Behavior change is very difficult. Behaviors are a physical manifestation of our thoughts, and our thoughts are shaped by our experiences. As time progresses and after repeated similar experiences, our mind learns and begins to create a framework for how we think, and naturally, the actions we will take. Our behaviors become stereotyped and a blueprint is created: a very accurate predictor of us. The image of who we are to others. Through time we have created and established a specific way in which we think and therefore act. This framework is reinforced every time we behave how our framework predicts we will, and like a positive feedback loop, like Pavlov’s dogs, we teach ourselves, condition ourselves, to reinforce these behaviors, both good and bad. We can now predict how we will behave, because we have trained ourselves to think (and therefore behave), in the same way all the time. At times the behaviors become so natural and effortless, that when you actually step outside of this habit, when you make a conscious effort to change, you feel as if you’re not yourself. But really, what do you expect? You feel out of character because in reality you are. You are going outside of the framework, the stereotyped thoughts and behaviors which for years you have followed, to do something new.
This becomes a problem because sometimes in our lives we find ourselves in situations where we want to change. We find ourselves in unwanted, strangely familiar situations over and over again. But if we fail to realize that this déjà vu scenario results from our own actions and not just “a thing that keeps happening”, and if we also fail to realize we have trained and primed ourselves to think and act a certain way our entire lives, we miss the point that it is our behavior (and more importantly our thoughts) which have been the culprit all along. Without knowing, we have been doing the same thing over and over again, and have expected different results.
So we begin our work. Where do we start? The behavior itself is just the measurable action, but the measurable action is that of the mind. The mind must therefore change before the action will. We reconstruct our framework, we tailor it to our desired change, and we practice. We practice. Once again we train and condition ourselves until the behavior becomes so natural and effortless, that when we actually step outside of this habit, when we make a conscious effort to revert back to our old behavior, we’ll feel that we’re not ourselves. But really, what do you expect? You’ll feel out of character because in reality you are. You’ll be going outside of the framework, the new stereotyped thoughts and behaviors you have taught yourself to follow, to do something old.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
My life is the labyrinth but my mind is the maze
"Your life is a sacred journey. And it is about change, growth, discovery, movement, transformation, continuously expanding your vision of what is possible, stretching your soul, learning to see clearly and deeply, listening to your intuition, taking courageous challenges at every step along the way. You are on the path... exactly where you are meant to be right now... And from here, you can only go forward, shaping your life story into a magnificent tale of triumph, of healing of courage, of beauty, of wisdom, of power, of dignity, and of love."
Caroline Adams
Caroline Adams
Monday, October 26, 2009
Angel Wao
“The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao” left me feeling powerful. Like my country, my family, my history, and I are filled with an ancient mysticism far past any human recording, like a fuku, like “The First”. As my Dominicanness would have it, 20 pages left into finishing the book, I get the long awaited phone call from my father who called me yesterday (and said he’d call back later that night, but didn’t) in regards to la cosa he wanted to speak to me about.
Of course it was about my sexuality.
After cleverly directing our initial greeting into a topic of conversation about women, my father told me that while my mother and he accepted my homosexuality, because I wasn’t flamingly homosexual, they knew I could change, or as he put it, try to be with a woman.
After hearing him speak (uninterrupted for the majority of the time), part of me actually thought I should try a chick out. I began to think about how I’ve thought about being with a woman before, and how my parents pressuring me to do so, sadly only made me more inclined to try.
Then I began to think whether my sexuality was a matter of nature/nurture. If it is possible that I learned to be gay, then that means that I could change it as well. Right? Maybe God really did make man for woman, and woman for man?
Although I don’t consider myself to be religious whatsoever, like Oscar Wao, I recognize and sometimes resent the fact that being Latino comes with an inherent fatalistic religiosity. Someone’s always praying to God to fix things, to make changes, perform miracles. While I feel like I can logically come up with an opinion about religion (ultimately that I think it’s oppressive), I also can’t help but naturally be just a bit God fearing, and ironically enough, also still feel some comfort when I think about Dios (for peeps sake, I capitalized my G’s and D’s!). So if I somehow, I have religion in the back of my head, yet also recognize my anger toward it, how the hell do I reconcile my homosexuality. Do I think nurture>nature?!
No…
even if it were the case that being gay was nurture, I think about how I know, for sure, that religion is purely nurtured (blatantly so in fact, because it is a direct construct of society). There are some people who grow up to be atheist and others who grow up to be devout _________ , and whoever you are in either one of these groups, you were “nurtured” through your own life experience to believe what you do. Either way, it is now part of you who you are. I guess, just like being gay is part of who I am. My whole being in fact, is part nature and nurture.
I can’t help but be a little God fearing, but I can’t help but be gay, and even if they are both a product of society, they still make me, me.
That’s how I know “trying” is not an option.
