Good, Bad, and the Ugly Politics Of Our Nation

Let’s talk about this Trump period of US history that we are in. Come on, let’s have a sincere conversation that doesn’t involve manipulative fallacies, eye rolls, meme quotations, or some sucker punch quip about orange skin or balding hair conditions in the Oval Office.

I get it. Well when I mean I get it, I’m speaking to the progressives and marginalized communities. I’m black, I can’t not get it. My family members are Caribbean immigrants. I can’t not get it. That election night was rough, and even though I cried, I wasn’t surprised. I mean what were we going to do? Put Hillary in the office? I wasn’t about to. I didn’t vote. I couldn’t, not on good conscience. More than anything I cried because it’s just another reminder that the marginalized can’t win in this society, granted a lot of minorities deceived themselves that Hillary would be a win for them. Unfortunately, she was a product of the evil system that gave Trump power. You don’t have to agree with me but that’s how I feel. What I also think is this: that despite the privilege that all white people may have, there are white people that feel oppressed, and I believe that is why Trump won.

Call me an Uncle Tom or an Oreo (Really? You’re going to call me that? Haven’t we learned that blacks have a broad range of thoughts and ways of living and speaking by 2018?), but I’m not here for the one-side fits all that I often see shared by liberals, minorities, feminists, and pro sexuality camps. The thing is, I am a sexually liberated black woman, college graduate, first-generation daughter of immigrants, and all kinds of good stuff that make up a progressive dream girl. But I’m also aware of my own privilege and I’ll take a step further and say that if equal rights were truly doled out properly I wouldn’t be in the successful place I am. I’ve been given so many extra accolades or easy access points merely based on being in predominantly white work places and schools where a black woman who is intellectual is still an anomaly, I find myself less challenged in my grad program or praised for below average work (for my capabilities) simply because “Wow! You can do that and you’re black?? Amazing!” Ya what I’m telling you is that I benefit from implicit racist bias, and I like it sometimes, no most of the time (because I am lazy, and was told I was special too much as a kid–I’m not). I also used to feel guilty that I enjoyed when white, Asian, or non-black guys would say stupid, excuse me, racist comments to me like “you’re beautiful for a black woman” or worse, “you know I don’t usually find black women attractive — but you’re gorgeous.”
It’s fucked up, but I’ve heard it, repeatedly, and I’ll admit to you, I’ve even fallen for some of these dumb guys who have said these things. That’s to tell you about my own insecurities I’ve had to overcome, and the blindness I once had, of my own value and magic, but that’s a whole long story we’re not going to go into now.

My point is, as much as all of the marginalized communities desperately cry for their identity to be not only seen but deemed equal? I sometimes wonder if we recognize how much our society would truly change if we were all deemed equal. We’d lose that subculture status, we’d lose that originality card, we’d be just another regular person, and more importantly we’d lose a sense of victimhood that some of us have carried (with good reason) our whole lives. Sure, a society alteration can’t change what is internalized individually, but what if society was no longer an excuse for our anger, hurt, and our pointing fingers? What then?

I guess all we’d have to deal with is our own human condition, and I wonder if we can actually deal with that.

Then we have the fundamentals.
I’m all too familiar with this faction of thought having been raised as an evangelical Christian in the conservative dreamland that is the mega church. Sometimes it amazes me how the pro-life fight and sense of family values like hetereo-marriage and fiscal stability become so blinding to the other stories in America that are not their own. I also find it so curious how there’s this sense of patriotism swirled into the conservatism ideologies that, my America is THE America and should be kept or protected as such. As if, your immigrant ancestors didn’t work hard to create your idea of what America is today, as if there can’t be a chance given to today’s immigrants to make their America, and most of all as if your story is the only RIGHT story. There’s this massive part of America in the hearts of small towns, suburbs, country sides, and gated communities that has been insulated from the other, all kinds of others and whatever isn’t normal to these people, is seemingly wrong to them unfortunately. However, due to the growing enlightenment of western society the seams are cracking on the perfectly sewn America that these people have created with carpools and community centers. Now the other is forced into their realities whether through the Internet or the browns and other unfamiliar lifestyles coming into their towns. It’s happening, it’s scary, and then angering because boundaries are crossed without any acknowledgment of their America and identity.

So here we are in our modern day culture war. Two camps growing in frustration to a climactic firestorm, and our buzzwords are only firing more divisive lines between one another. The echo chambers are created on social media, news, and in all of our homes. One camp is written off as a bunch of snowflakes, while the others are all bigots, and there’s been no consideration of the other within anyone’s narrative.

Progressives, let me give you a word of warning, your shouts of rape culture, appropriation, and privilege constantly bombarding the rest of the world on the internet falls on deaf ears outside of your leftist gang. The pseudo intellectual articles re-shared that a man is wrong and a white man is evil only perpetuate the madness that you’ve got nothing worth listening to! Therefore, when legitimate arguments are presented, like taking a respectful knee during a game to bring attention to police brutality by football stars, the patriots have already closed their ears to anything the entire progression movement has to say. It’s yet another thing they don’t understand– all they see is: Somehow I’m wrong? Somehow my America is wrong to you? Somehow you want to change my homes, traditions, community, and sense of family? Fuck you. Then there’s rage. And here we are, the product of rage is a voted in president, that has shaken the entire nation’s system and idea of what it is to be an American.

