On Donors and Board Members

I know, I know - more Honolulu posts promised, and I just haven't done it yet (haven't even gotten to the dark side, the real history). But my life is ridiculously busy right now, so I'm doing my best.

I'll take this moment to reference the sidebar - please read up on the AAYLC, any kind of help would be most appreciated.

In the meantime, I wanted to drop a quick post on an experience I had last night:

I don't know if I've mentioned it on this blog, but - on top of teaching - I work for a non-profit youth arts organization (primarily at the camp in the summer, but we run year-round programming in schools, mentoring kids and working with their families, etc.). So - last night - I found myself helping out at a fundraising event.

The event was - basically - a casual (but high-quality) hors d'ouvre-y kind of thing consisting of possible private donors (individuals with money, basically) and board members (also, coincidentally, individuals with money) shmoozing it up, watching a little video about the program, and listening to the founder (and one ex-camper) talk a bit. Relatively small (about 60 people).

So my job was managing the door. Since the event was held in a huge building (our offices are contained within a large advertising firm's building), we needed folks to help the donors and board members actually GET to the event upstairs. So my job was to greet folks as they came in, and send them to (and help them get on) the employee elevator (which needs an access key), where another staffer would be waiting, to accompany them to the event location.

Easy enough. Except the event, as I mentioned, was in a huge advertising agency building. At the tail end of work hours. So there was a constant flow of people coming and going - ad employees, visitors, etc. So I had to figure out which people were there for the fundraiser, and who weren't.

That should have made it difficult. Sadly, it wasn't.

I only asked one person who wasn't there for the event if they were there for the fundraiser. Every single other individual I was able to pinpoint the second they walked in the door, so I could go up to them and help them before they even asked for help. Every single one.

At this point, you may ask why (or you probably have it figured out)? Why was I able to do that? How? Do I have some incredible powers of intuition or ESP that others do not have?

Nope, I just leaned - heavily - on my own stereotypes of what a "private donor" or "board member" would look like and went with it. And it was 99% accurate, in this case. What was I looking for - more "fancily" dressed (perhaps "elegant" is more accurate - it wasn't a formal event at all, some people were in sweaters, but there was a particular price-threshold for what people were wearing, regardless of its formality, that I was able to see immediately). Then there was age - I assumed that they would be around 50 and older. I assumed race, as well - but that wasn't going to keep me from asking folks of color if they seemed to fit the other categories or looked lost.

But I didn't need to. Because not a single person at the event (with the exception of myself and a couple other staff members) wasn't white. Not one.

Not surprising, in the least, of course - but not exactly what I wanted to see. Considering the percentage (probably around half) of kids of color that are part of our program , it would have been nice to see a little bit of representation at the highest levels. It's harder to tell if anybody represented the kids' socioeconomic class (most from poverty) - I would assume no, but I can't say for sure that none of the folks that came hadn't "worked up from nothing." But knowing how often that actually happens, I have my guesses.

So - another stereotype that I didn't want reinforced held up to scientific rigour. 100% is pretty significant, statistically-speaking. It's a stereotype I know I hold - this one consciously - but I constantly hope to be proven an ass on this one; but it has yet to happen. It's the same with my school - the people that run things are white. Period. And so it's so hard for me to explain to any of them the importance of real diversity, as well as help them with some cultural competence in how they look at the program, and the changes they choose to make (or not).

Frustrating.

But I want to end on a positive note:

At first glance, the founder of the camp (and subsequent programming) would seem like the stereotype, as well. An older white guy with a TON of money (half the people that come to these events are just trying to get near him because he's so high on the social-status ladder). Further stereotypes would follow, regarding his intentions, what he thinks is important, how he uses his money, etc.

But I am happy to say that that is not the case. He has positive intentions, of course - but we all know how helpful intentions are when poorly carried out. No - importantly - he still has humility, in that, in spite of all these reasons he could feel like he's a god walking on dirt, he just treats people right. And, even more surprisingly - considering, he is constantly trying to learn and better himself. He's probably the only person of his status and position that could listen to me do some of my more race-and-class-conscious political poetry at camp (you should have seen some of the "lesser" board members cringe), and I know he's actually hearing it. He's come up and talked to me afterwards - not in the manner that uncomfortable white folks with money feel like they have to ("politically correct" and all that), but to delve deeper.