The funny thing is, while I know I could have sex with a woman, I don’t want to. Honestly, it’s not enough. The feeling for the man I’d love goes above and beyond sex, and for some reason, regardless of nature or nurture, it just doesn’t feel normal to me, to feel “that” way for a woman. The thought of me holding a woman’s hand feels strange, while holding a man’s feels natural; the thought of looking into a man’s eyes and kissing him is what is appealing to me, not a woman’s; I’ll tell a man that I love him, not a woman.
That’s how I know “trying” is not an option.
I remember coming out to my parents and it not being difficult at all. I wanted to do it. For the longest I had a gut feeling that it was when I came out to them that our relationship, the relationship within my entire family and me, would flower beautifully. I would let them know who I really was, and that, would eventually open up the doors for communication, honesty, and love I’ve felt I always lacked for my family. This however wasn’t my motivation to do so; it was that one day, I knew I’d meet someone special. I wanted the person I love to be part of my family, and more importantly, I wanted my family to know the person I’d love the most, the one I’d give my all, my heart and soul to. In that way, above all things, before anything else, I came out to my parents for the person I’d love. For the man I’d love.
That’s how I know “trying” is not an option.
So I didn’t make it an option.
I told my dad how I felt. I played devil’s advocate to his logic, gave him different ways of understanding where I was coming from, and rather than resorting to hanging up the phone in frustration (which I almost did several times), I put my faith in the never failing power of Communication.
Something clicked. O bueno, e’ asi?, and I could tell he finally understood me. Somehow, Dominican fuku, no longer loomed over our heads. He told me he accepted me as I was, this time saying nothing else, except that he loved me, te quiero hijo.
I love you too, old man.
Of course it was about my sexuality.
After cleverly directing our initial greeting into a topic of conversation about women, my father told me that while my mother and he accepted my homosexuality, because I wasn’t flamingly homosexual, they knew I could change, or as he put it, try to be with a woman.
After hearing him speak (uninterrupted for the majority of the time), part of me actually thought I should try a chick out. I began to think about how I’ve thought about being with a woman before, and how my parents pressuring me to do so, sadly only made me more inclined to try.
Then I began to think whether my sexuality was a matter of nature/nurture. If it is possible that I learned to be gay, then that means that I could change it as well. Right? Maybe God really did make man for woman, and woman for man?
Although I don’t consider myself to be religious whatsoever, like Oscar Wao, I recognize and sometimes resent the fact that being Latino comes with an inherent fatalistic religiosity. Someone’s always praying to God to fix things, to make changes, perform miracles. While I feel like I can logically come up with an opinion about religion (ultimately that I think it’s oppressive), I also can’t help but naturally be just a bit God fearing, and ironically enough, also still feel some comfort when I think about Dios (for peeps sake, I capitalized my G’s and D’s!). So if I somehow, I have religion in the back of my head, yet also recognize my anger toward it, how the hell do I reconcile my homosexuality. Do I think nurture>nature?!
No…
even if it were the case that being gay was nurture, I think about how I know, for sure, that religion is purely nurtured (blatantly so in fact, because it is a direct construct of society). There are some people who grow up to be atheist and others who grow up to be devout _________ , and whoever you are in either one of these groups, you were “nurtured” through your own life experience to believe what you do. Either way, it is now part of you who you are. I guess, just like being gay is part of who I am. My whole being in fact, is part nature and nurture.
I can’t help but be a little God fearing, but I can’t help but be gay, and even if they are both a product of society, they still make me, me.
That’s how I know “trying” is not an option.
The funny thing is, while I know I could have sex with a woman, I don’t want to. Honestly, it’s not enough. The feeling for the man I’d love goes above and beyond sex, and for some reason, regardless of nature or nurture, it just doesn’t feel normal to me, to feel “that” way for a woman. The thought of me holding a woman’s hand feels strange, while holding a man’s feels natural; the thought of looking into a man’s eyes and kissing him is what is appealing to me, not a woman’s; I’ll tell a man that I love him, not a woman.
That’s how I know “trying” is not an option.
I remember coming out to my parents and it not being difficult at all. I wanted to do it. For the longest I had a gut feeling that it was when I came out to them that our relationship, the relationship within my entire family and me, would flower beautifully. I would let them know who I really was, and that, would eventually open up the doors for communication, honesty, and love I’ve felt I always lacked for my family. This however wasn’t my motivation to do so; it was that one day, I knew I’d meet someone special. I wanted the person I love to be part of my family, and more importantly, I wanted my family to know the person I’d love the most, the one I’d give my all, my heart and soul to. In that way, above all things, before anything else, I came out to my parents for the person I’d love. For the man I’d love.
That’s how I know “trying” is not an option.
So I didn’t make it an option.
I told my dad how I felt. I played devil’s advocate to his logic, gave him different ways of understanding where I was coming from, and rather than resorting to hanging up the phone in frustration (which I almost did several times), I put my faith in the never failing power of Communication.
Something clicked. O bueno, e’ asi?, and I could tell he finally understood me. Somehow, Dominican fuku, no longer loomed over our heads. He told me he accepted me as I was, this time saying nothing else, except that he loved me, te quiero hijo.
I love you too, old man.
