This entire class has been mentally challenging because my personal experiences are reflective of the topics we covered. The storytelling assignment has been the most emotionally exhausting portion of the class. I went through the gamut of emotions and feelings ranging from visceral anger to quietly crying while writing about how my lived experiences shaped me into Rui version 4.0. Taking a look at the boxes I get to check off on any sort of in depth application, you can probably imagine some of the nasty experiences I have had to contend with as a first generation immigrant. I know this is where I am supposed to list all of the categorized boxes I get to mark with an X, like a mark of treasure or a place to drop a bomb. I am not trying to be the enigmatic person of mystery here, but the number of boxes I get to check or not check should not constitute how I should be treated and valued as a person.
The class shines a light on the historical trauma suffered by our multicultural ancestors at the hands of European settlers and their descendants. The stark telling of history is a necessary confrontation of past wrong doings and validation of the lives lost at the hands of oppressors. However, this class should not be used to justify retaliatory behaviors no different from those we know to be unethical and trauma producing. Righteous anger does not have to devolve into chaos and a cacophony voices screaming and declaring over one another for who has the sole claim on pain and suffering. History, not just American history is filled is untold horrors. America has had its dark history, and now it is being laid bare and exposed to flagellation. What you do and how you choose to change the future for the better is for you to decide. But, I beg of you to do the difficult right thing, even when it will not give you the, light me up a smoke, satisfaction of doing the easy wrong thing.
I do not think I am off, when I say we may all have asked why people cannot do the right thing when we were individually dealt a blow of discrimination and oppression. I have looked out into the world with tear filled eyes wondering why someone did the easy wrong thing so many times, I have lost count. If you have ever felt the same sting of doubting the existence of good in humanity, I beg of you to do the difficult right thing. You will know what right is because your mind will be fussing at you for all the extra work, but your soul will be rejoicing with the telltale sign of the light beaming from your aura. At this point you must think I sound crazy, high or evolved (there is a fine line that separates the three). But, I must tell you, I am not the child of light, who has transcended from the darkness. I cannot tell you that I have not had dark thoughts fueled by the painful experiences, which cast my soul into a dungeon. I also cannot tell you, I no longer feel the pull of the dungeon that caused me to live in a haze for so much of my life.
The only thing I know for sure is that what I have been doing has not worked. Living in the pain, revisiting the pain like an addict, running from it instead of confronting it, paying it forward in non-beneficial ways, and punishing myself in all sorts of creative ways have only caused me more pain and suffering. I am trying to live anew, and I am working on doing the difficult right thing too. I can see and feel the pain in the eyes of individuals from minority populations. I have a room in my soul for that which I can relate. The pain of being separated from the only home you know. The suffering of trying to survive in a foreign land, and on and on the list goes. But who said we cannot the leader of the future we chose to create? There is no cookie-cutter script we need to follow in order to perform on life’s grand stage. Script or not, we are already on stage, so it is up to each one of us to write or rewrite a script worthy of our value as individuals, groups, populations, and a global community. I am going to go write mine now. Thank you for reading or not lol.
There was a song (I cannot recall the name) I heard over 20 years ago talking about topics that should not be mentioned/discussed/brought up in social gatherings, which still holds true today. I am positive that if the song was made today, the topics of racism and climate change would undoubtedly make their appearances. However, when the topic of racism is superimposed/layered on top of climate change issues or vice versa, the radial active power of this nuclear topic may lead to unexpected social distancing. Furthermore, if we consider how COVID-19 has changed everyday interactions, this is an excellent topic to mention for passive-aggressively creating distance without actually directly asking for it. I digress. Since we are in an online environment and people can choose not to interact with each other regardless of the topic, let me get into it.
Depending on what camp you identify as belonging to, climate change is either an imminent threat or some fictional narrative concocted to create an avenue for wealth generation. I am not here to argue about climate change’s correctness or incorrectness, nor am I here to conflate anything to delineate causal relationships. What is undeniable is that there is a multitude of modern-day advancements causing immense damage to our environment, thereby potentially contributing to/impacting the earth’s atmospheric regulation and altering the global climate. For example, food waste generated by processes used for planting and getting it to the dinner table, dumping of toxic chemicals in the ecosystem, filling landmines with non-biodegradable materials, massive industrial pollutants/emissions rising into the atmosphere, and on and on are part of the long list of things we have yet to identify their longitudinal impact on climate change.
What does all this have to do with race, you ask? While getting from point A to point B may not seem to have a direct path, there is a connection I can make since we are asked to do so. I will use one of my personal experiences to show you the way out of my maze. About 5 or 6 years ago, I was hanging out with some friends at an impromptu gathering (they were all White, only a handful of people looked like me where I lived at the time. *insert sarcastic tone* They must not have gotten the memo that we should be friends! HA!). The host was very passionate about recycling and doing as much as possible to reduce what was going into landfills. While we all should be mindful of practicing this, the solution proposed for composting food waste (e.g., peels, bones, leftovers, and etc.) had an element of unconscious racism attached to it. Please let me know if I am completely off of my rockers for interpreting it in this manner.
