don’t know that she’ll ever really be my “erstwhile best friend”. I don’t know that I could ever think of her as not my best friend. And I don’t think I would want to – she’s a really great person! But that probably doesn’t go both ways. And either way, that’s a post for another day) may be moving south. So many people I’ve met at Columbia will be graduating in May. And everything I thought I’d be able to deal with later seems much more important and dire now.

The thing about New York is that it’s such a transient city. I’ve written that before. But before I wrote that from the perspective of someone who was just passing through. Now, I write as someone who may get left behind.

Part of me feels like, if I stay in this city long enough, it will break my heart. Everyone will leave. All this is made even more poignant when I consider that one of my closest friends at the moment is someone I met at the going-away party of a college buddy. Already, there have been a surprising number of meaningful entrances and exits. And now the most meaningful one – that of my former college roommate and general roll dog – is really starting to set in. And New York is the backdrop for all this possible pain.

But, like I said, exits and entrances tend to coincide in interesting ways. While my friend’s moving upstate, my sister may be moving into town. And I’m sure there will be other people to walk in and out of my life while I’m here.

I love New York. I love being here. I love living here. I love my friends. I love staying out late at night and waking up late the next morning. I love the frenetic pace of midtown and the relative lethargy of uptown. I love Central Park. I love City Hall. I love the Freedom Tower. I love the Schomburg Center. I love Queens. I love the Met (Museum and Opera). I love Los Tacos No. 1. I love Empanada Mama (R.I.P.) I love the people I briefly make eye contact with on the streets. I love feeling like I’m a part of something and also completely unimportant to the functioning of the city. I love everything about it.

I love everything about it.

But, honestly, I don’t know how much less I would love it if I didn’t have the security of my best friend and family just a few train stops away. And I don’t know if I want to find out.

DJP

 

*I should come up with a different name for her. I don’t actually think of her as my best friend but that’s the most useful/relatable term so I use it. She fits more accurately between best friend and sister though, so maybe I’ll just call her my roll dog. For some reason I like that.

 

Harlem by Miles Hodges

This poem is a bit odd for me to link to, as I’ve been dreaming about this poet lately. It all feels a little weird. But this is a poem I heard for the first time a few years ago and I’ve always come back to ever since. And now it has added meaning since I live here.

Tina Fey

Anyone who’s spent any real amount of time with me knows about my undying love for one Tina Fey. My love for her is so strong and so real that I would quickly and without regret marry that woman, and live a beautiful, fun-filled, joyful life.

Alas, I can’t marry Ms. Fey because she’s already married (that’s the only thing stopping me. Because I’d totally be gay for Tina Fey. If that were a real thing). But as I was walking around on the UWS, as I often do for work, I thought about the prospect of meeting her and the greater prospect of staying in New York for as long as possible – a topic I’ll probably discuss at a later time.

See, Tina Fey is my ideal person. She’s smart and funny, but she’s also Liz Lemon and she seems real. I can’t tell you when this love affair began, but it’s definitely grown in the past few months as I’ve thought about my relationships. I guess, in a more perfect world, I’d be besties with Tina. And when I look around at the people I’m currently friends with, many of whom have a myriad of great qualities, I’m admittedly slightly disappointed that none of them is Tina Fey.

In reality, this love for Tina Fey probably comes from a combination of things: overly-idyllic views of female friendship, escapism, and the desire for romantic intimacy. The first thing isn’t entirely bad except for when it leads to the second thing. Sometimes, when I look around at the people I’m surrounded with, there’s a tiny part of me that wants to retreat. Sometimes that desire comes from the fact that I’m a little unwilling to make any necessary investments in the future of the relationships; other times the desire comes from me feeling overwhelmed by all the things that could be part of a close friendship. (The last thing in the list – the desire for romantic intimacy – is pretty self-explanatory. Men are very attractive.)

In any case, I’m going to keep my fingers crossed that I’ll meet Tina Fey. I feel like I’m so close to making this happen. And I think I would actually explode if it did.

 

DJP

Justice by Langston Hughes

Figured I’d spend this Black History Month (#BHM) with the often creative, poetic, and poignant words of those who’ve come before me, instead of trying to pen something only fractionally as good.

Here’s the poem Justice by Langston Hughes.

That Justice is a blind goddess
Is a thing to which we black are wise:
Her bandage hides two festering sores
That once perhaps were eyes.

Whiteness as Default

This topic has come up a few times over the past few weeks so I figured I’d write about it.

When my friend came to the city to check out some pieces at the Met, our conversation somehow eventually transitioned into one of race. Both of us are racial minorities (in general and in our given fields) and it’s hard not to recognize that in daily life. It’s especially hard, because sometimes you just want to go unnoticed. You want to be invisible in the classroom or at least not stand out. This is impossible in America though, because whiteness is the default setting. Non-whiteness automatically makes you stand out.

This came up in another context at a dinner I was recently at. There was a Brazilian couple and they were talking about how they identify on the census. They don’t put “Hispanic” because they aren’t. There’s no Brazilian option. So the couple just put ‘white’. Now, this seems disingenuous. And when someone at the table asked why they didn’t put ‘black’ or ‘asian’ or ‘native american’ or any of the other random categories, there was no good answer. This made me upset at first, but when I thought about it later, I realized that there is so much that goes into our conception of whiteness and it was my acceptance of that conception that led to my anger.

This is actually the general problem with discussions of race in America. Although racial minorities are often reminded of their minority status, whiteness is never discussed. Whiteness is only ever defined as not-blackness, not-asianness, not-hispanic, and so on. Whiteness is defined as a default position. If you’re none of the things previously listed, that’s what makes you white.

