revisiting reflections + et al.

i have had obsessive compulsive disorder since i was 5 years old. 22 years later, it has chilled out, but still manifests itself in the occasional anxiety attacks + bouts of depression. i have been medicated since I was 9 years old. i was lucky to have had the resources + the parental support to go through cognitive behavioral therapy from 5th grade onward with the dopest womxn of color from new delhi.

since i was old enough to watch nickelodeon (lawd knows like 2...late 20th century baby) + be sucked into the capitalist cold-brewed commercials all about the latest-n-greatest diaries (remember the ones with the voice lock, or the black light?!), i always had practiced on some scale reflection + journal writing. because i went to a sf public school that promoted art + holistic growth (+ also had an sister 7 years older + would oft explore her room / try to find diaries...oops), i was a fan of writing my thoughts. 

but it wasn’t until i began to see my very first therapist (4th grade after public panic attacks during basketball summer league...embarrassing as fuck) that i really began documenting my daily thoughts, more specifically during that time, my worries. 

my oldest journal is the orange tie-dye one from old navy. my therapist told me to write down all my worries there + we would eventually categorize them, identify them, + name them. i was 8.


14 out of the legitimately 200 worries I wrote from 2001. i laugh now, because some of these are so existentialist + some absurd, + truly making me realize: fuck, i was an awesome kid. 


true, a deeply paranoid + anxious child. but i think i was just a sensitive child, hyperaware of the society i was apart of. i was a pure product of the early '90s - mentally sucked into the wormhole that is television + exposed to the autobahn-pace of media ads (this was then, but now...oh wee cuz). i think a lot of my obsessive compulsive disorder was propelled by the world that was happening around me + the particular traumatic triggers i experienced, coalescing with my own family's history of trauma.


i love my 8 year old self because i distinctively mention i don't trust males. haha. kids be knowing. kids be knowing, sensing more than adults give kids credit for. youth are precocious as fuck, in their own diverse ways, + pick up on cues + nuances like it's nobody's business. to think that our current amerikkkan government continues to ridicule, undermine, + dehumanize young folks at the us-mexico border (honestly, the us was actually all just mexico...all just one land...what the fuck is a border?)...

as an early childhood teacher + person who underwent intense distress + trauma early on, yet mos def no where near the same magnitude (cc: my privilege) as the young children torn from their families + incarcerated in modern-day concentration camps, i am outraged that amerikkka is systemically scarring these young lives...confining their imaginations, torturing their sense of security, withholding them from the nourishing love that is so necessary for their health + development. how dare the colonial amerikkkan government to perpetuate the horrors of slave auction blocks, indigenous boarding camps, nazi concentration camps. 

as humans, our collective morale is being questioned. there is no neutrality here + there never was. i read the most fire meme today:

"if you support locking children in cages, because they cross an imaginary line, on a giant rock floating in infinite space, you're not a patriot, you're an asshole." 

the design of now

red, sparkly, groovy ribbed pants

janet 1990 rhythm nation tour tee like what. 

my genealogical fam tree blow up to fat poster size, bearing the names of my ancestors across 27 generations  


from the village of foo shan toy shan county kwang tung providence.  


i will be there soon. (public reminder to make you remember to save for the roots program / apply.) 

reflections, shadows

ohlone land x colonialism x gold mountain x now

been reading jade snow wong's fifth chinese daughter & just realized like damn, i'm really experiencing the chinatown of my grandparents & great grandparents (& a degree closer to my great great grandparents & beyond). so incredibly beautiful for me to weave together, imagine my grandpa & grandma's second & third generation experience in sf. because like fuck, i'm so in 90s/2000s sf then i look at nieces & nephews i'm like damn, y'all gonna be the 2080s sf (unless our reality morphs into that of nausicaa's)! 

i love the aunties & the fire escape ladders. i revel in shadows & am baffled by yet identify with the complexity of reflections. 


also saw a confederate flag on grant street like bish whut? 


shooketh. by thyself. & thy lack of. audacity. zest.

i despise telling people my age. i despise myself at this age. i despise myself. today. right now. for the past 48 hours. 

this happened to me in high school, my junior year. it was my second year playing varsity basketball then - a faraway dream. i remember realizing i was not that good at basketball anymore - in comparison to the growth of the folks i was with. i remember thinking i could be raw as fuck if i tried hard. if i focused more, disciplined myself more. but i didn't. instead i wanted to read about dead presidents and make the dopest notes on this side of the fuckin' mississippi river. i wanted to kick it with homies, be social, listen to music while i whip around in my shitty honda station wagon that to this day was my favorite car ever. 

i am confused. as to why. i am still here. i am impatient with myself. i am impatient with my current mental atmosphere. i want to be instantly evolved. i want to be instantly freed. from the lifeless, metal, fluorescent lit cell that i have found. myself. put myself. in. 

right now i despise japan. but really. i just despise. myself. 

but i still despise the 55 year old male teacher who walks around projecting vibes of absolute entitlement as a 55 year old man. thinking he can talk to people with gruff rudeness. i don't care how old you are or if you have a penis. i don't believe in violent oppression. but i do believe. that. sometimes. patriarchy. needs to be. punched. in the mouth. teeth need to be shifted. your ass needs to be on the ground. and your sense of hierarchy needs to be absolutely shattered, into sharp glass fragments glittering the concrete. 

how come men here can go out during their free periods without class to smoke their ciggies, but if i, a young womxn, were to smoke a fat cigarette (which i won't because i don't smoke) in between classes, would git them looks of shame like "groh, you messy."? this that shit i can't stand. this is when. i feel like. throwing. this laptop. out the window, with two hands. the kind of throw where i have both arms high above my head, and when i throw this object of apparent value on the hot pavement. watching, hearing the dense pack of plastic and metal - mined by exploited workers - break. with that dull, manufactured sound. but. here i am. using the computer. sitting in this teachers' room. typing this. a real employee i am. but really, if they only knew that i have been a cog, to the best of my ability, in their system. i have overtime hours. so. here they are. 