Don’t get me wrong! I’m not here to defend the conservative groups in America. I understand your outrage, fears, and discomfort with those unfamiliar. But also you must consider your America’s history. When were the people who want to conserve the old ways ever the good guys? The agents of change were people you value like Billy Graham, Abraham Lincoln, Mother Theresa, and Martin Luther King Jr., Jesus, and many more! The fundamental point of family, faith, and values is love, right? So why can’t that be involved in your sense of politics and ideology of this changing America. Listen, as much as you want to turn a blind eye to it– just like the reality of abortion of babies (if you believe life begins at conception) is a horrendous thing? Or the sobering gravity of military families struggling to fight for the country despite long distance and other obstacles? Police brutality toward black men and women, prejudices against women, immigrants, blacks and numerous non- whites in the majority of career fields, or the high number of women that have been sexually harassed or assaulted in their lifetime– to just name a few things progressives like to scream about, are all equally real and unjust. Also, there are things given more freely if you’re white and or male, and that doesn’t mean that you never struggle, it just means that there’s pains and obstacles you’ll never experience simply because of your race. White people don’t need to feel guilty about this idea, nor pity those who aren’t white. It’s just a way to deepen your understanding of another person’s story and to empathize.

I’m not saying I wish everyone would sit down and just give up their principals. But as someone who is moderate amidst all of this divisive-provoking memes-celebrity outcry-and all things offensive-era we’ve sprung ourselves into on the Internet and in politics, Id like to offer an idea for an alternative behavior: empathy. I think for true progression to begin and the best protection of our families ‘ and their future we must set down our words used as weapons and begin to listen to one another and come to a reconciliation.

It begins with us making vulnerable and difficult actions in our daily lives. Take a girlfriend to coffee that voted for Trump and ask her why she did it. Message that woman that bashed the military on Facebook. Grab a beer with the guy who hashtags #alllivesmatter and ask more about his perspective. Listen when someone says they have a gun, and hear them out. Take the time to know why you believe in your principals and patiently convey to them (without your buzzwords) why they are important. Most of all, I believe it is imperative that we all listen more. It’s the only way we can both progress and protect our values.

I have been practicing this in my own life. For example, I have had some hard conversations regarding race with my white friends, but I’m not going to stop having them even when it hurts and I have wanted to pull their hair out. I love these people enough to still be real with them. I have also challenged my friends and been challenged when they or I have posted an offensive meme or article, made an insensitive joke, or forgot to consider an opposing perspective when discussing their take on today’s culture climate. Having this outlook hasn’t been easy, it’s been messy and it’s been hard, but I did it, I need it, and I will continue to do so. Because that to me is human. That is what I believe empathy looks like in our daily lives.


Perhaps we’ll always be divided because in spite of empathy there’s still hateful and hurt people who wont ever let their victimhood and defenses go. As for the rest of us, I think we could try a little more, actually a lot more.



Six Days

Do you ever feel like everyone feels emotions with a large coat on, and you’re out there feeling every wind, every chill, every ice, every flurry, and snowflake completely bare in the nude? And it seems like everyone is staring at you, inquisitively, as if to say, why are you screaming about the cold, and you’re like, “CAN YOU ALL NOT SEE THAT I DO NOT HAVE A COAT ON!? I DON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO PROTECT ME!”
Yeah.That is what feeling feelings is like for me.
It was Friday morning; my breathing was heavy as if an entire elephant had sat on top of my chest. I kept going over the various flashes of memories from that night six days ago. My worst fears had me seized to my bed. So there I was, laying on my bed waiting, for him to respond, I had given him a week. Well, one day less than a week, but let’s round up because it was basically a week, right? Wasn’t one day less than a week enough time to process hooking up with your best friend? I’ll be honest I went through all kinds of emotions that week, and I had had enough emotions on my own, I needed his help, I needed some reassurance, I needed some light because I was at the end of my tunnel.

The first day after our impromptu drunken rendezvous, I couldn’t stop smiling, and that’s embarrassing to admit now, but it’s true. My surmises of what had happened between us were delusional, but I was happy. We hadn’t spoken since he hurriedly left the next morning, but I assumed it would work itself out into a fairytale. My two friends had recently begun dating, and they started the same way. They were best of friends for nearly six months, one thing led to another, and before I could blink they were in love. It was all very startling to watch, and I envied how easily they fell into something so enchanting. I’ll tell you for those first two days I wondered, maybe this was it— maybe this was the beginning of my own love story. It didn’t matter that the pair of us were never good at honest conversations sober, that he hadn’t had a meaningful relationship before, and honestly neither had I all didn’t matter because I was idealistic. I couldn’t stop dreaming up my very own love story that would play out like a modern day Jane Austen novel, and this was the big drama before my entrance to happily-ever-after.