Now, that’s a partial conception of what it means to be white, but it’s not a full conception. Because, although white is the default status, it’s also an imperial one. It felt uncomfortable to call the Brazilian man white because he was from Brazil. Even though he had the same complexion as many of my white friends, his foreignness made him non-white. Even though people from the Middle East are lumped in with white people on census forms, it never feels quite right. Their status as non-European foreigners undermines their whiteness. Their lack of participation in European imperialism separates them from their neighbors out west.*

It’s important to recognize that we see whiteness as the default status because this mindset informs the way we interact with people. Any culture that is defined by its antithesis is necessarily a culture of exclusion. The moment whiteness became non-blackness was the moment that modern racism began. And the fact that there’s this two-pronged idea of whiteness – that it’s both non-otherness as well as something related to imperialism (though, interestingly, we don’t think of Spaniards as white but Germans and Britons are) – makes it difficult to work through America’s (and Americans’) problems with race and fascination with whiteness.

I don’t know. I don’t have the answers, but I think this is one of the areas we should start thinking about if we truly want to deal with this issue. What does it mean to be white? Why is white the default setting?

This podcast – one of my favorite episodes from one of my favorite podcast hosts – also deals with similar issues. It’s a good listen.

DJP

*Even the fact that the Middle East is called the Middle East (east of what?) speaks to the role of imperialism and whiteness in the conception of that region.

P.S. – This whiteness as default stuff comes up all the time. If a bunch of white people are in a room together, it’s normal. If it’s a bunch of Asians, it’s now a specifically Asian thing. If a group of white people forms a church, it’s a church. When it’s a group of black people, it’s a black church. When a movie has an all-white cast, it’s totally normal and accepted by everyone. If a movie has an all-black cast, it’s a black movie. If a white person has only white friends, that’s ok. If a Latino has only Latino friends, it’s like, why are all of your friends Latino?

P.P.S. – Sometimes I work to counter this idea of whiteness as default (because we all have it to some extent). If I see a picture on FB with a white friend and they’re surrounded by white people, I ask, why are there so many white people here? If I’m watching a show with a bunch of white people, I’ll remark, there’s so many white people! It sounds weird and it may not actually be the “right” way to deal with this problem but it reminds me that whiteness isn’t actually the default setting. Instead of questioning the existence of a minority, it makes me question the overwhelming majority of whiteness.

Slavery, Malcolm X, and Black America

The more I read about Malcolm X, the more I like him (though I do disagree with a lot of his beliefs and opinions about racism). I’m especially a fan of this quote of his:

If you stick a knife in my back nine inches and pull it out six inches, there’s no progress. If you pull it all the way out that’s not progress. Progress is healing the wound that the blow made. And they haven’t even pulled the knife out much less heal the wound. They won’t even admit the knife is there.

It’s a good quote. It’s true, too. And it creates such a great image for the problem of slavery.

Slavery is a problem in the US. I’m not talking about sex slavery, though that’s a huge problem, too. I’m talking about race-based slavery.

I know, slavery ended 150 years ago! How is it still a problem?

Anytime I’m in any place and the conversation goes to slavery, I become uncomfortable. I imagine this happens to other people too. And I don’t just get uncomfortable when people start talking about race-based slavery. Nope, any talk of any kind of slavery becomes awkward because I’m acutely aware of the fact that my very presence makes me a physical reminder of America’s past to everyone around me. In fact, my presence makes me a reminder to myself.

Usually it’s awkward. Sometimes I try to pretend like it’s not awkward. Other times I wonder how non-black people feel when they discuss slavery (again any kind of slavery) outside the presence of a black person. Is it this awkward? Is the tension as palpable? Or does everyone there just forget that we’ve all inherited this horrible stain that has yet to be fully erased?

I think one of the reasons that conversations about slavery are so awkward is that Malcolm X quote. I won’t get into talk about reparations, but let’s look at the history of black people in America right after the end of slavery.

First, there were no reparations. Even though people were free, many had no land, no way to accrue wealth, no job, and no education. A lot of slaves went back and “worked” for their former masters for, excuse the pun, slave wages. This happens, and during this time Jim Crow laws are starting to pop up in the South. Yay, new slavery! Lynchings happen constantly, integration is heavily contested, and black Americans still don’t really count as citizens. Now we’re in the middle of the 20th century. Dr. King and Malcolm X are the biggest Civil Rights activists (or at least, in retrospect) but many people are still fighting for black people to be treated like human beings.

Next, we get to vote in the mid-sixties. A few years later, blacks and whites can legally marry (isn’t that crazy/sad/ridiculous). And finally, in 2015, a white female Oscar winner (at an award ceremony that was soooooooooooooooo white (and male)) tells the LGBT community and POCs that they need to be more willing to fight for women’s rights. Only 50 years after the voting rights act! Less than 5 months after Grand Juries failed to indict!*

For whatever reason, America wants to shift the conversation away from 150 years ago without addressing everything that happened in between then and now. More than that, without addressing everything that didn’t happen but should have all those years ago. Unfortunately, the wound of slavery hasn’t yet been healed – I know because I carry it – but it hasn’t been dealt with either, so that the wounded ones feel shame at the pain. How is it ever OK for the people who’ve experienced an injustice to feel ashamed about having experienced it?

Maybe it’s just me.

Still, I think Malcolm’s quote still holds for today. I think America has yet to pull the knife out. Maybe she’s acknowledged the wound but acknowledgement isn’t enough. But I don’t think it’s too late. It can’t be. Because generations of black Americans should not have to walk around feeling uncomfortable or ashamed about their history in this country.

#BHM

*I don’t think we shouldn’t fight for women’s rights (I am a woman) but I think the issue is a bit more nuanced and intricate than she lets on by simply urging persons of color (half of whom are women) and LGBT members (probably around a quarter of whom are women) to fight for women’s rights. As if the only women who exist are straight, white women.