in other news.

i had 2 dreams last night. i should have written them down earlier. but. i fucking didn't. i wish i did. but. this is irrelevant and irritates me that i even attempt to share this on the infinite space of the interweb.

i had a dream that i was in japan in a teachers' room. there was a male japanese teacher who was off. he wanted to kill us all, and i was the only one that knew it. i locked all the doors. gave tips to all the teachers as to how to fuck this dude up, namely how to drop file cabinets on his head, and to tightly tie his hands with plastic strings. so that. when he wakes up, he can't move. but no one listened to me. and i knew everything that would happen. 

this reminds me that i had a dream that my best friend's boyfriend, who has had bouts of emotional and physical abuse, sexually abused me. i forgot how wretched i felt when i woke up, but i remember feeling an ounce or so.

i felt like that this morning.

i also had a dream after i pressed the snooze button on my iphone, which later i would regret, for i had 30 minutes to get ready to serve the man. but. 

this dream. it was a tv show, like as notorious as grey's anatomy. but it became real life, that was in. it was some type of terrorist attack. it occurred in two other american cities, but the one i was apart of was in san francisco. 

wait before that. i was an older woman who was remembering herself as a child. and the events that led to that current ptsd as an older woman. i was being sabotaged by a woman who wanted my ass dead. i realize none of this makes sense. to myself. for i was able to transcend time, space, consciousnesses. 

back to the terrorist attack of san francisco. there were three bombs that cut san francisco into three well-cut pie pieces. it was mostly the financial district, and some rich ass pac heights area. it was scary. then.

union street was a cobbled street and my homey was leading the horse carriage that i was riding in. we were whippin' and dippin' through the cobbled streets damp with that night time rain...with the orange glistening from the ground. we rode into the financial district. and we were looking for something. i was trying to save something, someone. we ripped past chinatown which was literally in complete hot ashes and huge ruins of stones. it was directly from a post 1906 earthquake photo. this horse carriage brought us up to the top of some buildings of chinatown and we were sliding from the tile roofs into the sky. we fell off. we were falling in the sky. past the layer of clouds. then. i caught onto the grate exterior of the transamerican pyramid building. it was overgrown with green. the window panes were treated so that no one could see me. i banged on the windows, pulled on the metal grated exterior. all of a sudden.

the top pyramid part of the building came falling off of the base of the sky scraper. down i fell with it. control. gone. then. the whole building shredded. and then.

a flash of japanese new television, in really cute anime style. covering how millions died from the transamerica building toppling down. it was my fault. 

i woke up.


and now. i am here. i have to pee, i have a class in 15 minutes. my last free period gone like the sand through the hourglass. slipping slowly. but almost like pouring. and i still. have 3 essays to write. for an art residency, i desperately want. but am scared to not get. that i fear i will not execute. i fear. i will crumble under pressure. and die. 



74 days left living in the gorgeous countryside of japan. blessings on blessings. a quick peep of das game. 

good morning cyber universe.

i think i'm a baddie. my collective narrative is fine as hell. my human - poor decisions, emotional hiccups, bouts of tardiness, more than occasional missing-in-actionness - is dimey as fawk. my voluptuous learning curve, curiosity, & enthusiasm to love & thrive stay breakin' necks & cashin' checks. i'm a baddie. & so are you.

while delving back into ethnic studies essays & literature...

i am writing an essay, or perhaps procrastinating from writing an essay, about my art of storytelling as an asian-american womxn / fifth generation san franciscan.

i needed inspiration and needed to return to the vocabulary that so defines my political existence. 

here are some money articles i read (as well as those i forgot how to cite properly because i don't give a fawk today...this is where higher education got me...against all forms of hegemony):

why I dig it: this article is mint chocolate chip because it doesn't blindly celebrate afro-asian solidarities. this article is super straight up about anti-blackness within the japanese-american community and historical tensions. i appreciate this very much because a lot of asian-american communities fail to call out their blatant as well as subtle mechanisms of anti-blackness -- in other words there is a lack of responsibility and accountability regarding black & asian-american relations. 

why i dig it: a very well-rounded & trill article. it's not easy to talk race & racism & the different levels by which they exist as well as interact - hella ふくざつ actually. however tran radly illustrates how asian-american & black narratives of struggle and oppression are not the same but rather related & springing from a common origin. tran also clearly points out that anti-black racism is in fact a facet of asian-america. 

" Community organizers show us how to comprehend very different forms of oppression as related, but not synonymous. Andrea Smith, scholar and founding member of INCITE Women, Gender Non-Conforming and Trans People of Color Against Violence, argues there are three pillars comprising white supremacy—or what we frequently refer to as racism. The first is slavery/capitalism, the second genocide/colonialism, the third orientalism/war. In other words, we can all see that racism against Black, Native, Latino/a, and Asian people are experienced very differently. For example, Black Americans live with racial profiling, Native Americans with cultural and physical genocide, Latino/as with immigrant detention, and Asian Americans with employment discrimination. And while these all seem like disparate experiences with varying degrees of effects, in reality share the same root.

 Racism in all of its forms is infinite, distinctive and interrelated. While we may not face identical forms of marginalization, we experience parallel conditions which bring them forth. It is commonalities amongst the motivating forces and not their consequences which enable us to connect across varying experiences of racism."

to be continued as i continue to procrastinate. 


usually hyper critical of all imperfect work  (creases, wrinkles, not perfectly cut) particularly when thinking of selling these pieces. but fux zat. fuck capitalism's confines on my radical imagination & story.

some new new collages.