Mami
A "poem"/spoken word I wrote a little less than a year ago for the 39th Annual Latin American Student Association Culture Show. Thought it was appropriate for the day.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mami, I said, who was the first president of the United States? Georgy Gwashington. I really really have to admit that as funny as it was for me to hear her massacre the English language, the woman really came a long way.
ooOOoo say can ju see…
I don’t remember much from my childhood, as everyone in here knows, I have pretty bad memory, but I always say my life started at seven because that’s the farthest my brain takes me. They say our first memories are usual traumatizing, for better or worse, and I couldn’t say I disagree.
I’ve been to DR about 8 times my whole life, only 3 of which I can remember; once at 7, once at 12, and last December. I remember riding the horse across this big ass mountain to get to my father’s village and getting pricked by some spiny things in the tree, and finally arrive only to see a huge village in the middle of a lush green valley.
Ojala que llueva cafe en el campo
The grua, or the tow truck, I remember being referred to as the bruja, which means witch in Spanish, and scared the shit out of me. I literally remember thinking there was some crazy psycho woman hovering through the air stealing cars because people were parked where they shouldn't have been.
A ella le gusta la gasolina, dame mas gasoline.
When I would go to the store and my 1 American dollar could buy me maddd cookies, I was overwhelmed, the crazy thing is that I still got change back too
The coconut trees, and trying to get mangos that were so up high, and tasted so good.
The rain was definitely my favorite, I remember running outside naked and having the huge rain drops smack me so hard on my back that I could almost fall, and they stung too. But it felt so great.
She’ll make you take your clothes off and go dancing in the rain.
The lights would go out randomly, but it was most fun at night, because I had to find my way back home or else el cuco was gonna eat my penis, at least that’s what mami said.
And the passion of Juan Luis Guerra’s voice.
"Quisiera ser un pez,
Para tocar mi nariz en tu pecera,
Y hacer burbujas de amor por donde quiera,
Oh oh oh oh, pasar la noche en vela mojado en ti."
But by far, the memory that stuck out was going to mami’s house, where she grew up.
Before I go into detail about this, let me tell you all that I just came from Uganda this past summer, and some of the houses in Uganda looked like mansions compared to mami’s. it was literally a house built of branches, I don’t even know how it was still standing. Mami doesn’t even remember her parents, they died when she was about 5, and she was the youngest of 10 brothers and sisters. Because there were no adults around, everyone helped to take care of one another, but especially of my mother who would stay at home alone while everyone went to make some type of plata.
Mami showed me the table where she used to put herself to sleep in tears, because she was so sad, that hurt me the most.
Like most of our parents here, the journey from our home countries to America was probably not the easiest. And I won’t try to start telling you that story because I know we’d be here for hours; difficult to say the least.
My mom stopped going to school after 2nd grade, and on her way to Brooklyn she paid a man on the plane 20 dollars, to teach her the ABC’s and sign her name, and somehow raised a son who’ll be graduating come May with Honors up his ass and degrees comprised of words she probably never even knew existed.
And when you really take time to think about it, it’s incredible. That from a small village in a 3rd world country in a matter of 22 years, someone could change their life so drastically.
And that battle has not been so recent either. We are here today, living because all of our ancestors, fought for the best for us.
Yes, my family came from the campo, and I am damn proud of it.
Yes, my dad doesn’t have a full set of teeth because while he was homeless growing up he only ate sugar cane, and I am damn proud of it.
Yes, my sister’s may have gotten pregnant when they were 18, but they are very successful women; and no matter what anyone stereotypes, I am damn proud of it.
I’m Dominican and I’m gay and I’m damn proud of it.
My mom almost died giving birth to me, and I’m damn proud of it.
My parents speak little to no English, and they passed their citizenship tests, IN ENGLISH and I am damn proud of it.
I live in the projects in Spanish Harlem and I am proud of it.
At one point, our ancestors were enslaved, but somehow we are here and I am damn proud of it.
At one point, A wall will be finished to prevent Mexicans from getting into the US, but they will cross, and damnit I will be proud of that too.
At one point I will die, and I will return to the earth, and I will be proud of that too.
And while I may not know all the roots of my culture, las raices de mi cultura, I know my cultura is Latino, and I am damn proud of that.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mami, I said, who was the first president of the United States? Georgy Gwashington. I really really have to admit that as funny as it was for me to hear her massacre the English language, the woman really came a long way.
ooOOoo say can ju see…
I don’t remember much from my childhood, as everyone in here knows, I have pretty bad memory, but I always say my life started at seven because that’s the farthest my brain takes me. They say our first memories are usual traumatizing, for better or worse, and I couldn’t say I disagree.
I’ve been to DR about 8 times my whole life, only 3 of which I can remember; once at 7, once at 12, and last December. I remember riding the horse across this big ass mountain to get to my father’s village and getting pricked by some spiny things in the tree, and finally arrive only to see a huge village in the middle of a lush green valley.
Ojala que llueva cafe en el campo
The grua, or the tow truck, I remember being referred to as the bruja, which means witch in Spanish, and scared the shit out of me. I literally remember thinking there was some crazy psycho woman hovering through the air stealing cars because people were parked where they shouldn't have been.