Day three came and went hearing nothing from him, and I began to worry. What if he regretted it? I mean, it was definitely not the best physical exchange, in fact, it was kind of, no, really sloppy, and the only thing that made it special was that it was us together, touching, and naked. It was a heavy and loud night– not sexually, okay maybe a little sexually because I am loud, but emotionally. I have had sexier nights, and I’m sure he has, no I know, he had and has since. However, the friendship feelings we had for one another along with the confusion right at the edge of each of our throats, it kept us in this consumptive closeness that night, which was more provocative than any kind of carefree sexcapade I had ever had before that night. During the heat of everything, in spite of knowing all that we knew about one another, we still seemed to both want to be with one another. Perhaps it was just a night of us living out our carnal nature, but for me, it felt more than just two bodies slamming into one another, it felt immensely intimate, and I hadn’t ever felt like that before with anyone. I don’t know this for sure, but whatever his perception of that night was, I doubt he had experienced anything like that night either. His friendship was particularly important to me; he had become a safe bank to place all of my emotion coins. I could never own up to myself or anyone how much I had always felt feelings that were never platonic for him. He was too uncontrollable and scary for me to want to accept that I wanted to connect to him both emotionally and sexually, but as a friend, there was a special space he kept for me in the midst of his silly antics and sexual endeavors, and that made me feel special. So to be suddenly pitted into the throngs of the many other women he sized up, objectified, and left behind without a thought would be both vulnerable and hurtful. I wasn’t one of THOSE girls. I was his confidant and affectionately adored friend, and suddenly because of getting caught up in liquor and fanciful whims, I realized day three, that maybe that had all changed.


Day four was the worst of the week. He still hadn’t messaged me anything. I couldn’t teach an entire class session all day, and by the end of the day– my students with their broken English had named me, “crying teacher.” In all my time in Korea, I had never felt so alone; my two friends were far off into their new found love land, my other friends had moved out of the country, and my old friends back at home were safely lost in their own routines. He was my person that I’d go to about all of this, and yet I couldn’t because I was losing my shit over him. The sad thoughts were increasingly stacked against my mind, and I wasn’t sure how much more I could handle before I broke.

On day five the voices of my students and coworkers sounded like warbled voices you only hear when underwater. I was fixated on the fact that my new reality could be flung from my most prized friendship. I couldn’t even pause to think, this guy had become my ‘best friend” only a short eleven months ago, because all of my emotions kept me from rationalizing through the situation. Girls can be crazy with their emotions, but when I am in the midst of big feelings it looks and feels a lot like psychosis. It is rather humiliating now, to recollect those thoughts that were once so enormous. The most monstrous thought I had been fixated on was, if this friendship were to end, I’d be nothing. I wanted to stop breathing forever! You know, the sex just exposed my insane level of neediness for him, but at the time it simply felt like yet another closed door to a loving happily ever after, that I couldn’t seem to manipulate myself into.

On day six his silence was settling in on me. The skies were blue, and it was haunting how cheerfully the clouds loomed brightly white and the sun shone affectionately. I knew that I couldn’t go another day trapped inside my head. I took my bicycle and rode, and when I was far enough out of ear shot from anyone to judge or question my sanity, I began to scream. I screamed loud and long, as I pedaled, and I didn’t stop for what seemed like miles. I screamed, I sobbed, I threw my bicycle down, wailed in lamentation, I fell into the grass and cried with my whole body in a fit, and then I grievously howled some more. That day was the closest I’d come to a prayer in three years. It wasn’t a cathartic scream or cry either, it was the kind that felt bottomless, like the kind of scream where my voice would betray me before my screams were finished flowing out. There was a patch where I yelled ‘why’ over and over. There was a patch where I shrieked, “Fuck you!” I started singing that over and over with some made up melody in my broken, harmony-less voice. And then I screamed again. I picked up my bicycle, rode back home, noiseless sweltering tears streamed down my cheeks as I rode. I went back into my apartment, swiftly grabbed my phone as I sat down, and drafted and re-drafted several messages to him, and settled with,

“Hey, how’s your week been?”

I climbed into my bed, pulled the covers over my head, and waited for his response.

Tragic Crushes

Crushes can feel like daisies, but sometimes all they are is a mistaken mirage of misery.


We laid
pressed against wild flowers
between our fingers, petals crept in
and above us were clouds tumbling into shapes

We read Kurt Vonnegut novels
well you did— I only said that I did
as you played Damien Rice’s latest album on your Ipod

You said, it was ironic, to behave for pretension’s sake
your afternoon delights were an eccentric’s dream
and you drew me into a vortex for play
as if we were characters on an independent film

You had refined taste and manner
taste for European desserts
and an acquired taste for wine and art

We only seemed to befriend
dramatic thespians, sleepy singers, and social outliers
the world I found in you, felt pertinent
substantially pertinent for my coming of age

I was at a loss near you
I had no airs to navigate a masquerade
I could only emulate you
so you became me

But you abandoned me and left me behind so easily
I should have known
just as your whimsy came and went
for your latest thrifted purchase
so could your delight for me
and it did

I was left alone with all the things you gave to me
and I used them all
to play pretend


I can’t stop picking petals off of my flowers at the thought of you
Hoping my childish wishes come true

Your color. All of your colors burn chromatically all over my skin,
when I am with you
I seep into your existence

Every piece of me feels your power, your color, your magnitude
I am wildly bewildered that you– magnificent you, cares for me too

I can be swallowed whole by your affection
I want time to stop every time your kisses land on mine

All of your odds and ends captivate me
Your thrills make me spin, but
I know the loss of you could make me spiral

I’ve already lost me, by finding you too intoxicating to look away even once
So here I am

Its dawn
I can’t leave my bed, even though my friends are waiting for me
I am curled  in a ball, barely able to breathe
that it may never come

I am staring at my black phone screen
for you to light it up once more.


