#i’mbitter

[Disclaimer: I’m not here to play Oppression Olympics, i.e., “when two or more groups compete to prove themselves more oppressed than each other…in which the most oppressed are worthier” (definition provided by Geek Feminism Wiki). I am merely assessing a personal issue I’ve been meaning to explore for quite some time but never had the courage to remotely start articulating my thoughts…until now. Also, I apologize in advance if some of the things presented here instigate some confusion (read: I’m sleep deprived/not completely alert/am a perpetrator of word vomit/this is too complicated to maintain coherency) and can be perceived as facetious due to copious amounts of sarcasm; you’re more than welcomed to approach me with your questions, I’ll try to answer them as efficiently as possible and with less humor (read: I’ll ramble on until someone intervenes).]

In the same vein found in previous posts, particularly equally read-worthy ones by Ryan and Kory, I admit: It sucks when you’re bitter with life. Well, that in of itself is a rather loaded statement to make, I know. I’m still riddled by the gravity of it, saddened even, and how heavily it applies to my multifaceted life. It’s worse when you’re so conscientiously aware of it, too.

You must be asking yourself, why so bitter, Sara?

Unlike those aforementioned posts, I’m bitter about other things, things you can’t necessarily escape from unless you choose to turn an ignorant eye, as most often do unbeknownst to them. I’ll break it down for you, simple really, I’ll attempt to avoid the gritty, visceral details because it’s already nuanced enough with the first couple layers, let’s avoid this post from turning into a dissertation of some sorts (another day, then, maybe).

At the core of it, once you unravel the convoluted tangles and piece together the split ends, my dissatisfaction predominately stems from this epiphany I’ve unknowingly juggled with all my life:

I am doubly marginalized, y’all—I’m a minority in a minority.

…Now what does that actually mean?

As a woman of color, it’s unfortunate to admit that “marginalized” is a way of life, even more so because as being biracial I’ve struggled to fit in either racial community without having to overcompensate for one or ridding my association of them both. I continually have to validate my existence in both communities, reiterating to them that I am half Korean, I am half Black, I am both, please accept that, accept me. Except…to say it’s messy is a gross understatement.

“Oh, wait, sorry, you’re too dark to be considered Korean.”

“You’re not black enough to be Black.”

“You’re also a woman? Tough luck, kiddo, this patriarch-friendly society deems you oversensitive, invalidates and belittles your so-called oppression, and would like you to take a seat, Miss Man-Hating, Femi-Nazi, LOL.”

You don’t meet these stifling, ridiculous, you-need-to-read-this-invisible-manual requirements that somebody had to have written, because we sure follow them with little to no amounts of questioning the rationale behind them. Navigating between two begrudgingly, dissimilar worlds is taxing, frustrating, a unapologetically tragic journey I’ve allowed others to allocate me to, and so deeply ingrained in how others perceive me, I sometimes forget that it hides the real me just lying underneath.

Now throw in some queer in the mixture, and you’re just digging yourself a deeper grave. What’s even harder is the isolation, self-imposed or not, I’ve experienced in queer culture as well. When I first began my questioning phase (quick disclaimer: I refer it as a phase, because it was a phase for me, and I’m not saying questioning for all those who experience it should be labeled as such), I temporarily avoided human interaction and turned to my safety blanket—media, be it literature, TV, the internet, whatever. Consequently, what I discovered was disheartening: There is a scarcity of open racial diversity in the LGBT culture.

Do you know the difficulty of finding a fictional character who’s a person of color and isn’t the token, isn’t weighed down by preconceived stereotypes, isn’t a caricature of some narrow-minded perception painted by ignorance and just so happens to be LGBT-identified on top of that?

Do you realize half of those characters have limited screen time, are only important for Aesopic Episodes, episodes that teach a moral, whose sexual orientation or gender identity is the sole marker that makes them holistically unique from all the other characters?

Do you know how much harder it is to find "out" celebrities who are people of color as well? My pool of potential role models is so much thinner than any dating pool I’ve personally encountered.