It's cool. He's let me and other staff push through changes and have conversations about working with our kids (about class or race) even while he admits that he doesn't fully understand/agree with it. And that's really an amazing thing - because, obviously, he has the power to veto everything (it also says a lot that he spends a large portion of the summer at camp with the kids, as opposed to being too "important" to mix it up a little). He's not perfect, of course - we have our points of contention - but he's actually trying; and that makes all the difference.

So. That kind of came off like an ass-kissing session there, but I just feel the need to point out the positive when I see it. The instances of hope. The breaking of a stereotype that all too often seems so true. It's not always about race. Or money. With a little humility and openness, people can transcend those boundaries.

I just wish it happened on a statistically-significant level.

Hapa in Honolulu: Homecoming?

This photo pretty much sums up my return to Portland this evening: blurry, empty, blue.

Coming home is supposed to feel like a relief. It's supposed to feel comfortable and welcome. Something like how it felt for me to arrive in Honolulu. Not like my return to Portland.

I walked through the terminal towards the exit, and I kept looking around, expecting the people around me to turn around and look like me. Or be Asian. Or at least not pale and white. But my expectations were not fulfilled.

Welcome home.

But I don't need to dwell on the negative right now. Instead, I shall give a little preview of what's to come in over the course of the next week on this blog:

The "Hapa in Honolulu" series (that's right - I'm doing a "series," and it even has a cheesy-yet-catchy name to it). Most people go to Hawaii for sun and beaches - I went to relax on a more spiritual level (the relaxation of finally letting my guard down a bit and "blending in," phenotypically-speaking).

In just one week on Oahu, I was filled with probably a couple weeks' worth of posts about identity, racial politics, American government, immigration, and my own place in it all. I received a blast of inspiration to write like I haven't felt in quite some time (essays as well as lyrics). I walked with my head held high, pondered things big and small and just thought and lived in a way that I haven't really been doing in recent months. So I'm going to let it out in a slow trickle (or maybe more like a couple downpours) over my next few posts.

So that's what you all have to look forward to. If you're mixed like me, I'm sure you'll enjoy it, but don't worry - I've got plenty of thoughts that should keep all you monoracial folks involved, as well.

Enjoy.

On Walking in a Snow Storm - Literally

I keep putting off that "Invention of Race" post I promised, but . . .

It's snowing outside. Real snow. Big, fluffy flakes of snow that are actually sticking to the ground. SNOW.

In Portland, Oregon.

That doesn't happen very often.

And I have this giddy-as-a-schoolboy feeling about it. I keep standing up on my chair (I live in a basement) to look out the window at the falling flakes, and the white sky beyond. I have a park across the street from me (I like to call it "my park"), and it's so exciting to see the grass replaced by a covering of snow. The white clumps sticking to the trees - the cars slowly disappearing under a fresh coat.

I'm planning out the rest of my day as I write this: DEFINITELY going to throw some wood on and have a nice, crackling fire. Going to snuggle up and do a whole lot of reading (George R.R. Martin, for those curious - this faux-radical wannabe emcee likes his fantasy) and - at some point - I'm going to go walk around a little bit.

I'm going to bundle up like crazy, throw on some boots (if I have any that can withstand the snow) and go run around in the park like I'm 5 years old. I'll probably throw a snowball or two (maybe even try to build a little snow-sculpture). And once I'm all tired-out from that (and soaking wet and freezing), I'm going to run back inside (right across the street - brilliant) throw off my wet clothes, and warm back up in front of the fire with a mug of hot tea (or maybe cocoa). And read some more. And not leave my house for the rest of the day.

And then, tomorrow morning, I'm going to cross my fingers and hope against hope for . . . a Snow Day. Again - I'm a teacher, so if I am lucky enough for the snow to stick and make travel difficult, I could get a free day off of work - and how could I use it at this point in the year.

