So, America needs to wake up

I usually don't use strong, angry language. Nor, do I often tackle divisive issues. This isn't the place to talk about politics, religion, or when I am getting married. This is a place where I think thoughts, write them down, and sometimes spell them correctly. But, today, I can't. I can't do any of that. 

America needs to wake the fuck up.  We are the only country who has mass shootings so often that when it comes onto my newsfeed, my calloused heart has no more tears of sadness. Just rage. We are literally the only country who refuses to take a stand on gun control, racial profiling, anything else moderately difficult to swallow. The first time I wrote a poem about guns, I was angry and sad and hurting. I was shocked that a human could walk into an elementary school and kill children while our government hemmed and hawed and murmured, "What an awful tragedy this is. Let's try and change something about how people can procure weapons....Oh, no? No, we can't do that? Okay. Let's just wait until the next one. Maybe then it will be enough." (Obviously, I am paraphrasing. I realise that everyone was heartbroken. But, really, how many times can our hearts break before it stops beating?)

Then, after the shootings in South Carolina clearly, CLEARLY fueled by racism and could have been prevented if one person among many had stood up to this guy and said, "Hey, Dyl, maybe killing people isn't the best way to showcase your bigotry. It just seems a bit final, don't you think?" So, after that shooting, I wrote another poem a bit more caustic, tongue in cheek. Righteous anger didn't work, so maybe some levity to a too familiar topic might reach the people who need to hear it. But, since I am a small time soap box stander in Busan, South Korea, the probability of someone who can actually do something about it to hear and give a damn is very slim. 

I don't have the answers. Well, I do have an answer. Maybe, talk to Australia about their gun regulations. Or, dismantle the insane presence of the NRA. Yes, we have the right to bear arms. But, we also have the right to walk into school without going through a metal detector first, or sit in a house  of worship or a movie theatre without the fear that the guy next to me might think that this is the only way to achieve something. Basically, we need to find a way to make some real progress, NRA notithstanding. Because, this shit is not cutting it.  

So,  here are my poems. Like them, or don't like them. I don't really care. That's not true. I care a lot. But, hopefully they can reach someone who is in the position to do something about it.

When (Audio File Here)

When I was in university and

Thought of the kind of teacher I would

Be, I thought

Desk jumping Dead Poet’s Society

I thought

Akilah and the Bee

I thought

Life lessons from Feeny.

But, now I read newspapers with words like:

Shattered, Why? Agony, Why?, Massacre, Why? Senseless, Why? Unspeakable Why?

Why? Why? Why?

And, I think to myself, in the shadowed place where

private thoughts go to war,

would I

hide behind the door?

Would I

Pin him to the floor?

Would I

Plead with him for more

Mercy.

Mercy.

Mercy (1) for your childhood

Bullies and break ups riddle your motives

It doesn’t get better, but it does get easier.

A cold shoulder doesn’t deserve a shotgun.

Breathe, son. Start penning poems ‘cuz

Ink stains less than blood

Mercy (2) for your masculinity

Man up does not mean you can’t hurt.

Man hood does not mean dominance.

Be a man does not mean show anger instead of sadness

We’ve indoctrinated you with antiquated ideals and we’re

surprised when you achieve them.

It’s okay to be weak.

A cry for help sounds braver than a bullet.

Mercy (3) for the lives you take

These children are

Brothers and sons

Sisters and daughters

They’re not numbers on a tally sheet

--though the name list grows longer—

Crossing t’s and dotting i’s,

You sign their names in their own blood.

You conclude your addition with your own

Mercy (4) suicide

You kill yourself because there’s no other way to deal with your pain, your hatred, your guilt.

And, what does that shot taste like?

Hope that is all goes away?

Faith that it fades into nothing?

Fear that it doesn’t?

Does it look like revenge?

Does it echo of your own cries?

Does it smell like peace?

Does it feel finished?

When will it be enough, America?

When children play “lockdown” like hide and go seek?

When teachers wield guns as easily as chalk?

When sad little boys squeeze triggers like teddy bears thinking, “Tomorrow will be

better. Tomorrow will be better.”

Or, is it when tomorrow never comes?

Unspeakable (Audio file Here)

Loner. Check. Well-liked. Check. Isolated. Check.

Don’t mind me; I’m just playing “White Shooter Media Coverage” BINGO.