Sure, media is slowly picking up the slag, but we’re far from reaching a good, safe place that doesn’t automatically place cisgendered, white gay males, sometimes lesbian females if it’s generous, as the default representation of the LGBT community. People need to cease describing media as “progressive” simply because it portrays LGBT-identified characters in popular television programs. For example, I’m sorry, but Glee is just not a sufficient example of your so-called “progressiveness”, and if you want to disagree with me, be my guest. I for one am not content with your differing treatments between LGBTQ couples Kurt/Blaine* and Santana/Brittany, where you handle the white gay male couple with far more care and meticulous depth and leave the queer women—a bisexual and a Hispanic-Latino American lesbian, who (spoilers!!) after being outed, is rejected by a beloved family member—to the ravages of stereotypes (“oversexualized, high school cheerleader lesbians”, but it’s gotten better…marginally). Santana's story as a queer woman of color is a realistic reflection of 21st society. Non-white communities continue to shun individuals of their respective communities because of their sexual orientation and gender identity. Homogeny is the way to go; otherwise you’re ostracized right out of the group. If you’re an out person of color and you haven’t been a victim of backlash, you’re incredibly lucky. Unfortunately, I can assert that it’s a rarity to come across that sentiment.

There is an abundance of important conversations to be had, and wonderful people in Our Community here at Duke have already prompted these discussions on the blog, and I hope that my post further promotes more discussion. There’s something empowering when you see people that have shared shades of similar experiences you yourself have felt/endured/struggled with.

“A house divided against itself cannot stand.” If Our Community marginalizes amongst ourselves, what good can we do when it comes to Fight the Good Fight for Equality? Wouldn’t its significance diminish in the process? We can strive to look past our own deep-seated prejudices and embrace and accept each and every member of Our Community and ultimately every marginalized group of people.

But for now? I’m bitter, and I am remotely okay with that.

* This is what I mean when media thinks this is the default for Our Community - cisgendered, white, and male. "Changing Hollywood?" Not. By. Much. Ugh.

A Letter from Your Clandestinely Queer Daughter

[Editor's note: Please welcome our third newest blogger in as many days, Sara!]

Dear Mom and Dad,

You’ll never see this letter, but I make no promises I can’t necessarily keep. It doesn’t really matter; you would hear none of it. You’d refuse to see me, acknowledge me, let alone keep our precarious bond intact. It’d be shredded pieces of paper from a daughter that’s no longer a daughter to you, blood be damned. You’ll wash your hands clean of it, praying to God—you’d be furious with Him, albeit your loyalties made your bed, so lie in it, prayers and all—to give you the strength to go through this. You’ll smile, bear the burden of having raised some heretic that contradicts every inch of your stern belief system, occupy yourself with another daughter—she’s perfect, she won’t stray. She won’t break your heart in two, watch it go asunder, know it was of her own devices and still went through with it anyway.

If I were to open my hand, guide you through the many rooms occupying my thoughts, through each intricate, deeply concealed secret, my offer wouldn’t be extended for too long. You’d immediately shut the door before ever crossing over the threshold, and flee.

This is a story that may never reach you—you, the tragic heroes, and I, the villain who ripped the world apart.

Now it’s high time I’ve gotten some things off my chest. Because you won’t see this—assuming I’ll always remain the same meek, reserved child of ’95 frozen in time on the hordes of pictures stashed in some corner in your closet (oh, the imagery makes me swoon)—I am without reticence. I’m sad that reassures me more than when you held my hand on my first day of kindergarten, or when you held me close when I was wrecked of tears and unbidden cynicism, nineteen and angry and exasperated.

Mom. Dad. I love you. I also happen to not be straight.

I know, you’re wondering where you went wrong with your parenting. Actually, your parenting skills were incomparable, look how far I’ve come, how much I’ve accomplished? This isn’t you, not exactly. What is you, though, is what you’ll do with my confession.

So, I’m queer, if you haven’t noticed. I thought I was dropping some neon bright, anti-heterosexual sentiments the last time I was home; my adamant demands for the shortest haircut possible and my aversions on the topic of boys were definite givens. I’m attracted to both men and women, but I never equate physical attractiveness to sexual attraction; they’re two mutually exclusive things in my head, no argument there. Which is why for the longest time I thought I was asexual, since, y’know, I have intimacy issues—probably because I was touched inappropriately/coerced to perform sexual favors on my “friend” when I was seven-eight years old. Half of the time I identify as asexual, with convoluted explanations as to why I am and why I am not “strictly” asexual. But I’m absolutely positive I am not straight, sorry.

I am not, however, “out and proud”.