So that's how I'm going to spend my day. Cheerful and cozy and light - because, somedays, there are other things to think about than race. And I'm going to take advantage when I can.

Have a great day.

On the Politicization of the CVT

I haven't always been like this. I haven't always thought long and hard about race in America, or about globalization, or "humanitarian aid," the education system, etc. I haven't always written treatises and essays on the subject-matter to share with the public (apparently with enough skill to have people agree with me and want to read more). I haven't always written highly political (and angry) spoken-word and hip-hop lyrics (also shared with a public audience). I haven't always been willing to stand up and speak my mind loud and true. I haven't always been so passionate about how I feel about anything - let alone these specific matters.

So how did it happen? WHEN did it happen? When did my self-adopted moniker of "CVT" change from a tongue-in-cheek reference with one white friend to an identifier for a politicized, mixed, Asian-American man of color in America?

I don't think it started in the Bay.

I grew up in a world that was actually somewhat diverse. My public high school didn't have the highest number of black kids (it didn't QUITE have the lowest, either), but it did have an interesting mix of races. Specifically, it had a number of other mixed kids. There was a good amount of Asian kids. My close circle of high school friends constantly joked about our diversity in terms of "the most diverse" fill-in-the-blank when we were together (Indian, white-Filipino, white-Chinese, black, Mexican, white, Jewish, white-Mexican - all represented). Sure it tilted more towards white than anything else, but I didn't stand out in my group of friends for my race - because we all kind of stood out for our race.

So I didn't feel weighed-down by race (consciously) through my high school graduation. Sure, my first real fight was because a white kid told me to "go back to where (I) came from." I had Asian kids at school call me a "third-rate Asian sell-out." But I didn't analyze it too specifically - and definitely not on a bigger-picture level.

But then I went to school in Michigan. And I think that's where it began. Because there, races didn't mix a whole lot. The Asian kids chilled with each other. Same with the black kids and the white kids. People hadn't been exposed to other races in the same way that I had been in the Bay, and I started to see things. I was paler there (longer and colder winters), and I often got to hear people talk ish about other races in front of me (including Chinese) as if I was another white kid that wouldn't care or be bothered by it. When my mixed Mexican-white girlfriend came out to visit from California, I found myself having to give "friends" the heads-up, so they wouldn't say something stupid in front of her. When some of my black friends threw a party, I had to deal with the aftermath - a white friend getting all riled up because he felt "unwelcome" there, and how "unfair" it was that they gave him looks like that "just because (he) was white."

But I kept my mouth shut in Michigan. I thought about it some more. It burnt me inside. But I still didn't digest it fully.

So then I went to study abroad (and then live) in Tanzania for a year and a half. I watched the white kids on my trip go off and freak out about standing out so much. How the Tanzanians needed to just "get over" the fact that the students were white and foreign. All the while, it hadn't really phased me - because I was used to it. When I was working for an NGO out there, my boss apologized to me for all the Tanzanians calling me "Mchina" (basically the equivalent of "Chinaman") instead of "Mzungu" (which is what they called all the white foreigners) - as if that was an insult.

And I watched how the (generally white) ex-pats working for NGOs to "help" the people of Tanzania lived the colonial life while doing so. Staying in their own gated homes with satellite televisions and electricity and running water while the locals had none of the above. I fought with my "boss" from the NGO over how the Tanzanian teachers we worked with were treated. How the white folks felt that it was okay to tell the black folks how they should do things in their own country. And I stopped keeping my mouth shut. And ended up getting (more or less) fired from my "volunteer" NGO job.

I came back to the States fired up, but still not fully politicized. I had this anger and a knowledge of how things were going wrong without a real direction for it. I didn't know how to speak it. The people I had known had no way of understanding my experience.

So I randomly moved to Portland, Oregon. The whitest city in the U.S.