A ella le gusta la gasolina, dame mas gasoline.
When I would go to the store and my 1 American dollar could buy me maddd cookies, I was overwhelmed, the crazy thing is that I still got change back too
The coconut trees, and trying to get mangos that were so up high, and tasted so good.
The rain was definitely my favorite, I remember running outside naked and having the huge rain drops smack me so hard on my back that I could almost fall, and they stung too. But it felt so great.
She’ll make you take your clothes off and go dancing in the rain.
The lights would go out randomly, but it was most fun at night, because I had to find my way back home or else el cuco was gonna eat my penis, at least that’s what mami said.
And the passion of Juan Luis Guerra’s voice.
"Quisiera ser un pez,
Para tocar mi nariz en tu pecera,
Y hacer burbujas de amor por donde quiera,
Oh oh oh oh, pasar la noche en vela mojado en ti."
But by far, the memory that stuck out was going to mami’s house, where she grew up.
Before I go into detail about this, let me tell you all that I just came from Uganda this past summer, and some of the houses in Uganda looked like mansions compared to mami’s. it was literally a house built of branches, I don’t even know how it was still standing. Mami doesn’t even remember her parents, they died when she was about 5, and she was the youngest of 10 brothers and sisters. Because there were no adults around, everyone helped to take care of one another, but especially of my mother who would stay at home alone while everyone went to make some type of plata.
Mami showed me the table where she used to put herself to sleep in tears, because she was so sad, that hurt me the most.
Like most of our parents here, the journey from our home countries to America was probably not the easiest. And I won’t try to start telling you that story because I know we’d be here for hours; difficult to say the least.
My mom stopped going to school after 2nd grade, and on her way to Brooklyn she paid a man on the plane 20 dollars, to teach her the ABC’s and sign her name, and somehow raised a son who’ll be graduating come May with Honors up his ass and degrees comprised of words she probably never even knew existed.
And when you really take time to think about it, it’s incredible. That from a small village in a 3rd world country in a matter of 22 years, someone could change their life so drastically.
And that battle has not been so recent either. We are here today, living because all of our ancestors, fought for the best for us.
Yes, my family came from the campo, and I am damn proud of it.
Yes, my dad doesn’t have a full set of teeth because while he was homeless growing up he only ate sugar cane, and I am damn proud of it.
Yes, my sister’s may have gotten pregnant when they were 18, but they are very successful women; and no matter what anyone stereotypes, I am damn proud of it.
I’m Dominican and I’m gay and I’m damn proud of it.
My mom almost died giving birth to me, and I’m damn proud of it.
My parents speak little to no English, and they passed their citizenship tests, IN ENGLISH and I am damn proud of it.
I live in the projects in Spanish Harlem and I am proud of it.
At one point, our ancestors were enslaved, but somehow we are here and I am damn proud of it.
At one point, A wall will be finished to prevent Mexicans from getting into the US, but they will cross, and damnit I will be proud of that too.
At one point I will die, and I will return to the earth, and I will be proud of that too.
And while I may not know all the roots of my culture, las raices de mi cultura, I know my cultura is Latino, and I am damn proud of that.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
The Important Privileged Minority
I just drove into one of the nicest gaudiest looking spots I’ve seen so far in Los Angeles, The Grove. People are attractive, dress well, drive in nice cars, and look happy, like they live ideal lives. I’m driving around with a car that has been shitted on well over 50 times by the birds which hover over my parking spot (and I refuse to pay money to have it washed because I know it’s just going to get shat on again), with speakers that I have to hit whenever I want them to work (speakers are a luxury especially when you can just sing to yourself), and with windows that don’t roll down (I don’t want to pay extra money to get them fixed).Since the windows don’t work I have to step out of the car in order to grab the parking ticket which allows me to park in this 7 floor lot, in the process I hold up the cars behind me for a few seconds until I get back in. O well, they have to wait because I’m a privileged minority.
I was on the phone with my older sister who I haven’t spoken to in quite some time. We were catching up, and wound up getting into a conversation about our lives growing up. Although we grew up in the projects of Spanish Harlem (and my parents still live in the same apartment, having moved only once from the 9th floor to the 10th floor), I explained to her I never felt the pressures that people associate with those who will in areas of lower income. I think that my parents did a good job of not exposing me to any financial family troubles, which did or course exist, or any dangers which were also very real in our neighborhood. In this way, I think I grew up perceiving the world as a perfectly perfect place.
Then I went to middle school and things changed. It was a sharp change, from going to a predominantly poor Black and Latino school (with one White student who also just happened to be the Valedictorian), to interacting with very financially and educationally privileged people (most of who were Asian and White). In elementary school, the world, my comfortable world, was full of Blacks and Latinos and the occasional Asians who owned the fruit and vegetable markets in El Barrio, and White people who were on TV and one who was my 3rd grade teacher, too. Nonetheless, the world I knew was a happy, fun, care-free place.