Tragedy, oh, there’s another one.

Unspeakable. Bingo.

There it is, the word on everyone’s tongue.

How can this happen?  They say. It’s unthinkable.

Let’s just play a quick English vocab game: always, usually, sometimes, never.

White shooters are always troubled.

White shooters usually procure their weapons legally.

White shooters sometimes target their victims.

White shooters rarely apologise.

If that boy was any browner than wonderbread,

    or the victims a little more WASPish--

this would be terrorism, and the nation would be readying their

tar and their feathers.

Speak the fuck up, America.

There is a tiny window of time between

mourning the deceased and not dwelling on the past.

It’s just enough to say, “Hey, wait a minute.”

Then, it’s gone.

Now is the time for prayer.

Now is the time for speech.

Now is the time for action.

Now is the time for all of that, because

Now is the fucking time.

So, sometimes I get offended Part 1

This isn’t nor shouldn’t be news to anyone who has ever met me. Yes, I get offended quite easily. I would prefer those around me not to use derogatory words or actions. Usually, I open a dialogue as to why I have those feelings and how the two of us can come to an understanding. Less often, I snap and speak harshly toward another human.

This writing is the first step toward opening a dialogue discussing how language usage, gender norms, and behavior can create change. Knowledge is the first step toward social inclusivity, which strives to provide a space for all humans to feel safe. I do this in several ways: reflecting on my language and its effects on the listener; researching gender, queer, and sexual spectrums to best comprehend those around me; and incorporating this language and research into behavior that supports and respects humans regardless of ability, gender, or sexuality.

Language Usage

I can assume that if you are reading this, you are a human and use language to communicate. Your expressions may look, sound, or feel different from mine, but we all use them to express needs, wants, and emotions. Because I am only fluent in English, I will use that as my platform. In this section, I want to discuss several words, phrases, or connotations that really grind my gears. When I hear these words, I look at the person who said it, and usually ask, “Is that word the best choice to describe what you’re really feeling?” Or, “There are hundreds of thousands of words in this language. Is that the most thoughtful one you can come up with?” Or, seldom, “Your ignorance annoys me. Choose a different word.” These words span ability, gender, and sexuality. Every human has a right to feel safe in conversations and discussions.

A.    Retarded: I have pioneered for this word to be taken out of everyday vernacular for longer than I can remember. It has become a colloquial term for anything or any person that is not up to the speaker’s expectation. Basically, it suggests that humans with non-traditional learning abilities are “less than.” There is the argument that, “everyone uses it that way. It has lost the negative connotation, so it doesn’t matter anymore.” It hasn’t lost its negative connotations; there is often a note of derision when used. It does matter. By allowing this term, we look over the marginalization of a particular group of humans based solely on ability over which they have no control.

B.    Pussy and Man Up: As in, “Jeez, don’t be a pussy. Man up.” I’ve just started changing my use of this word due to an enlightened conversation with a friend of mine. Let’s just be clear; pussy is slang for vagina. By saying, “Don’t be a pussy,” one makes a lot of assumptions about vaginas and those who have them. It proposes that vaginas or females are beneath their male counterparts. It is like saying, “Oh, you’re scared? You must be a woman,” which sets up dangerous gender expectations for our future. In a separate, but equally important vein, “Man up” is derogatory to both men and women. It gives the listener a very clear idea of expectations for men, and what they must do to be a “man.” It also suggests that only men can be strong in both a physical or emotional way, and women cannot attain that strength. Ever.

C.    Dick: This is my newest one yet! I was talking with some folks on Saturday and it dawned on me that I can’t campaign for inclusive language that only targets my gender, orientation, or ability. Just as “pussy” declares that women are weaker than men, “dick” perpetuates the idea that humans with a penis are rude, impatient, or generally bad people. That is just a bold-faced lie. I have met at least one man-type human who wasn’t like that. 

D.   Fag or Dyke: It seems almost silly that I need to reiterate that this slur is hurtful and still very offensive. Often, hate drips from these words used to cause pain or condemn someone. In some countries, governments (e.g. Sudan, Brunei) enacted laws stating that death is the most suitable punishment for homosexuals. In many others, queer people continue to be second class citizens within the legal system. Conversely, some people use fag or dyke as an endearing term. This opens a discussion of reclamation, which suggests that people within the targeted minority group (e.g. homosexual men and women) can take a slur and use it in a positive way to show empowerment. I take umbrage with this because it greys the line between who can and cannot toss it about, “I’m not gay, but I’m an ally. I am showing solidarity in reclaiming it.” In my opinion, one cannot reclaim what was never theirs.