When I moved here, I mostly listened to indie-rock music. I played guitar. I bought a keyboard to play and record "funny songs" on a cheap sound program on a beat-up laptop. I started writing sarcastic "raps" because I couldn't sing. I came up with a "funny" stage-name of "Count von Triloquism" for my faux-hip-hop. I lived with two white guys (one a conservative we found on Craisglist). I was a lab assistant at the VA hospital.

And I lived my life. I walked through a world that was SO DAMN white. I went to pot-luck parties with self-proclaimed "liberals" that surrounded themselves with more white folks and listened to bluegrass, folk, and indie-rock. I met American-born white boys who played "traditional" Zimbabwean music.

I quit my VA job and started working with kids. I worked with white, middle-class youth workers who had good intentions, but thought they were "saving" poor kids of color. They forgot to mention that most of the kids they worked with (although still in poverty) were white (because it didn't sound as impressive, or "real"). I started writing an "entertaining" blog with posts in the form of letters to inanimate objects.

And then I ended up working at a summer arts camp that actually employed other people of color. I assisted a mixed white-black (ex) slam poet who had no problem speaking her political mind, and who convinced me that poetry was meant to be HEARD, not read, and that it could actually be cool. When I got back from camp, I got hired to teach math at an alternative middle school.

I fell in love with a Jewish girl as she started questioning the "liberal" hippie social circle that surrounded her. She actually wanted to hear about my struggles with race and identity and supported my conscious push towards more colorful social surroundings and a hip-hop cultural standing.

I went back to work at that same summer arts camp, and I got a little more serious. I started writing rhymes about my racial identity. I started to stand up and speak for the kids (and staff) of color involved with the camp where I saw points being missed. I began to appreciate the importance of my role as a male youth worker of color in an occupation where we're decidedly lacking.

And now I'm here. Turning that "cheeky" faux-rap moniker of "Count von Triloquism" into the CVT by which I'm now known in certain creative circles (the blogosphere included). I see myself as a racial translator in multiple areas of my life: translating the perspective of kids (and adults) of color into language that my white co-workers can understand. Translating that same perspective into a lyrical form for Portland audiences (relatively diverse, considering, but always guaranteed to house some "liberal" white folks). And doing the same for an internet audience. In a matter of weeks, I'll finally live with another person of color (for the first time since Tanzania).

And I feel like it's finally coming together. I'm almost ready to bring my artistic side (music and lyrics) to this blog world and vice versa. To share these - my real thoughts, my passion - with people who know me, personally (other than a very select few). Tonight, my mom will hear me perform my poetry for the first time - and I imagine that will be an interesting conversation-starter, for sure. The next step is to finally talk to my dad about how my racial mix has affected our relationship.

And this is only the beginning. I still feel raw and amateur. I can only imagine how the next five to ten years are going to go down - and how loud my voice might get by then. And I hope some of you reading this now come along for the ride to see where it all ends up.

No more cheekiness for me (mostly). "Count von Triloquism" is no longer what the CVT stands for. Maybe some of you out there can figure out something more appropriate - but, for now, the CVT stands for a raised voice, questioning "the way it is," and sharing my particular perspective with a larger public. And I think that's how it's going to be for a long while . . .

On Gentrification

We're hurting. Hard. The school I teach at is severely under-enrolled right now, and we keep losing kids. Why? Well, there are different reasons (many of them based on the transient population we serve*), but the biggest one is this: gentrification.

Now, when I talk about gentrification right now, all I'm talking about is property costs going up in certain areas, forcing out those who used to live in the area (usually those in a lower economic bracket). Usually this happens when the middle-to-upper-middle-class moves in. When coffee shops start popping up on every corner, hip bars and restaurants appear, and the streets get a little white-washed.

But this isn't how it always is. It's not always about race and the immediate area getting noticeably fancier. Sometimes, it's so subtle that nobody is really aware of it except for people in certain situations that make them see it first-hand. Like those of us working in my school.

Because people who know Portland "know" the gentrified (or gentrify-ING, more specifically) areas of town: the Alberta Arts area, the Pearl, MLK (proceeding steadily northwards). But they wouldn't really think of the area my school is in. Because it's just not as obvious. Sure, the steady creeping is visible, but not far enough that you would think of this as a "gentrified" neighborhood.