I didn’t know things were different until I witnessed gaps for myself. The white kids spoke about things I never heard of in my life, read books I never knew existed, knew about things I never learned, lived in 6 bedroom 3 bathroom labyrinth condos with hallways you lost yourself in, traveled outside of the country to places I never knew existed (except for Dominican Republic where they stayed in resorts I never even knew existed- in my own country!) and when their families just didn’t want to leave the U.S.A. they had their country houses, had nicer, cooler, school supplies, went out to classy looking places for lunch, did their groceries at D’agostino (am I spelling this right? I still don’t know), ate organic fruits and vegetables, and did all types of things my mouth still drops at the thought of. So imagine, when our teacher tells us we have to work on a project, and my privileged group mates decide it will be a good idea to rotate at each other’s houses to work on it. I almost shit my pants when I remembered that I didn’t have a doorman, snacks, large open spaces, cool supplies, office space where my parents used for after work, clean elevators (hell! Working elevators). Fuck, my parents shopped at MET Supermarkets! What was I going to do? How the hell would I ever compare to them?
Middle school, was the first time in my life I realized things weren’t as peachy as I thought they were. Through my new found awareness on the existing social disparities, my insecurity, then my anger and bitterness toward my own living situation, then my desire to react and not be perceived as being less privileged, was all born. I wanted to be the smartest, look the best, be liked, to fit in, my new real world, and grew resentment for the old one. I was less fortunate but didn’t want to be considered as such. I was ashamed and disgusted at myself.
Because the realization of this inequality at a young age, coupled with my need to fit in, I believe I placed blame and anger on the wrong group for a good time in my life. I was angry that minorities weren’t able to pick themselves up and fix their own situations, and thought them lazy with the assumption they never even tried. In reality, I should have been enraged that there was a group of privileged people who had established a world with institutions, policies, mindsets, to not only help create a group of less fortunate people, but to keep them down as well.
Then I began to think about the definition of what it means to be privileged. To be privileged is to have some special advantage that not all can enjoy. I realized not too long after, that while there are many hindrances inherent in being classified and perceived as a minority, gay, etc., I myself am privileged in several ways. I am an American male, I was brought up in a fairly stable family with fairly stable resources, I have access to higher education in a community where it is more difficult than many other groups to gain it, I have also met people in my life that through mere association with them make me more privileged than others. I am both more and less privileged. It is for this reason, and for many others, I consider myself, and others like me, to be a very unique and important type of privileged person. I have had the experience of both ends of this spectrum, and even though they may not be extremes ends of the spectrum, I have enough understanding to know these disparities exist. To be your typical privileged person is not enough to fix the maladies of the less fortunate, and unfortunately the less fortunate do not always have the resources required to change these differences. This is why the privileged minority is the most important.
I think the biggest danger to social change is to be privileged and lack the awareness that we are.
However I think it is important to also note the difference between a privilege which is innate and one which is earned.
The space in between those two is where work needs to be done.
I was on the phone with my older sister who I haven’t spoken to in quite some time. We were catching up, and wound up getting into a conversation about our lives growing up. Although we grew up in the projects of Spanish Harlem (and my parents still live in the same apartment, having moved only once from the 9th floor to the 10th floor), I explained to her I never felt the pressures that people associate with those who will in areas of lower income. I think that my parents did a good job of not exposing me to any financial family troubles, which did or course exist, or any dangers which were also very real in our neighborhood. In this way, I think I grew up perceiving the world as a perfectly perfect place.
Then I went to middle school and things changed. It was a sharp change, from going to a predominantly poor Black and Latino school (with one White student who also just happened to be the Valedictorian), to interacting with very financially and educationally privileged people (most of who were Asian and White). In elementary school, the world, my comfortable world, was full of Blacks and Latinos and the occasional Asians who owned the fruit and vegetable markets in El Barrio, and White people who were on TV and one who was my 3rd grade teacher, too. Nonetheless, the world I knew was a happy, fun, care-free place.
I didn’t know things were different until I witnessed gaps for myself. The white kids spoke about things I never heard of in my life, read books I never knew existed, knew about things I never learned, lived in 6 bedroom 3 bathroom labyrinth condos with hallways you lost yourself in, traveled outside of the country to places I never knew existed (except for Dominican Republic where they stayed in resorts I never even knew existed- in my own country!) and when their families just didn’t want to leave the U.S.A. they had their country houses, had nicer, cooler, school supplies, went out to classy looking places for lunch, did their groceries at D’agostino (am I spelling this right? I still don’t know), ate organic fruits and vegetables, and did all types of things my mouth still drops at the thought of. So imagine, when our teacher tells us we have to work on a project, and my privileged group mates decide it will be a good idea to rotate at each other’s houses to work on it. I almost shit my pants when I remembered that I didn’t have a doorman, snacks, large open spaces, cool supplies, office space where my parents used for after work, clean elevators (hell! Working elevators). Fuck, my parents shopped at MET Supermarkets! What was I going to do? How the hell would I ever compare to them?
