telling the story

i was thinking this morning about how difficult it is to tell my own story. it wasn't so difficult when i was younger. it seems that when i was young, i believed so much more that my story was unique, it's own special little snowflake, and it must be compelling enough to draw people to it.

i believe that so much less now, even as perhaps my life more different now than ever from most people i know. as i've aged i have gotten so much perspective-- also known as " the beat down"-- from life that it's hard for me to buy into much of my former pride.

that is also a product of being removed from homogeneous white society. thinking back on it, i was most self assured, most certain of myself and my opinions when i was embedded in the white liberal wonderland of portland, oregon. In that context, most likely because of my upbringing, i was able to create somewhat of a multicultural community, but even then, i imagine i inflicted myself and my unconscious hauteur on the people of color in my life.

i wasn't able to realize that attitude at any other point in my life, before then or since. i grew up in a small suburb of los angeles, when los angeles was in more seedy point of its history, before all the nouveau corporate glam hit. our suburb was working class, mostly white, korean, latino, armenian. My neighbors were working class/ working poor, white, korean, latino and armenian. when i was thirteen, after a few years of domestic upheaval including my parents divorce, my dad and brother and i moved in with my dad's black girlfriend, soon to be my stepmother, in the black neighborhood of altadena. when i was 21 i moved to portland, because i had royally fucked up my life in los angeles.

i lived in portland for five years and went to college, after which i moved to san francisco- where i got my self-assured white ass handed to me over and over again. by my chinese boss at my first professional job, then by the islander workers i organized for the union, then by the black matron leaders of that same union. more subtly so by an amazing honduran steward who had experiences fighting u.s. imperialism in that country that humbled me beyond words. by the chamorro friends of my chamorro partner. by the filipino friends of his friends. it was a never-ending ass-handing.

and now in guam. the first year here was inspiring, enlightening, shocking, dismal. an entire mix of emotions and realizations. living in one of the final legal u.s. colonies is, in itself, an eye opening experience, perhaps particularly for me. day in day out, in your face.

nothing gets realer than that. no suffrage, no self determination, military colonialism active and attempting to grow. an indigenous people, having overcome already several attempts and cultural and total genocide, fighting to maintain their heritage, language, island and way of life in the face of the most dangerous, effective and well-resourced organization in the world: the u.s. department of defense.

really, i suppose that i've learned that my individual story is only interesting when it is connected within a larger framework that affects many more people than just myself. we are only relevant when nested in amongst other stories and experiences, and when analysis is applied correctly to shine a light on the subcurrents and presumptions of life.

And so this endeavor goes.

"I don't feel that it is necessary to know exactly what I am. The main interest in life and work is to become someone else that you were not in the beginning."
— Michel Foucault