Partly because it's not necessarily people of color that are getting moved out. Most of those we've lost who have had to move far out of town to find affordable housing are white kids and their families (I guess that's naturally how it works in a city as white as Portland). So it's a lot less visually obvious when they are getting replaced by more white folks.

Second, there aren't a lot of coffee shops around here. The fancy stores and boutiques haven't crept in (and probably won't for a while). In fact, the coffee shop that opened across the street has already closed. Because it's just not that kind of neighborhood yet. There aren't any condos on our main street.

But it's coming. Oh, yes - it's coming. Because the steady shift has already begun. In fact, it probably started a few years back, but now we're starting to feel the first tremors, here on the ground. I'm watching kids that have finally found a school that works for them, where they can actually trust the staff around them, have to up and move out of town because of economics. Many of them.

So much so that our numbers are devastatingly low. Which is going to hurt our funding, which causes us to have to make compromises to make up for it, which leads to us not being able to do our best work. It's this trend that has seen many public schools in Portland closed due to under-enrollment (and let's just say it's not the ones in the "better off" areas of town). It's this trend that is squeezing the working-class of this city. And in this time of increasing gas costs, having to move FARTHER from work hurts all the more.

But there's not much that can be done, as far as I can tell. The only people who really care about it or are affected by it are the ones without the power or voice to really DO anything. Many of the folks who work in organizations like mine trying to SERVE those people affected by this trend are also - ironically - the ones moving into these neighborhoods; being proud of the "diversity" of where they live while displacing the original residents. And then everybody else is excited about it all because it shows that Portland is in a time of "renewal" and has so many "up-and-coming" neighborhoods.

So who do I talk to to stop this? Is there really a point in trying? Are we just going to lose more and more kids until we become an alternative school for the children of the "hip," middle-class liberals that replaced our original families?

I don't really know. But it worries me. And bothers me. And saddens me when my kids keep coming in and telling me that they're not going to go to this school anymore because they have to move. Sure - it's all part of the job I took on. It's all part of who we serve - and I am aware of that and able to handle it. But I still don't like where this is all leading . . .


* I teach at an alternative middle school that serves primarily "at-risk" youth. I hate using that term because of how much it smacks of catch-phrase, but most people know what I mean by that. It's kids who have gotten kicked out of the public school system or were otherwise unsuccessful for many different reasons (although poverty often plays a large part).

On Cultural Appropriation

What is "cultural appropriation"? Boiled down, it's taking something from a culture that isn't yours. Period. There are all kinds of different explanation behind that definition - positive forms, negative forms, etc. - but that's pretty much what it is: taking from somebody else's culture.

Now, this is something I've thought about a lot, largely due to my bi-racial background. Since I feel like Chinese culture is not really "mine" in a number of ways, I make sure that I think carefully about any Chinese cultural traditions or values that I want to take on (or re-adopt). In simple cases, I make sure that I am asking family members who actually grew up with these traditions or values to explain it to me. In situations where that is not possible, I try to do as much research as possible in advance - so that I truly know the story behind it. And if it feels right, then I try to engage it with as much respect and honor and self-consciousness as I can.

But it gets sticky - because taking on traditions that you did not grow up with is difficult. There are a lot of opportunities to make mistakes and accidentally make a mockery of what you are trying to honor. And the question always follows: what gives me the right to try to adopt this tradition? What is my purpose behind it? And am I ignoring larger parts of the culture as a whole to just pick and choose what I like?

Mind you - this is how I feel about my attempts to gain a better foot-hold and understanding of Chinese culture, one I am linked to by blood and immediate family members (although my grandmother's death severed the most direct link). And I still don't quite consider it my right - to some degree - to take on aspects of this culture, since I was not raised fully "Chinese." It's difficult.

However - it becomes much less difficult when a person has absolutely no blood or birth link to a culture. Then - it becomes simple cultural appropriation (and I seldom use that in a positive way).