This is not meant to infringe your freedom of speech. You are welcome to use whatever words or phrases suit you. However, I would invite you to think deeply about your word choice. Imagine whom it affects or has affected. I encourage you to move gaily forward in your own discussions of language and inclusivity. Of course, if you have any questions or comments about any terms or ideas in this, please feel free to contact me.

Coming next: thoughts on gender norms and inclusive behavior.

So, you better check yo' self

I have been here in Korea for two years, as many of you avid bloggers learned last-ish week. Here is a list of ten things for which I am never prepared. Ergo, my reaction is usually awkward and lacking the normal grace and poise with which I carry myself. In essence, I need to check myself before I wreck myself.

1. Ajjeossis sit outside of the hospital in their pyjamas and IVs. They also drink so ju and smoke cigarettes. It just seems so counterintuitive. I have to do a double take and hide my confusion every time.

2. There is a store that is a magical place full of things you didn't know you needed. My EPIK roommate (for the first week of training), a fabulous Irish lass who is 100% cooler than I will ever be, commented, "Daiso is solid gold."

Scene: I walk into a Daiso store; I have a game plan, "okay, I need cleaning supplies, nothing else. Focus, Botsford." I leave with three sparkly ties, a garbage can shaped liked a frog, a dinosaur staple remover, chopsticks, baskets, a Nerf gun, and a Hello, Kitty alarm clock.

Then, I go home, unpack, and realize that my room is a mess. I think, "I should probably clean the floor." I rummage through the bags and find that I forgot to purchase the ONE thing I actually needed.

This happens every single time I go to Daiso. I never know if I should be angry at myself because I have the attention span of a humming bird OR excited that I have a T-Rex staple remover and a Nerf gun with which to shoot Rufio and probably my roommate.  Maybe year three will be better in this regard, but I am not hopeful.

3. Contrary to popular belief, hiking is a very communal activity. You need to bring enough to sustain yourself and at least three three other people. As you stop to take breaks, many Korean hikers will stop as well. They will share their fruit, ramyeon, and makgeolli. It is only polite to share your trail mix, protein bars, and rum. There is always an awkward moment when I have given my last tangerine to the ajjuma at the rest point before the top. Then, I have nothing for the ajjeosis at the summit who give me makgeolli, crackers, and mixed nuts. One time, I bartered English lessons. Usually, I just awkward antelope around, take photos for them, and give them the last swig of my flask. Sometimes, it is water. Most times, it's not.

4. Not much is more humbling than walking through a crowded hospital lobby carrying an uncovered Dixie cup of you own urine for a drug test. I have various levels of discomfort during this process, as evidenced by my facial expressions.

5. Dogs in jackets. I know that is a thing in the States, too. Most dogs here are the size of a chipmunk, so I suppose they need it. But, when I see Labrador and Golden retrievers in parkas, I just... I just can't....I just...don't know what to do.

6. There is a guy in my neighborhood who starts selling his wares around 7:00 in the morning. He has a blow horn and every ten seconds he says "blaaaaaah blaaaaaah." It sounds a lot like, "Taaaaaaaahhhhhhhh Cooooooooohs." Now, if someone is blowing a horn at seven a.m. selling tacos, I would run down the stairs and find him. Let's be honest, starting your day with a taco would be a complete game changer. However, he does NOT sell breakfast tacos. "What is it, Botsford, you tease?!" I don't know. I may never know. I just know my disappointment waking up to not breakfast tacos. I guess I will go eat my boring adult cereal full of flax and oats. Stupid healthy eating.

7. My entire stay here, I have been going to a orthopedic doctor for various bumps, bruises, and old age. Usually he just sends me upstairs for "physical therapy" which involves me napping while a nurse does something electrical on my body, plays a laser light show on my knee cap, and bundles me up in a heating pad. Seriously, these are the best naps ever despite being in a hospital and my body contorted into weird poses. But, my most recent trip has me splinted up with a semi-hard, removable cast. All of this is fine. However, what I absolutely do not understand is how much bandaging the nurses use. It is at least 10 yards of ace-type bandaging. There is a first down wrapped around my leg. I understand my leg is a bit big around, but really? 

