i wonder why i started writing in middle school and why i eventually stopped. life stages drew me away; i had stretches of respite and consistency
when i did not have to struggle so much. but in times of need i can
always return. writing was a space for me to put on paper thoughts which were convoluted and unceasing in my head--to act as a corral for the chaos, a garden i could tend to and put into orderly rows, something i could control. so that i would not feel so powerless. so that when i looked in the mirror, the chaos i felt so keenly would be seen and captured and not dissipate as those around me ignored its existence.
mom could never see my chaos; or, i suspect she could, but couldn't acknowledge or engage. so when i needed someone to validate my reality, i remember the searing, "look at your face. look at how selfish and ugly you are looking at me." blaming me for my anger, deflecting responsibility: when i needed a safe place to land she launched the bomb back into me to detonate with questions: "am i overreacting? am i selfish? is my anger not sanctioned?"
"do not be quick to anger," they tell me, [even when the white pastor calls you an evil spirit, or when the asian male pastor backs the former up and accuses you of being divisive, or when a principal calls you a wonderful educator and also tells you that you need to do more. when an uncle plays the DARVO card on your family--widowed mother and three children--turning the matriarch and what feels like an empire of siblings against you. or when you know you are doing a better job connecting with students and then the white female teacher returns prematurely from maternity leave to resume yelling at students. when a national organization ending in bs and starting with a "p" says you and your colleagues are too "radical." or when three white female teachers gang up on you and call you "arrogant." when the principal and induction mentor warn you to "not make people mad." when the assistant principal says "it was an honest mistake" and when the dept head says "don't mistake incompetence for malice" when the one class they say they hired you for magically disappears. when the dept head says "it won't be what you imagined in college and maybe you have to let that go." and finally when the superintendent comes to you personally and says, "it takes a certain kind of person to do this" and all but commands me to let go of my class, to play the long game--he'll support me he says, the students need me here he says, during this meeting in which the superintendent of one of the largest districts in OC comes to meet a teacher on a temp contract--leaning back in his chair, right leg propped on his left knee, hands resting behind his head and elbows reaching out like an animal making itself bigger. who is the threat here? you tell me]
i will be quick to anger. i will identify harm when i see it. i will speak truth to power, i will defend the powerless. why not for myself? i will not be your doormat, your wedge, your acquiescing educator to get you ap pass rates, your token diversity. it is an uphill battle though, and while i am quick to anger i am not quick with my words. i am, unfortunately, quick to self-detonate and self-gaslight. to look in the mirror and ignore the chaos that i feel. sometimes i need a safe place to land when i am not safe for myself: an army of friends who will stand in place to mother and to tell me i am not crazy. to give me permission to identify abuse, to sanction my anger and hold it tenderly.
do not tell me to quiet my anger; she is my friend, a sounding alarm that points the way, a shield to protect me when i won't protect myself. my anger tells me i am worth it and names abuse for what it is; she tells me i can say no to them. that i can say yes to me
i suppose that is why i read and write. to validate my experiences. to write myself into existence; when archived, nobody can gaslight me otherwise. my archive is my truth.