Flowery letters

Letter after letter

They all read the same




And I ate away at all of your sadness and relished in it

I liked when you needed me

Till you became an actual boy who cared for me

It was too much

So I ran away


Like bee to pollen
my senses heighten in your proximity
you’ve took care, treading slowly toward me
barely a misstep in sight
but even the faintest advance

I’ve noticed

You’ve exhausted the nearest line
without an error in sight
but there’s a room, that holds no agency of secrecy
no need for rules or supposed to’s
there; you and I could exist

And every time my fingers trace the air between yours
I imagine that room
wishing it were here and
wishing it were real

Your words sometimes spill out, but you lean back
ensuring their slow pace, ensuring your slow pace
because we must sip at this slowly
before all of this evaporates
because if it’s gone—what then?

Essay V

ESSAY V| My Unlucky Exit

This is the fifth of five essays written to summarize my first year working in Korea. I lived and worked in the most unusual environment of my entire life, and while I am grateful that I experienced a lot of uniquely difficult situations, it took a long time to conclude what it really is that I had experienced with 50 other foreigners. For those that experienced that year with me or for those who have always wondered what even happened to me that year— this is to enlighten you.

“I don’t know if you believe in a god or not, but I think that there may be some kind of force keeping you from  being here— you are just so unlucky.” Those were the words I received when my boss told me that she was not letting me extend my year contract. It was a mere three months that I had requested, and the administration couldn’t allow me the extension. I’d lived and worked at this job as if it were a university instead of a workplace. It’d been the college experience I had never had, having attended a Christian university and abiding by their rules. Through the summer of my contract my lack of professionalism was at an all time low; drinking and clubbing on weekdays, running 4-5 minutes late everyday for class, and teaching the bare minimum with a hangover. Granted, I had never maintained professionalism even at my best, and I was at my worst at this job, but I kept excusing myself thinking, “everyone is at their worst here! This job is a joke!” Moreover, I was in the midst of my own personal crisis. Perhaps it was the distance from my community all the way in South Korea, where I had to face the realization how much I didn’t believe in a God that I had professed as mine, my entire life. I was angry that I had kept myself away from so many experiences. In those ten short months I had done so many things I had never felt free to do before. It was an exquisite feeling and that was the funnest summer of my life. Although I had partook in a lot more tawdry or delinquent extracurricular behavior before that summer, it was never done without the feeling of shame. That summer, guilt had vanished from my bones, and it was the feeling of “sinning” without fear that I couldn’t get enough of, and I didn’t! I reached an all time low at the end of September when the partying came to a screeching halt.

Maybe it was my lack of luck, but I drunkenly climbed into bed with the wrong boy. He was the despised Casanova of our compound, whom many girls seemed to take for a ride and become attached while he went on unscathed. There were far too many women in agony over this boy. I was behaving just like all the other girls flirting with him, in spite of myself, I was blushing near him while every inch of me was in want of his kisses. His boyish grin made my stomach leap. I couldn’t help inviting him to drink with me and my friends knowing the outcome would end catastrophically, I ignored my own intuition as well as my friends’. The last Friday of September was an eventful bash  for numerous colleagues finishing their contracts–endless drinks, dancing, and eating were had, and like most drunken work parties, mistakes were made. All my flirtatious banter with this boy came to a rousing finish with kisses, cuddles, a bit of fooling around, and most of all pillow talk. As innocent the night was with him, too many co-workers had seen us, rather, seen me with a boy who was spoken for by numerous women– and I was all the talk on Monday morning. I was mortified.

I swallowed myself into a sea of black filled with self doubt, pity, and guilt. ‘Maybe I couldn’t manage life outside of the Ten Commandments and the Holy Spirit given peace’, was the fear that I had. I had never been the end of brutal rumors and gossip, and because I couldn’t hear any of them–my imagination ran wild keeping me in a state of anxiety and stricken panic every time I was around my colleagues. The demons of my depression rared their head with enticing thoughts of self hatred and self hurt to comfort me. My curtains were drawn in October both literally and metaphorically, and I couldn’t seem to remember how to breathe.
I woke to a loud knock on my door. I looked at my phone– it was dead. As I clamored through my smelly room filled with dirty clothes strewn about, rotting fruit all over my desk, shoes laid all over my sticky floor, I opened my door meeting the face of my boss– I had slept through the entire work morning. She was beside herself with anger, and all I could manage to mutter was, “I just woke up.” So with unkempt hair and dirty clothes, I ran to class to teach in a sleepy haze of dark sadness.