I have no idea the science behind any of these procedures, but my doctor has gotten me through plenty of pretty serious scrapes, so I should trust that this is the best method (or, at the very least, a working method). He is, incidentally, also a tenor who performs for various classy events. He is pretty great.

8. Eight is still my lucky number. I received an email from my sister two days ago. All it said in the subject line was, "Kit Kat." It then went into a childhood memory of going to Sentry grocery store on Moreland Boulevard, and shopping with our mother. Every time, we would get a Kit Kat bar. Katie would get a piece, Sarah would get a piece, and Mom would get two, "Because I have to deal with you hooligans." Then, we would fight over who could sit in the front seat.

Early on, we devised a plan that on even days I would sit in the front because my favorite number was eight and my birthday was on the tenth. And, Sarah would sit in the front on odd days because her favorite number is odd (I dunno if I am allowed to impart this sensitive information), and her birthday is on the seventh. At the time, I didn't realize that more than half of the months have more odd days than even days. But, by the time I wised up, it was too late to change the system. We still followed this system this past January when I was home for a month. I did not, however, have to split a Kit Kat bar. I opted for the Butterfinger.

The point of this is a) I will never get over how much I miss my sister and b) that I still check the date every morning to see if I can sit in the front seat of my scooter.

9. I am never prepared for elevator conversations. In any country. At any time. When you walk into an elevator, children here look at you with a mix of wide eyed terror and wonder. They whisper in their mom or dad's ear, "hhhhhhello." I respond with "Hello, what is your name?" in Korean. Sometimes they answer, mostly they hide between the legs of their adult pretending I exist the same way a platypus exists in the zoo: something to be looked at and appreciated for its oddity, but never really knowing why it's there.

I am especially never prepared for the "Too Heavy" beep when you walk into a crowded elevator. You just hang your head in shame and start taking the stairs to ensure it never happens again, until it happens a week later at the same elevator with the same people. Worst. Ever.

10. Smart phones are everywhere. On the subway, when I look up from Lydia, my sassy blue and white phone, I see that everyone has their phones out messaging, playing games, or watching videos. Then, I look back at Lydia and research the statistic of smart phones vs. less than intelligent phones in Korea. I find the information I need, Instagram a photo of the subway car with the statistic in the description box (hashtag KoreaLyfe), then scroll my newsfeed and share a clever meme on a friend's timeline. Only then do I realize that I am part of the problem.

So, I am claiming Queer

Whilst scooting around on Kyler, my mind follows the twists and turns in the road, leading me towards many new paths of thought. Oftentimes, it is about my friends or people with whom I want to be friends but am too awkward to pursue. Today, however, my thoughts became jagged and sliced through the shrubs I keep around sensitive topics to protect me from feeling too deeply and them from my self-destructive tendencies.

My thoughts cut right towards my personal sexuality, which is something that has weighed heavily on my mind for quite some time. It is difficult to look inside myself and see something with which I am not entirely comfortable. For the first 22 years of my life, I believed really hard that I was straight, and that I just wanted to be Her “best friend.” I grew up in a very heteronormative society; obviously, I wanted to be straight. But, it trapped me into thinking, “I am meant to be this way.” When I realized and accepted my lady lover leanings, I felt this rush of not giving a damn about what I am meant to be like and instead, loved the fact that I finally felt comfortable, secure, and hopeful.

I’ve spent the past four years dating women, loving women, believing that when I choose to create a family it will be with a woman. I believed I was gay. Or, a lesbian. But, as a linguist (a cunning one, at that) calling myself a lesbian doesn’t really fit what I feel. The necessary article placed in front of a lesbian or a homosexual, to me, means that I am a person with this other thing attached to me. But, being gay is not an attachment; it is simply a secondary facet to who I am as a human being. I am Irish-American, soft-spoken, gay, freckled, and left-handed.

However, being gay or being straight only allows me to be in one camp or the other. There is also bisexuality, which is an attraction to both genders, often with a proclivity towards one or the other. But, that still seems too rigid of a definition of something so fluid. So, queer is what I have left. I call it claiming queer because right now is the first moment in which I’ve allowed myself to think deeply about its semantics. I have never really enjoyed the word or the awful ways societies have used it as a pejorative. So, I cannot reclaim it. But, I am holding it now—caring for it, feeding it thoughts and attention, really hoping that it doesn’t lose patience with my clumsy ponderings.