Middle school, was the first time in my life I realized things weren’t as peachy as I thought they were. Through my new found awareness on the existing social disparities, my insecurity, then my anger and bitterness toward my own living situation, then my desire to react and not be perceived as being less privileged, was all born. I wanted to be the smartest, look the best, be liked, to fit in, my new real world, and grew resentment for the old one. I was less fortunate but didn’t want to be considered as such. I was ashamed and disgusted at myself.
Because the realization of this inequality at a young age, coupled with my need to fit in, I believe I placed blame and anger on the wrong group for a good time in my life. I was angry that minorities weren’t able to pick themselves up and fix their own situations, and thought them lazy with the assumption they never even tried. In reality, I should have been enraged that there was a group of privileged people who had established a world with institutions, policies, mindsets, to not only help create a group of less fortunate people, but to keep them down as well.
Then I began to think about the definition of what it means to be privileged. To be privileged is to have some special advantage that not all can enjoy. I realized not too long after, that while there are many hindrances inherent in being classified and perceived as a minority, gay, etc., I myself am privileged in several ways. I am an American male, I was brought up in a fairly stable family with fairly stable resources, I have access to higher education in a community where it is more difficult than many other groups to gain it, I have also met people in my life that through mere association with them make me more privileged than others. I am both more and less privileged. It is for this reason, and for many others, I consider myself, and others like me, to be a very unique and important type of privileged person. I have had the experience of both ends of this spectrum, and even though they may not be extremes ends of the spectrum, I have enough understanding to know these disparities exist. To be your typical privileged person is not enough to fix the maladies of the less fortunate, and unfortunately the less fortunate do not always have the resources required to change these differences. This is why the privileged minority is the most important.
I think the biggest danger to social change is to be privileged and lack the awareness that we are.
However I think it is important to also note the difference between a privilege which is innate and one which is earned.
The space in between those two is where work needs to be done.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Nip and Tuck my life
Something I wrote a few months ago but never posted, thought I'd share...
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While in the recent past I may have believed that watching TV was a complete waste of time, I guess the truth is it’s what you take AND make of that experience. If we could somehow live vicariously through these characters we watch on TV, we’d learn that we actually lose much more time being idle with our take on our own lives, than sitting in front of the tube.
I just finished watching an episode of Nip Tuck. It was one of those typical episodes that almost every successful television series has where the characters are shown some odd years in the future.
I never saw myself getting into this show to be quite honest. I would always hear about it from people who watched it, but never managed to be able to commit myself to a TV drama (besides the Spanish soap operas I watched with my mom when I was younger). Lo and behold a few years later, who would of imagined that it was actually a goal of mine to sit down and faithfully tune in to a drama at the same hour, of the same day of the week, every week.
That goal was largely motivated by jealousy to be quite honest. I was pretty resentful of people who would have to run home to watch a TV program; the feeling of having some type of emotional attachment and responsibility, to set yourself aside, to set some time aside of YOUR life for a TV program; the thought was kind of amazing.
Almost like some weird romantic relationship.
This episode struck my attention only because one of the characters, 20 years older, finally resolved an internal issue he had been dealing with for all those years. It hit me only because I realized how likely we all are to live everyday of our lives with internal baggage that we never seem to resolve. It becomes terrifying when I think how much of my own issues in the past has gone unresolved for seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, and at this point, possibly even a decade (all these units of time being all too long to live in avoidance). The truth is when you think about, unfinished business for 20 years is quite possible.
And I just don’t want to be one of those people.
Who looks back at the years before me and can only imagine how my quality life would have been different and how I could have been different, most likely better. How my relationships with people who I care about could have improved. And ultimately how learning to live a life of honesty with myself and other individuals and to have my actions be carried out with this understanding, would allow me to fully capitalize on my power of decision making, (which is thankfully granted to me automatically by my own existence). It’s the only way I can be truly happy. Honesty
It’s my life; so I should listen to myself
I think that’s why in the case of TV dramas, the plot line moves along fairly quickly. It is always the characters’ honesty and bluntness which eliminates the weeks, months, and years of idleness, which we don’t witness in these episodes we watch, yet experience in our lives almost every day. There’s no time for that on TV. The most you’ll get is a few seasons of a character not having confronted themselves. Yet that 1 hour on TV is actually 3 days for the characters, and when we tune in the next week, a month has already passed for them.
That’s when I start to imagine my life on the TV. I imagine how many hours of fruitless footage would be sloughed off of each day, week, and month to make one good episode of TV, and it’s depressing; but only because I choose it to be that way. I choose to remain complacent with living in fear and/or laziness, when I could very well grab my life and squeeze the potential for growth and happiness out every bit of time I have here. Kind of one of those obvious things, but kind not….
By being still I choose to not to move.
I just want to go to sleep every night and feel like I’ve learned something life changing.
That my day wasn’t a waste.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
While in the recent past I may have believed that watching TV was a complete waste of time, I guess the truth is it’s what you take AND make of that experience. If we could somehow live vicariously through these characters we watch on TV, we’d learn that we actually lose much more time being idle with our take on our own lives, than sitting in front of the tube.