Three weeks later, I was sitting in my boss’ office, dizzy with shock and unable to fully grasp the words she was saying, as she laid out the details of the end of my contract. She wasn’t letting me stay. It wasn’t that I wanted to stay there– I had become a stranger to who I was. I hadn’t showered in weeks, I felt empty inside, and I was the joke of my cohort team. The sinking feeling I had  was due to feeling singled out yet again. When the entire work place’s environment was one of partying and scandal, I couldn’t seem to manage it.  All the while, majority of my drinking buddies and colleagues kept themselves under control and were able to extend their contracts. It felt unfair, and I felt I was on the precipice of unadulterated darkness having been forced to leave the new friends I had become very dependent on. Its funny that she brought up God because there at that job, was the beginning of my end with him. Many speak about the newfound freedom that comes when you walk away from religion, but in the beginning I didn’t know which way was right. I had an unknown sense of ethics and morality. I had no coping skills to deal with conflict. I had no sense of intuition outside of the Biblical idea of peace. Most of all, I no longer had the demand to live one way or another. After walking away from God— I was extremely lost, angry, and deeply depressed. Despite long, painful, and lonely months, it didn’t diminish the truth that I could not believe in the idea of God based on Christianity or any religion.

I may never know if the decision was out of my boss’ hands that day, or if she saw the cataclysmic ruin I had fell into, and extending my stay wouldn’t have been beneficial for me. Regardless of the reason, it was done and it was a very perfect representation of my time there. Unlucky; it was a bitterly unlucky year.

An African Giant Tortoise

Image result for zoe kravitz on jimmy fallon

A few months back, Zoe Kravitz was a guest on the Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon. The story she shares, unfolds itself in between the witty banter of Jimmy and Zoe, revealing that after one date with a guy, he asks to leave her his pet Gary, a 30-pound African Giant Tortoise, while he goes on a trip. A lot was left unexplained and one week led to several weeks—a month  with ambiguity and an eventual pet turtle! The guy never asked for the turtle to be returned and in fact ends up asking her on a second date (still with no explanation about Gary the tortoise), of which she goes on–mostly for understanding about the GIANT pet she’s had for weeks. Not only was there zero explanation, but this date left her in an even bigger state of confusion due to nothing addressed about the turtle! I’m sure this story was hyperbolic for storytelling sake and for TV sake, but just the same, it is a tale about the lack of clarity found in dating that is far too common for all of us. When I watched the show, I thought to myself, “God, even the gorgeous Zoe has had to date guys that are so perplexing!”

I’ve had my share of guys leaving behind proverbial tortoises for me to keep for them. What I mean is— equally befuddling mysteries for me to solve on my own.

Is it a date or a meeting? Is this just sex or a romance? Is this a romance or a friendship? Is this a friendship or would you like to be my non sexual stand-in boyfriend or I your girlfriend?

God, the confusion ensues.

However, recently, I had a giant tortoise sized LACK of clarity.

It all started where every “love” story starts these days. Tinder. I didn’t think much of his pictures, but sometimes when I’m bored I’ll say yes to all beards. It’s slim pickings when you live abroad, and when you have mountain man taste in the middle of Asia, your acceptance level gets a bit experimental. He messaged me casually with a hint of flirtation,

Hello miss.

I’m not quite sure why I messaged him back, but I did and  we ended up keeping a relatively witty banter.  All of these messages led to one day where we spent the entire day messaging, divulging loads of common interests and passions. He was all the things! He said things like, “I don’t understand how someone can’t be a feminist,” similar Netflix queus, matching podcast playlists , memorized Girls quotes to swap, and he knew just about everything there is to know about anything. I was in sapio-sexual (sexual attraction to intellect) heaven.

The excitement about our connection quickly burned and faded when weeks, turned to months of him continuing to message daily without making any plans to meet. What was he hiding? Maybe he wasn’t actually into me? The clarity began to be more and more elusive and doubts of this connection crept in. So I demanded some kind of define- the-relationship terms, but instead I received YouTube clips of dramatic prose of  indie romantic whimsy and his hopes of love found somewhere, but I still wasn’t sure where that left him and I— and why he wouldn’t meet me!

We eventually met! He was a lot better looking in person than I imagined, and he had the tone of voice that any girl would swoon over. The entire date ended up being sporadic, unplanned, but despite that we ended the night giggling and having a great time. When we parted ways he invited me to meet him and his friends camping the following weekend.

The status of us or our time together was again still very unclear, but I went on ignoring my lack of understanding because perhaps it was too premature to demand– I mean we had only just met once. Maybe one more meeting would bring the clarity I was left without.

After numerous anxiety attacks. Self talks. Lots of wine. Four hours of travel and 50 dollars later, I made my way to his camping trip. I had to face him and his friend alone. There they were, warm, friendly, and boyish. As the day turned to evening, and his pal chatted my ear off, while he spoke no more than three sentences to me— I began to question what I was doing there. He acted as if he’d just met me, not messaged me everyday for four months. I was waiting for some kind of light-bulb to come from him; maybe some kind of an explanation from him. I went to sleep thinking, I’d pull him aside the next day. So I woke up the next morning early, invigorated by my plan, and ready to figure out what the hell was going on. I slipped out of my tent expecting the other two to be up cooking breakfast, but everyone was still asleep.

I went on a walk and returned and his friend was gone, but he was still sleeping. It was almost noon!