So, as a newly-queer woman, I feel emboldened to confront the thoughts inside my head that make me uncomfortable. Yes, I prefer being emotionally and physically intimate with women. That is ultimately what I want in a long-term relationship. Coming out as a rainbow tossing, unicorn riding lady lover was easy all of those years ago; my friends and family have been incredibly supportive throughout this time. And, now, I fear that by retracting the statement of “I’m a lesbian” in favor of “I’m queer” will give the few people in my life who still want me to marry a dude hope that all of this gay malarkey was a phase, and they knew it.  

Now, I am more comfortable in my sexuality. I am able to navigate through it intentionally, and I do not have to adhere to someone else’s expectation of my intimacy. In the future, I could sleep with a man, and that wouldn’t make me less queer. I might even enjoy it, and it still wouldn’t change how I identify. It was difficult to come out as gay, but I would posit that it is even more difficult to shift back into the realm of queer. There is still a negative stigma attached to that word (in both camps—gay and straight), which is why I choose to embody it. I want to show the people in the straight community that queer is not synonymous with confused . I want to show the people in the gay community that being queer doesn’t make me less attracted to women. And, most importantly, I want to show the people in the queer community that I am present and ready to add my voice to the cacophony of rainbows, unicorns, Tevas, bowties, and everything in between.

PS Check out this video by Ryan Amador and Jo Lampert. It puts music to this emotion that words can't always define.

So, what if the hokey pokey was really what it's all about?

Some necessary background information:

1. I teach at an all-women’s high school.

2. South Korea has their final exams at the beginning of July, and then three weeks before the end of the semester. Don’t ask me why; I have no idea.
3. My main goal for this semester has been to bust through stereotypes given to my students merely because they were born as girls. I have tried my damndest to teach critical thinking, creativity, and empowerment. I have tried to teach them that they do not need to work within the binary of male or female, but under the umbrella of being a human.

We good? Okay.

So, today, I gave my students the options of watching a movie or practicing for their pop song contest on Friday evening. They unanimously voted to practice. I said, alright, have at it.

One student found an instrumental version of the song “Mercy” by Duffy. My students were sitting and singing beautifully and sweetly. I asked if they would want some pronunciation help or idea help—a little timidly, since I may or may not be a judge at the contest. They accepted, and I corrected some of their pronunciation (“beggin’” instead of “beggING,” etc).

Then, on a whim, I asked them if they knew what the song meant and what it means to them. They explained it to me in rapid Korean, which of course I didn’t understand. But, with their motions and the words “namja” (man) and “yeoja” (woman) and “upsaiyo” (not or no or without) showed up, I figured that they understood the basics.

My students sang it again, and their words sounded great, but they were still not really singing like they understood the gist of the song.  When they finished, I praised their pronunciation, then I asked if the singer was happy, sad, or angry about not being with her boyfriend.

 

They said, “Sad teacher. She is sad and angry.”

Then, together, we dissected the line, “Now you think that I/ will be something on the side. / But you got to understand that I need a man / who can take my hand.”

I asked if they knew what “on the side” meant. They shook their heads, so I created a metaphor with a chair and two desks, and that the chair was dating both of them at the same time. I asked if they thought that was okay. They shook their heads, but one student said, “Not really, but there must be a reason for him to do that. It is important to have a boyfriend.”

After I collected my jaw from the floor, I looked at each of my quietly nodding students and settled on her. I said, “No, honey, you do not ever deserve to be on the side.” I turned to the class, "You are so smart and so creative. You have so many qualities that are perfect, just as you are. You do not ever deserve to be less than your partner’s number one. And, frankly, you do not even need a partner. You are whole and important just by yourself. The only person you should want to be sexy for is you. When you love yourself wholly and truly, that is when someone will come along, and together you will grow into the best versions of yourselves. You are nothing less than amazing. Please, bring that attitude when you sing this song.”