Now, by no means is "cultural appropriation" solely a problem of white people, but it stands out more in that context. First, because white people in America often lament the lack of their own culture*, and so try to compensate for this perceived lack by borrowing from others. Second, the situation of white privilege often puts white folks in a naive mentality where they believe it is their right to take from any culture that they desire - that being barred from that would be "unfair" or "not inclusive" or (this is the one that I hate the most) some form of "reverse racism."** So I will mostly address "cultural appropriation" from an angle of white folks borrowing from non-white cultures (but repeat that it can go in a lot of different ways).

The most obvious examples (ones I see here in Portland all the time are): Zimbabwean marimba music, "African" drumming, Brazilian capoeira, and Zen Buddhism. I'll just try to hit them up in order (and, by no means are these the only ones).

There is a large contingent of white "liberals" in this town who love to play Zimbabwean marimba music. Now, I'm not going to go into the psychology of this obsession, but let's just say these folks are REALLY into it. Which should be fine. Because music is an art-form that should be shared and appreciated cross-culturally. However, these white liberals like it so much, they learn to play it. Again - not so bad, as learning to play a kind of music is a form of further appreciation (if in the comfort of their own home).

No - the problem is that these white Americans form "Zimbabwean marimba" bands, that play "traditional" Zimbabwean marimba music. First off - how can they possibly be a "Zimbabwean" marimba band, if none of the players are Zimbabwean (and I do know, for a fact, that they aren't - and I'm talking about multiple bands)? Second - why the Hell are they playing "traditional" Zimbabwean music? It is not their music. How is it "traditional" if Zimbabwean people aren't playing it? Some of these bands sing in Shona.

My question is why? Why? Why this kind of absurd theft? Appreciation is one thing -but this is mockery. It is not honor or respect. Respect is not claiming to play "Zimbabwean" music if you are not, yourself, Zimbabwean. Respect is not singing in a language you do not speak fluently, nor do you have opportunity to speak on a (very) regular basis. Respect is not stealing "traditions" out of context and that have no direct connection to you.

How could this be okay? Well - if these groups just said they played marimba music. Maybe make a nod to "Zimbabwean influences," but without a claim to play the music. If they NEVER played anything "traditional," and if they sang songs in their own damn language. Music is all about influences and adapting styles to your own. Therefore - if they truly like the music, they can adapt it to have songs with lyrics relevant to their own lives, in their own language. Why try to pretend to represent Zimbabwean music, when a Zimbabwean band could do so much more effectively? Why believe that that is okay?

On another level, this kind of thing bothers me in that very little else of "Zimbabwean" culture is known or actively appreciated by these folks. Seldom have they been taught by a Zimbabwean teacher, nor do they have any true Zimbabwean friends. They - perhaps - may know some Zimbabwean folks (not always), but never are those truly their friends. People they see and talk to regularly. Confide in, listen to, support, etc. So if they are not willing to put in that effort and social investment, how have they the right to profit from somebody else's culture in this way?

That's what kills me.

"African" drumming is much the same. I don't need to go into it in detail, but it's even worse, in some ways (because - although different styles of drumming in Africa are similar, most people are learning West African styles - specifically Ghanaian, Senegalese, or Gambian)***. Again - appreciate, learn (from an "African" at least), and play - but never claim it as "African" and please go immerse yourself in the culture - all of it.

Quickly - capoeira. For those unfamiliar with capoeira, it is a Brazilian martial art/dance style with roots in the African slave trade in South America. As slaves were not allowed to practice anything that resembled aggression or violence, these slaves (and later, their ancestors) disguised their martial arts and rebellion as a dance - capoeira. It's a beautiful story - quite inspiring. But - again - it kills me when I see an all-white-American troupe doing an exhibition for even more white folks. Practice on your own. Learn from a Brazilian master. But don't f-ing exhibit it in public as education/entertainment. If any of these things were truly for only the person, themselves, out of respect and appreciation - then there would be absolutely no need to bring it to the masses - that is the job of those whose culture it is. And if they don't choose to do so - respect that and don't take it upon yourselves.