I just finished watching an episode of Nip Tuck. It was one of those typical episodes that almost every successful television series has where the characters are shown some odd years in the future.
I never saw myself getting into this show to be quite honest. I would always hear about it from people who watched it, but never managed to be able to commit myself to a TV drama (besides the Spanish soap operas I watched with my mom when I was younger). Lo and behold a few years later, who would of imagined that it was actually a goal of mine to sit down and faithfully tune in to a drama at the same hour, of the same day of the week, every week.
That goal was largely motivated by jealousy to be quite honest. I was pretty resentful of people who would have to run home to watch a TV program; the feeling of having some type of emotional attachment and responsibility, to set yourself aside, to set some time aside of YOUR life for a TV program; the thought was kind of amazing.
Almost like some weird romantic relationship.
This episode struck my attention only because one of the characters, 20 years older, finally resolved an internal issue he had been dealing with for all those years. It hit me only because I realized how likely we all are to live everyday of our lives with internal baggage that we never seem to resolve. It becomes terrifying when I think how much of my own issues in the past has gone unresolved for seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, and at this point, possibly even a decade (all these units of time being all too long to live in avoidance). The truth is when you think about, unfinished business for 20 years is quite possible.
And I just don’t want to be one of those people.
Who looks back at the years before me and can only imagine how my quality life would have been different and how I could have been different, most likely better. How my relationships with people who I care about could have improved. And ultimately how learning to live a life of honesty with myself and other individuals and to have my actions be carried out with this understanding, would allow me to fully capitalize on my power of decision making, (which is thankfully granted to me automatically by my own existence). It’s the only way I can be truly happy. Honesty
It’s my life; so I should listen to myself
I think that’s why in the case of TV dramas, the plot line moves along fairly quickly. It is always the characters’ honesty and bluntness which eliminates the weeks, months, and years of idleness, which we don’t witness in these episodes we watch, yet experience in our lives almost every day. There’s no time for that on TV. The most you’ll get is a few seasons of a character not having confronted themselves. Yet that 1 hour on TV is actually 3 days for the characters, and when we tune in the next week, a month has already passed for them.
That’s when I start to imagine my life on the TV. I imagine how many hours of fruitless footage would be sloughed off of each day, week, and month to make one good episode of TV, and it’s depressing; but only because I choose it to be that way. I choose to remain complacent with living in fear and/or laziness, when I could very well grab my life and squeeze the potential for growth and happiness out every bit of time I have here. Kind of one of those obvious things, but kind not….
By being still I choose to not to move.
I just want to go to sleep every night and feel like I’ve learned something life changing.
That my day wasn’t a waste.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
Food for thought
It is very difficult to define ourselves. If there was nothing in the world besides ourselves we would have absolutely no identity. The concept of existence starts with the floor; the boundary which distinguishes ground from air, and up from down. The more elements that we add in our environment the more we are able to define who we are. When it comes to our personalities there is no exception. We only know ourselves because there are other humans around. We learn to define our personality by what we are not and by what people perceive us to be; much in the same way the floor determines what is grounded and what is not. On the other hand, while I cannot define myself without the presence of any environment, I am egocentric. The world I live in only exists because I am living. It is therefore rightly mine. I create how I view the world, myself, other people. I make decisions for myself and absolutely always choose ones that benefit me; because it's my life. Conflict arises with recognition that there are 6 billion other people in the world, who are also just as real as I am. The way of the world is to acknowledge these differences, not imposing the decisions which are best for me, on other people. In this way, I do “good” by trying to do no harm; by both worshiping and fearing the control that I have, I have become who I am.
As children, we know the world only to be what is immediately in front of us. Our families set up the foundation of our future social interactions because they are the first social interaction we have. It is the second that we are thrust out of our most comfortable zones, usually from our homes and into school, that we realize the world is not as effortless as we once believed. The new people we begin to interact with bring conflict and criticism to those qualities which we are either born with or have grown to become. At this point we are left with no choice but to introspect; does the problem lie within ourselves or our critics?
As children, we know the world only to be what is immediately in front of us. Our families set up the foundation of our future social interactions because they are the first social interaction we have. It is the second that we are thrust out of our most comfortable zones, usually from our homes and into school, that we realize the world is not as effortless as we once believed. The new people we begin to interact with bring conflict and criticism to those qualities which we are either born with or have grown to become. At this point we are left with no choice but to introspect; does the problem lie within ourselves or our critics?
Thursday, October 8, 2009
El Sen~or de Philadelphia
I almost forgot how important it is to write.
Truth is, some people never write, some people write more than others, and some people dedicate their lives to writing. While I’ve never considered myself a writer per say, I’ve always acknowledged the importance of writing to help me gain insight into the workings of the world, the people who live in it, and myself. When I write I am much more organized in thought and in action and begin to feel more like an active participant in my environment rather than an observer (in behavior with myself and with others), as a result of my heightened awareness….