I went to eat and walked around the island.

1:30pm, checked in and he was still asleep.

3pm came around, and I thought surely he’d be awake— but sure enough he was still asleep.  I packed my tent and thought to myself, “if he doesn’t wake up in twenty minutes, I’ll just leave.”

I ran into his friend who was equally unsure of what to do about his friend. He was laying asleep till 4pm. This guy was snuffed out and missing his entire camping trip. The great big trip I thought would resolve all my clarity was a snoozefest for this guy– literally! His friend with seemingly very little courage to do it on his own, asked if I’d help him wake this guy up. We attempted without any success.  And as I watched him laying there, snoring away, I found the massive clarity I’d been looking for the entire time from him.

My dignity. I had realized I’d lost a bit of it while waiting for this guy to decide on me while I made it clear what I wanted. I had traveled and paid  money to come meet this guy who had snored the entire day away, and I had waited for him! I then made up my mind, that it was time I made up a decision for the both of us and provide my own clarity. I swiftly grabbed my bags, exchanged niceties with his friend, and said my goodbyes. This unclear Tinder fairy tale was finished. 

As for that African Giant Tortoise Zoe had? She ended up going back to that guy’s place after their second date. She looked around his home realizing, this isn’t a place appropriate for a giant turtle, and looking at the time she realized she had to get back and feed her now beloved pet tortoise. So with that, she said her goodbyes, and when the guy asked why she had to go, she explains. “I have go feed my pet turtle.” It was hers, and she was done waiting for an explanation from this guy— she made one for herself. 

Essay IV

This is the fourth of five essays written to summarize my first year working in Korea. I lived and worked in the most unusual environment of my entire life, and while I am grateful that I experienced a lot of uniquely difficult situations, it took a long time to conclude what it really is that I had experienced with 50 other foreigners. For those that experienced that year with me or for those who have always wondered what even happened to me that year— this is to enlighten you.

Essay IV| The Black Table

I’ve always been vehemently against the “black nod,” and for those of you unknowing of the notion? Let me break it down. There’s this understood and internationally accepted idea to nod or acknowledge the other black person in the room. There’s poetic and historical meaning behind this ‘nod’ or in some cases a wave. Its the casual fist pump of ‘power to the people’, and its the physical whisper that says, “I’m here too and I see you–keep doing it.” I always thought the entire idea was stupid. It’s as if we need support for living among others. It angered me, and it made me feel less than.
“I’m the not same as you, you don’t know me, you don’t get to nod at me just because I have the same skin tone as you, you don’t know me!”

So when I flew to Korea, I thought I was going to be in the furthest place I could be from the ‘black nods.’ But on arrival to my job, I was faced with not just nods, waves– there was a whole fucking table. An entire table that the black teachers  had segregated themselves onto. I was mortified, horrified, and disgusted, and made a note to myself that I would never find myself sitting there.


My family attended a predominantly black church till I was twelve years old, but due to the terrible bullying I received there, my parents relocated me, and soon after moved our whole family to a predominantly white church where I was much more successful socially.

White people and I just clicked from an early age— in my Midwestern suburb, that is.

I had ‘dooky’ braids, talked with a funny accent (thanks to my Trinidadian family), and stared too much (and it didn’t help that I had eyes larger than normal). Don’t get me wrong, some of my childhood best friends were African-American and we had all kinds of imaginative glorious play times. We snuck around in the bathroom stalls at church, choreographed dances to ‘Stomp’ by Kirk Franklin, made fun of fat people together, and goofed around during Sunday schools– it was a blast. But something switched when around ten years old I wasn’t allowed to watch enough Moesha episodes to learn to smack my lips, do my hair, or switch my hips like all my friends seemingly learned to do overnight. So I was bullied, and my parents’ solution was to whisk me away to kids who were still behaving like kids, and that seemed to be only found in white communities.

I remained in predominantly white communities well into my adulthood, and the older I got the more distant I felt from any kind of cultural affinity to African-Americans. I had harbored so much rejection and hurt from my small exposure that I felt disjointed from anything near that. The best part, was that I had an escape with my Caribbean family. I wouldn’t acknowledge my African-American connection and clung to the immigrant side that just couldn’t relate to African-Americans. It felt better, it felt exotic, and right to claim my Caribbean culture, and it helped me to feel justified in distancing myself from any African-American community issues or setbacks. They were them,  and although I empathized deeply, I was me. 

I remember doing a training right after I had finished university for a camp counselor job for a camp working with inner-city kids predominantly African-American. We did one of those white-privilege line activities. How it works is you take a step forward based on the privileges that you don’t even realize you have encountered based on your race or socieo-economic background. For example, take a step forward if your parents went to college, take a step backward if your parents didn’t finish high school. Its supposed to be sobering for the white people present, and I don’t know— angering for the marginalized communities represented? I’m not sure. I remember that at the end I was just a step behind the whites and equal to some when a lot of the other blacks and other non-whites were far behind us. The facilitator looked at me, with utter shock and anger, I had fucked up the activity, and I was completely naiive about where I stood in the great white world of America. I think I even took a step forward when they said do you see yourself represented in the media. “Well ya, of course,” I thought, “… Beyonce is everywhere.” I was so delusional.