Finally - Zen Buddhism. This one's more sticky for me because it's (vaguely) a religion. But it bothers me. As a (part) Chinese-American, it bothers me that the majority of Buddhists and Buddhist temple-goers in this town are white. That feels wrong. White Buddhist "monks" choosing Chinese or Hindu names - when they don't speak Chinese or Hindi (except for a smattering of terms). This one hurts me more as a representation of Orientalism**** than anything else. Because - obviously, this one is less public and more personal, which treads on territory I don't have a right to dispute. However . . . it doesn't feel right.

So - a number of examples, but there are so many others out there (I'd like to hear other people's pet-peeve forms of cultural appropriation). But it all boils down to - do not share what it is not yours. Do not presume to teach what you have not been immersed in. Learn only from those who have right to claim it. And question - deeply - your need/interest in learning and taking on aspects of another culture - and why it is only that one single aspect of the culture you are taking on, while leaving all the rest. Doing anything else is an insult. Anything else is disrespectful and smacks of privilege and ignorance.

And causes me to get all uppity and pissed off.

This is a topic I could go much deeper into, but I think that would work better as a conversation or dialogue. So, hopefully there are some timid non-commenters out there ready to ask some questions and get some clarification (and to challenge me if I sound just too sure of myself, and too judgmental).

But I leave you with this - we all learned as children (most of us, at least) that - if it isn't ours, we should leave it alone. And if we borrow something, we should do it with the intention of giving back. Why should culture and tradition be any different?

* I'll address this is at a later date, but - in short - I call B.S. on those claims.

** This will be an even longer post. Just thinking about it has me ready to spit fire.

*** I suppose the "Africa is not a country" post will have to happen sometime, as well.

**** This single post has touched off so many future off-shoots - the Orientalism discussion definitely needs to happen.

Mixed, Triumphant

Mixed, Triumphant,

This blog and my posts are young, yet, but I felt that it was important that I have some all-positive posts thrown in as often as possible because I have a tendency to focus on and criticize all that's wrong without acknowledging - enough - all that's right (I also tend to write long sentences).

So, in that light, I want to celebrate a wonderfully, positively mixed 24 hours that began on the evening of July 3rd and went on through last night.

My July 3rd evening began with me hanging out with some folks: my mixed (black/white) friend and two of her friends (a black woman, and a white man). I'm not going to go into a lot of detail there, but it was a good time, in general, but it also stood out as a nice combination of races just having a good time in mostly-white (and more-than-that-segregated) Portland. I also got a chance to bond with T. about how - since South Africa has now made Chinese folks legally "black"* - we now had the same background and should be able to understand each other and connect much more. We pondered the new strength blacks and Chinese alike would now have as one single identity (and more, but I digress).

Anyway, I then slipped away from that group to head to an Open Mic** where I was going to make my debut (secretly, because my friend and the other woman are a professional spoken-word duo, and I didn't feel ready for them to watch me this first time, just in case I fell flat).

So a quick explanation: I dabble in some hip hop and spoken word for my own personal entertainment (and therapeutic release), and so I had determined that it was finally time to bring it public (I've been doing this for quite a while, but never for a large, public audience). So there's a venue here in Portland (so far, the ONLY one I've found) that does a weekly Open Mic that sort of caters to the political, more colorful folks of this town. It's probably the only place here where the performers are pre-dominantly people of color (and - I would add, with bias - talented), and it thus has a much more welcoming feel for me. I scouted out the scene a few times in advance before signing on to perform, but I finally felt ready.

Now, the emcee had already told me that I was probably going to go first. That wasn't the best news, because - usually - when the first person goes, a lot of people haven't shown up yet, and the energy is a bit dead. So I planned to start with a lighter, tongue-in-cheek piece about "nobody listening," and then to drop some fire after I had their attention. The second piece was one I had done for some people before - basically a tribute to my Chinese side, while touching on the "mixed" experience.