Remember that night, Mom, back in my first year? It was after the awkward ride back home when my older sister blurted out that many of my friends at Duke were G-A-Y. For a moment there I really thought the car swerved dangerously close to a conveniently placed ditch by the side of the road. Your knuckles were stark white against the backdrop of the steering wheel. The rest of the car ride continued in silence.

The next night remains seared into memory, leaves me sick to my stomach each time I replay the words that will forever and forever cause me to doubt the strength of a mother’s love for her daughter.

“If you ever,” you said, alarmingly calm, like the eye of a storm. I faintly recall that you gripped my hand and I heard bones creak under your fingers. “If you ever said you were a lesbian, Sara, I’ll disown you. I will disown you.” In the same breath, she asked me to join her in prayer.

My cheeks were burning. She placed my head against her shoulder, muttering a string of biblical verses against my forehead, rocking me back and forth: I was her little girl again, the one who hadn’t rough-housed with boys, the one who hadn’t walked straight to the menswear during back-to-school shopping, some ideal daughter I loathed with every fiber of my being. For the longest time that night she never relinquished my hand.

I remember my mother gesticulating in a booth of a diner, frustration lurking behind every word, as she relayed to my two sisters, my older sister’s husband, and me the rumors that claimed I was a butch, a lesbian, a dyke, a freak. My older sister glanced at me, as if she were searching for answers I didn’t have. Closing my eyes, legs trembling under the table, I took a shuddering breath as I burst into tears, hiding my face into my shaking hands. I couldn’t bear looking at my mother then, couldn’t bear explaining it to them. So I lied through my teeth, I’ve only liked boys, while in the deepest crevices of my heart, there lingered feelings for a friend who’s just recently passed away last month (September 9, 2011).

I love my mother, but…how can you be the best possible you for someone when your own mother — unbeknownst to her — denies a piece of you so fragile, so empowering, very much an integral part that makes you you?

Dad, I’ve neglected you for awhile. I don’t know you well enough to predict the consequences if I were to send this to you. I can’t say we’ve talked much about love, or about life, or about our lives as father and daughter. This does not invalidate our quiet bond. How could I, when we’re so similar? Sometimes, just leaning on you, my silent, impenetrable wall, offers me the greatest comfort and warmth. We easily slip into contentment. I can hear the ocean waves lapping against the white sands of Hawaii, long hair blowing in the wind, my heart full because I got the chance to sit there with my daddy, no care in the world, except for the worry bubbling in the pit of my stomach.

What would he say if he knew? What would he do? If you can’t even tell me you had a heart attack, how would you expect me to tell you I’ve had boyfriends, but I thought about girls, too, the ones who’ve rendered boys as mere candles next to her brilliance?

I want to tell my parents that I haven’t fallen in love yet—I’ve come close, but they all end up the same: I love the idea of a person I’ve fabricated and imposed on them, not the reality that sets fire to bridges between these infatuations, or they leave me first. (R.I.P, D.W.) Rarely with my family have we been on the same footing, which is becoming more and more evident in my third year at Duke. Lying is second nature now, something I never fathomed as a possibility. I was taught that lying was an ugly sin against your family. I was also taught that home was my sanctuary, my shelter, the center of a child’s universe. Sometimes home…isn’t safe. And that is terrifying.

I want to tell you, when it (eventually) happens, I’m head over heels for a person; they just happen to not be a man, and you won’t mind. When you meet her, I want to lean over and whisper, unabashedly and with no hint of irony, “She could be the girl of my dreams,” and you’ll grin and say, “She deserves you.” During holidays, when our fragmented family comes together under one household, the room lit up by your wonderful smiles and big, gracious hearts, I want my boyfriend—I want my girlfriend to receive the love I know you’re capable of giving. You’ll glance my way, say, “Welcome home, love, you’re always welcomed, never forget that.”

Unfortunately, I can’t have these things, not unless I tell you, and even then it’s not guaranteed. Not unless I unlock those secretive rooms floating in my head for you and you accept everything in stride could we be okay. You’ll say, “Thank you for sharing this with us. You won’t ever have to hide again.”

I will always love you, no matter what, you’ve once, twice, countless times, said.

I love you. I love you I love you I love you. Please, let it be true. (It won’t be.)

Sincerely,
the girl behind closed doors