Six months into my contract at my teaching job in Korea, I had successfully avoided the black table, and managed to develop an understood keep to yourself attitude between me and the girls that sat there. A new boy teacher was hired from England. He was colorful, bright eyed, and looked like Johnny Tsunami. He was just enough white for me to relate, and just enough colorful to find him cool. We had loads in common, but quickly found that we had just as much or more differences. He wasn’t impressed with all the indie folk bands I knew, and even though he knew what Patagonia was and all of the overly white labels I was into–he wasn’t moved nor even seemingly impressed. He’d always seem to move the conversation to something much more challenging for me to tackle, he’d ask me questions about being black in America. And sure, I had processed a lot of that internally by then, I had never expressed it, or even been asked by any of my other black or white friends. My few black and non-white friends I had were just as as white culturally, and my white friends— well they were white, and didn’t think to ask. His inquisitive nature and deep admiration for marginalized communities became more apparent in my friendship with him, and I learned to be a little uncomfortable with my lack of acknowledgement for an entire deep, rich, beautiful part of who I am. He judged me in a strange yet loving way. There were numerous drunken squabbles where he would tell me how he just couldn’t understand how incredibly spoiled and disillusioned my sense of race was.  But those hard conversations dripped with solvent of change within me— I couldn’t shake his comments. Although he couldn’t understand my reality, he definitely brought my own sense of it to the surface.

This buddy of mine was  annoying and frustrating but, I loved him. So, of course, when he began sitting at at the ‘black table’, I gritted my teeth, and sat down there too. It wasn’t comfortable for me whatsoever, I was giving into so much pain that  I had avoided for so many years. I was frozen with thoughts rushing every which way inside of me. The twelve- year old girl couldn’t bare this self-induced torture. She was screaming inside, “why are we sitting with the bullies.” It wasn’t those who sat there that day, it was what it represented. They held a shadow of so much pain and anguish in my past. I was always other.  It was them that caused me to feel forced to regain  self-confidence from another racial group of people— that despite their love and care, will always remind me, that I am other. So there I was faced with my otherness in all of its glory.

He wasn’t the first friend I encountered that reminded me that my racial identity was painfully deranged. Back at that camp, where I (naiively) participated in the white privilege activity. I befriended some boys, that were my co-workers, who became my first African-American friends, as an adult. They were full fleshed in what could be perceived as all the black stereotypes– baby mama and all. I fell in friend-love with them, and I resented my family members for not buying me a pair of Jordan’s, watching Boyz in The Hood in the home, or any of the small or large gems that are a part of the black American experience which I had completely missed. There was an entire existence of culture, experience, and a wealth of good stereotypes that were all very foreign to me. The beauty of my hair and the regality of my crown that so many beautiful black woman carry? That whole idea was missed. At 23, I knew about 2-3 hair styles to do, and the majority of the time— I was too scared or frustrated to do much with my hair. Going natural (with my hair) wasn’t a statement for me, it was the only option that I knew to do when I was too lazy to straighten my hair. Those boys were so special to me, but their friendship only reminded me even more that, I am a fish out of  water when it came to my own race. The older I became the more shame, embarrassment, and otherness I let pervade my idea of race regarding myself.

I was sitting at this table. To be honest, it was a lot more multicultural than black that day, but still— I was just another brown skin girl there. Sitting with them, I had to face my constant feelings of rejection by the people who look like me. I wasn’t fitting properly, I was uncomfortable, and I was ashamed by it all. At least with white people, I was black, Caribbean, and it made sense why I was different. But here? Amidst a sea of brown– I was still other. As I sat there, I could feel myself sinking into my betrayal toward that twelve-year-old brown-skin girl inside of me.  She was empty and painfully grasping for a place to be celebrated for her eccentricities. There was no room for her. The black table. The white table. The multicultural table. She belonged no where— and neither did I.

Essay III

Featured on Thought Catalogue

This is the third of five essays written to summarize my first year working in Korea. I lived and worked in the most unusual environment of my entire life, and while I am grateful that I experienced a lot of uniquely difficult situations, it took a long time to conclude what it really is that I had experienced with 50 other foreigners. For those that experienced that year with me or for those who have always wondered what even happened to me that year— this is to enlighten you.

Essay III| Sex and Deconstruction

It was a steamy July night in Daegu, South Korea, I was drunk and sweaty and so was he; his lips smashed into mine without warning. His kisses stunned me, and I could feel a rush of butterflies all the way up my spine. He was sloppy, kind of wild, but tender where it counted, and it was a lot of fun.  It wasn’t just a kiss, and not because it had led to several more. It wasn’t just a kiss because I eventually fell deeply in love with the boy who gave them. It wasn’t even just a kiss due to the subsequent  kisses after that night and all the transactions of affection between us. It was more than a kiss because that night that boy’s kisses meant everything to me. It was the first time I’d been kissed with no swindling, deception, or fright of sin in sight. Sure, we were drunk and maybe it was just silly, but it felt so wondrous. He was a new hired teacher, and I was the first girl he had kissed at our compound job thus far. It surprised me, I felt special, I felt noticed, and there wasn’t anything forbidden about this kiss. It was ripe, palpable, and I could feel every kiss down to my toes.