So I'm all set, a little bit nervous, got in some last-second practicing, when I walk in the door. And, heading in before me was this whole group of people (looked like a family) that were clearly Asian (to some degree), and I couldn't help but feel good about my luck that they'd be in the audience when I went (not so many Asian audience members, usually). And, better yet, that group ended up sitting right up front, so that they would be the people I could see best during my performance.

My luck held out even stronger when the host for the night ended up arriving late - meaning by the time we actually started, the place was almost full, and I was going to have myself an AUDIENCE.

So I got up there and did my thing. I was wearing my China national team soccer jersey (for obvious reasons), and - before I even started - I got a "CHIN-A!" cheer from the front row. Things were looking good. My first piece was relatively well-received (got the little chuckles I was looking for), and then I laid into them with my fire.

And - holy sh$$ - did it go over. The whole crowd was listening as I spoke, cheering at certain parts - it felt GOOD. And then, as I finished off my little climb to the climax (a litany of Asian stereotypes that don't pertain to me, ending with "but I'm STILL Chinese") everybody just went nuts (especially the first row). People yelling, clapping (apparently, some stood up, but I couldn't see that). I mean - CRAZY. It felt so damn good. And, as I walked off the stage, the group in the front grabbed me and told me that EVERYBODY in that row (about 10 of them) was mixed. Absolutely perfect.

I was finished, but it wasn't over, either. Because, a couple acts after me, one of the regulars (a guy, "Don Juan," who I knew was Asian, but didn't generally mention that in his poetry) got up there and - saying I had inspired him - spit fire, as well - with his own piece blasting Asian stereotypes and our "role" in society. Needless to say, we all went crazy for that one, too. And then - after THAT - one of the mixed ladies of the front row got up to sing and blew the top off the whole place. I mean, she had the most soulful, amazing voice I have heard live in a LONG time - and the host acknowledged the same when she was finished.

It was like "Asian Pride Night" in Portland. And - damn - did it feel good. Hell - just to even know that there were that many other mixed folks IN Portland, let alone to have them hear me do my thing and then rock the house afterwards.

And then - about 24 hours later - was the 4th of July fireworks display. For brevity's sake, I'll just get to the point: all of Portland, downtown. Not just all of white Portland. Not just all of middle-class Portland. ALL of Portland. Every race, from poor to rich and everything in between. Families. Kids. Old. Young. All downtown to watch the fireworks.

As I said before - Portland is a very white town. It's also very segregated, so even though there ARE people of color in Portland, they don't exactly mix in large numbers. If there are a bunch of people of color around, that probably means you're in an area where there are few white folks. Or if there are a lot of Asian folks, few black or Latin@. You get the picture.

But last night, waiting by the river for the fireworks - EVERYBODY. In one place. All mixed up and excited. All equally eager with anticipation. Kids of all colors (I saw a lot of mixed ones, as well) running around, getting impatient for the show. And when that show came - DAMN. It was one for the ages - a great display. And - better yet - everybody in that huge crowd around me had the same happy expression on their faces. Awe. Joy. Innocence. Excitement. Nobody there was thinking about race or stereotypes or prejudice for those 15-20 minutes. They were just giving in to their child-like wonder and joy as they universally appreciated brightly-colored explosions*** in the sky above Portland.

And that's when I had one of those cheesy, Hallmark moments when I thought to myself, "America just isn't THAT bad." No, we're not a "melting pot." Portland will go back to how it has been starting today. But last night happened. And I don't think it could happen like that in many other places in the world. And the night before happened - where I could get political and spit fire at "the establishment" to applause, without any threat of censure or arrest.

Portland is mostly white - but it isn't ALL white. And this country can have its issues - but there is a lot right. And, for that, I hope everybody had a very happy Independence Day.

I know I did.


* I shall likely post in the future about what it will mean for the world that Chinese is the new black (in South Africa).

** For anybody in the Northwest (or headed here someday), the Open Mic is called "Harlem Nights" and happens every night at the Ohm, in downtown Portland. Click on the link above to learn more.

*** Fireworks, as we all know, were created by the Chinese - so that felt like some nice cross-over, as well.