10-7-09
I met an older man from Philadelphia who came into our clinic to receive a free flu shot. After helping register him to receive his vaccine, I mentioned to him I was from NYC and not long after found myself engaged in heavy conversation. We spoke about Dominican Republic, yucca con cebollas and everything in between. He had piercing eyes which spoke words of their own, powerfully reinforcing the heartfelt words which so sweetly flowed from his lips into my ears- ‘nunca olvide tus raices’ – never forget your roots.
Every day I walk out of my new LA house into the community of Pico Union. Pico Union community whose population is 90% Latino, mostly Mexican, but a good portion are Honduran, Guatemalan, and El Salvadoran is your typical Barrio setting. I feel right at home. Every day I drive to work and as of late have been nonstop blasting the “In the Heights” soundtrack just getting lost in the music, while simultaneously driving and dancing to the heavy conga beats, blasting trumpets, and powerful voices. I hear the lyrics pacience y fe, patience and faith, and think of my mom’s similar (but not exact) version of the same message, todo a su debido tiempo, everything in due time. I think about how lucky I am to be here and about the struggles which were overcome by my parents to get us where we are today. I also think about the struggles which other families like mine went through, are going through, and will go through, and how resilient the human heart and mind can be. I am so proud to come from a mother who at the age of 30-something paid someone 20 dollars to teach her the ABC’s on a plane on the way to the United States and that I have a dad who’s had to wear dentures his whole life because the only thing he could manage to eat growing up was sugar cane. Because of them and their struggles, I have the power to change the world, and to take part in tearing down systems which to this day continue to hold people, not only those of Latino background, down. I can fight for those who don’t have a voice.
I am so proud to be Latino. I am so proud to be gay. I am so proud to be an uncle, a brother, a son, a lover, a friend, to be a man. I am so proud to be a human being who can empathize with other human beings. I am so proud to be me.
Thank you old man from Philadelphia: I promise I will never forget my roots.
Truth is, some people never write, some people write more than others, and some people dedicate their lives to writing. While I’ve never considered myself a writer per say, I’ve always acknowledged the importance of writing to help me gain insight into the workings of the world, the people who live in it, and myself. When I write I am much more organized in thought and in action and begin to feel more like an active participant in my environment rather than an observer (in behavior with myself and with others), as a result of my heightened awareness….
10-7-09
I met an older man from Philadelphia who came into our clinic to receive a free flu shot. After helping register him to receive his vaccine, I mentioned to him I was from NYC and not long after found myself engaged in heavy conversation. We spoke about Dominican Republic, yucca con cebollas and everything in between. He had piercing eyes which spoke words of their own, powerfully reinforcing the heartfelt words which so sweetly flowed from his lips into my ears- ‘nunca olvide tus raices’ – never forget your roots.
Every day I walk out of my new LA house into the community of Pico Union. Pico Union community whose population is 90% Latino, mostly Mexican, but a good portion are Honduran, Guatemalan, and El Salvadoran is your typical Barrio setting. I feel right at home. Every day I drive to work and as of late have been nonstop blasting the “In the Heights” soundtrack just getting lost in the music, while simultaneously driving and dancing to the heavy conga beats, blasting trumpets, and powerful voices. I hear the lyrics pacience y fe, patience and faith, and think of my mom’s similar (but not exact) version of the same message, todo a su debido tiempo, everything in due time. I think about how lucky I am to be here and about the struggles which were overcome by my parents to get us where we are today. I also think about the struggles which other families like mine went through, are going through, and will go through, and how resilient the human heart and mind can be. I am so proud to come from a mother who at the age of 30-something paid someone 20 dollars to teach her the ABC’s on a plane on the way to the United States and that I have a dad who’s had to wear dentures his whole life because the only thing he could manage to eat growing up was sugar cane. Because of them and their struggles, I have the power to change the world, and to take part in tearing down systems which to this day continue to hold people, not only those of Latino background, down. I can fight for those who don’t have a voice.
I am so proud to be Latino. I am so proud to be gay. I am so proud to be an uncle, a brother, a son, a lover, a friend, to be a man. I am so proud to be a human being who can empathize with other human beings. I am so proud to be me.
Thank you old man from Philadelphia: I promise I will never forget my roots.
Eremophobia
There are years of sabotaging irony
in being a delicate cactus flower
Blooming beautifully at night
with worried spines only to add to desert desolation.
Pessimistic thoughts
of never being caught, not once by human eyes.
Yet to dream
Oh,
of so many
in the world
imagine, me:
To be picked!
To be plucked away by one
from my own barbs of oppressive doubt
without regard for these thorns.
To be taken away from the thoughts
of solitude
To be chosen
When I thought I’d be left alone.
-Written by Angel Rosario 10/7/09
in being a delicate cactus flower
Blooming beautifully at night
with worried spines only to add to desert desolation.
Pessimistic thoughts
of never being caught, not once by human eyes.
Yet to dream
Oh,
of so many
in the world
imagine, me:
To be picked!
To be plucked away by one
from my own barbs of oppressive doubt
without regard for these thorns.
To be taken away from the thoughts
of solitude
To be chosen
When I thought I’d be left alone.
-Written by Angel Rosario 10/7/09
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