He kissed me.
He kissed me.
He kissed me.
I couldn’t stop giggling into my dreamy sleep. He kissed me.

There weren’t many boys before him that had kissed and held me like he had that warm night. I have never quite fit with any boy, I was too unconventional for any guy from my Christian world to understand or find me kissable. I think I am a little too strong minded, eccentric, curvy, tall, or black to find a fit from my Evangelical Christian world that I remained in (reluctantly) before I moved to Korea.  My past kissing and sexual history was full of scandal—there was always some kind of sinful shade tainted on all my experiences. I’ve lost count on how many guys, who have said something like, “I just don’t think you’re the girl I am supposed to be with.” What they meant was, not the God chosen kind of woman, I was just the girl for the stolen kisses that should remain secret. There were many things that frustrated me about the church world I was enfolded in. But for the longest time, I have been too ashamed to admit that the largest motivating thoughts that propelled me out of the Christian world, was this: “if I stayed in this church world I may never kiss a boy who wanted to kiss me, or worse yet I’d die alone never finding a companion that wanted me for me!” I felt trapped by my synchronous feelings of fear to dabble in the non-Christian dating world, and even worse was my fears to see myself as a non-Christian.

My mother’s past was full of sex-capades that I knew some or part of, but I knew the result of it all was heartbreak, mental illness, and folly. This all led her to the Lord Jesus Christ who saved her from herself and the love of Christ was ‘shed abroad in her heart’. She had numerous boyfriends and dysfunctional sexual partners, and she didn’t want her daughters experiencing anything near what her experiences were. She got her wish, I as the eldest, was devout to my faith and was trembling with fear when it came to anything sexual. I had early sexual experiences, but for the majority of my high-school and college years I stayed out of the dating world apart from crushes and wedding daydreams. Attending Christian schools my whole life, I was in a community, that demanded a boyfriend and a wedding as a rite of passage, I had always felt without a sense of full womanhood only having secretive kisses from other girls’ boyfriends and sneaky underpants stuff that I was too ashamed to tell my best friends or mother about. My Caribbean mother is a beautiful, strong, faith-filled Christian woman with good reason, and I always understood why her faith was important, and tried my best to emulate it as much as I could. However, by twenty-five, I was far too frustrated with my own experiences of feeling overlooked in the church when it came to dating, and I felt angry that I couldn’t convey to my parents that the very place of safety they brought their daughters into, had betrayed me and my sense of self.

When I came to Korea I could face my questions and although my Christianity was already staggeringly unorthodox, I still got the chance to further my grappling doubt, and I now had the space to make conclusions. There were massive things I had to face like if Christian was what I wanted to be identified as, when I doubted most of the Bible. Was I just hanging onto Christianity for the sake of my family and friends? Why am I hanging onto these strange rules of sexuality because of ideologies from a book that I don’t adhere to? That was probably the scariest thought to cross my mind. Other questions arose while I was in Korea that I hadn’t even known were issues for me. Could I kiss a boy that didn’t believe in a God (that I barely did myself) — could I kiss a boy that never ever and will never believe in God? Deconstruction of religion plays mind games with you. It’s funny what rules and regulations are stubborn enough to hang on. I didn’t believe Christ was a deity, yet was more afraid to kiss a boy who didn’t identify as a Christian— more than having sex with a guy who did.

I  brought along a hodgepodge of contradictions when it came to sexuality and my waning faith with me to Korea. I was too afraid to tell anyone that I masturbate and have for years. I could do some stuff with boys if it didn’t mean anything, but sometimes kissing seemed to matter more, in my head. I could kiss girls because that felt more empowering and cool rather than sexual. I could be a feminist and vote pro-choice. I could watch porn and not feel ashamed. I was even okay kissing and much more with Christian boys (if they let it happen—which was rare to find). But I was still too afraid to do a lot of sexual things that meant all my questions and doubt in my faith were real.

That balmy summer night cloaked by stars and perspiration, an atheist kissed me. His kisses unfettered something inside me that night. He later became one of my closest friends, he wasn’t just open minded—his mind soared. I couldn’t keep up, but I was incessantly learning from him and his experiences. It seemingly felt like each weekend, I’d scamper to him after a crazy night and report back all the lurid details that I had gotten myself into, things I was all too afraid to do just a few short months before I met him. He’d lean back, eyes wide and sparkle, and laughingly cheer me on. “Good for you! How was it!?” Then he’d sensationalize me with his own licentious affairs of his weekend. He was free, and he not only accepted my newfound freedom, he celebrated it. He showed me what shame free sexuality looks like, and I couldn’t have been more mesmerized. I felt infinite once kissed by him. There was no such thing as a wrong sexual act. There was no one that I couldn’t kiss. There wasn’t anything off limits. He’d laugh at my drunken promiscuity and high-five me. He’d snuggle me after a night with some other guy, listening to all my stories, smiling. This atheist kissed my shame away, and I’ve found meeting him indispensable for my post-faith sexual liberation.

I couldn’t be more grateful for that clammy, sticky, July night— and those kisses that were all for me.