It was their turn to drop their jaws. When we sang the song again, their voices were so much stronger. They started moving their bodies to the beat and giving meaning to the lyrics.  I watched this instantaneous transformation in my students. This realization of self-worth took me months, years to figure out. For me, it was slow and painful. But, in one minute, these children stopped being girls or women, but became human. It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. Afterwards I told them, “I have never been more proud in my entire life than I am right now. That was perfect. You are perfect.” I paused, “I want to teach you a dance—a dance that we do at weddings.”

“Teacher, can we show you our dance first, then we learn yours?”

As they ran through their routine, it started as “K-Pop Sexy.” By that, I mean to say, that is was about the provocation and sex appeal. But, then they kept practicing and speaking in Korean, pointing at me. They changed some dance steps and their posture, which made it much more about respecting their bodies and internalizing their “sexy,” not enticing the audience. The understanding of this change and what it meant to my students settled around me. It became a manifestation of empowerment and strength.

Afterwards, they asked me to teach them my dance. I lined them up in two columns, facing each other. I said, “Okay, this dance is all about self-expression. When it is your turn, you dance through the column with the person across from you. This is a safe space, and you are free to dance however you want. Then, go to the end of the column, and cheer on your classmates. Okay? Okay.”

Obviously, as a certified attention glutton, I went first and danced through the two columns of my students. The next two came, timidly, just walking through the columns. But, as I started dancing with them, they became more comfortable. As the song continued, the students danced through the columns. The lines sort of collapsed upon themselves, and it just became a dance party in the back of the classroom. One brave student came up to the front of the crowd and danced with me while her friends kept singing the song. I drowned in singing, dancing, and joy in its purest form. It was one of those moments that everyone was living 100% in the moment, dancing without abandon.

After class, a student, with whom I had never had a full conversation, stayed behind until the classroom was empty. She looked at me, carefully crafting a sentence; “Kathryn, I thinked a lot today. Thank you for telling me perfect. I will remember to dance only for perfect me.” I took her hand and squeezed it, because, in that moment, words could not express any of the emotions I felt.

So, what if the hokey pokey or dancing was really what it’s all about? What if I reached students on a level that no written or spoken word could obtain? What if together, my students and I, created a moment that has never been nor will ever be again? What if that was true perfection?

So, I think I figured out the meaning of life

Click HERE to see me read it out loud, with hand movements, because I can't, for the life of me, talk without gestures. Haters gonna hate...

Poem of LIfe
I walk through the streets of South Korea

Tall buildings instead of trees shadow my stroll.

Coffee shops smell of good conversation

and overpriced drinks.

Cars lazily make their way through the

U r b a n   L a b y r i n t h.  

The city breathes in life and fumes and makes it something

quite

it's

own.

I walk amidst this life as if in a                                                              dream.

Nothing really seems real.

The tide tugs at the shore, hoping he will

come out and play.

The mountain boldly challenges anything to be

as tall

and sturdy

 and strong

as her.

And the city, Oh, the city works as a hive.

I often move from

chamber                                        to                                                  chamber

spreading ideas and love as honey through combs.

But somedays are different.

Somedays, 
The buildings suffocate.  

The cafes stifle.

The cars clog.

The tide has just another unrequited love, and the mountain falls apart.

These are the days on which I am

split and torn.

Neither here

nor there.

My heart and my brain work as

two

separate

 entities.

One yearns for home, while the other

stubbornly

stays

here.

And, my body is the vessel for this war zone, 
and even She is worn and apathetic.

It is on these days that I want to

escape

from this life towards my

past,

from which I so gracelessly ran not 12 months ago.

This leadens my

frayed and tattered

body,

Walking and walking always and forever walking.

My eyes cloud.

My feet stumble.

So lost in my head, I barely catch

a beautiful act of love.

Four friends, age 7,

On the steps of their Hagwon.

Each puts a hand in the center of the circle and cheer.

I grin and pass by remarking its

quaintness.

Four hellos chorus behind me. I turn, and reply.

One brave little voice shouts,

I am Min Hee.

The ear to ear Cheshire Cat

grin and joy he has

 lightens my body.

Slowly, it lifts these consuming burdens I didn't even realize I had.

Walking and walking always and forever walking.

And from behind me,

The tinkle of small

giggle,

grows into a

chuckle,

and ends in a sound of

pure

childhood

     joy.

And that, dear friends, is the meaning of life:

that sound of innocence resonating through the laughter of a
                                                                                                            child.