*Cue laughter, drinks, a welcoming atmosphere of friends enjoying each other’s company* However meandering the conversation may have been, it eventually led the host to say that everyone should be getting an automatic composting machine for the home. The host mentioned one in particular, but the cost was quite high since these things were relatively new to the market. I paused at the expensiveness of the machine and asked the host if the recommendation was rather presumptive to infer that everyone had the free time to allow for such activities or that much money to spend, regardless of its benefits. The host was less than glad to receive the question. I never got any sort of answer, just talking points and word salads (the salads were not delicious). To be clear, the host is not racist by any means. While the host was not wealthy, the middle-middle class living standard is a good description of the circumstance.
Using the conversation as the example of a life lived with unrecognized privileges that come with having resources, access to products, and the freed time to think about life beyond survival is not farfetched. Fast forward to today, climate change is still growing as a concern for the global community. Sure, wealthier countries like America have instituted, by and large, a loose system of actionable processes to combat climate change because the battle for survival is no longer a part of living that needs to be considered today. What about the poorer countries whose majority of citizens suffer the lack of basic necessities? Not to be Captain Obvious, but these poorer countries are where many of America’s minorities originate. For some, living in America is still a struggle, regardless of collective American wealth or having the luxury to think about composting. Who the hell cares about composting biodegradable food waste when they are trying to make rent, put food on the table, or whatever can be added as an example.
Is this a clear-cut issue of racial disparities? The answer is both yes and no, but I believe it shows the pretentious and highfalutin mindsets of people who have had a relatively high standard of living throughout their lives (you can insert the race if you want). Proposing global solutions from a place of privilege without considering that 90 plus percent of the population do not have the luxury, time, or resources to do something deemed necessary for collective survival is an insult flavored by racism. I hope I was able to provide a good example and an explanation of my train of thought. Please let me know if I am off base.
The current racial climate is perplexing, to say the least. Regardless of the location of study (i.e., on-campus or online), race and discussions related to race seem to dominate the everyday landscape. While the focus of our class allows for a deeper understanding of how race/racism has personally impacted our lives, most individuals outside similar classrooms are not afforded the chance to see the faces impacted by the nebulous nature of racism. Covering the issue of racism in general and broad-brushed terms is a disservice to those who have suffered and are still suffering racism today because there is no parsing of the nuances, which can elucidate the reality of racism as lived by its sufferers. Are all White people racist? Should innocent young White children forever be tattooed with/wear the sign of an oppressor, much like the story described by The Scarlet Letter?
Close your eyes and imagine your skin color as being the visible tell-tale sign of a racist, for which you can never escape, and how that is eerily comparable to the wearing of the Star of David during WWII. Consequently, the one difference we must consider is that the star can be removed, but skin color is forever. I often think about my bi-racial son, while writing posts for this class. His inherent dichotomy of being from the historically “oppressed” and “oppressor” population is inconceivably dizzying should the collective majority decide to make skin color the monolithic definition/identification of racism/the oppressor. I, for one, will not accept the ill-fitting, simplistic manner for which racists/racism is globally assigned. I have suffered at the hands of all races, including my own. Racism has no boundaries; it is insidious, much like the warning sounded by the idiom of a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
I am unsure how my White classmates are feeling because the materials we have covered thus far have been very uncomfortable to read. Their truthful reflection of history’s evil actions justified by White European settlers and their descendants seems to be the Scarlet Letter for which no amount of White guilt will erase. However, I want to ask, has feeling guilty left you without a voice or place at the table to contribute to repairing today’s suffering, which lingers from historical evil doings? Have you felt like you have been vacuum-sealed into a space that demands evolution but gives no room for growth? Consequently, if you have felt this way but were not allowed to voice it, what label/word/moniker would you give to identify what is happening properly?
Beyond the questions I have just posted to my White classmates, I want to address the current happenstances of Asian Americans being labeled as White adjacent. I will not dignify this ill-conceived and irrational assignment to the collective Asian diaspora, which encompasses numerous countries with a definition. Please look it up should you feel it is appropriate. I can tell you, as a first-generation Asian immigrant, my cultural heritage, upbringing, and life-progression beg anyone to point out the White adjacency benefits I apparently reaped. The reason I mention this issue is because I have noticed the dismissal/negation of the Asian population with the recent resources used in class. The Asian population as a collective is summarily used as the White-proxy example pitted against other minorities.
Excluding the book documenting the wrongdoings of American history, even the book written by the other Asian American author left me feeling the cold shoulder. His description mentioned some issues I grapple with, but the hollow, just throw it out there, afterthought of a chapter definitely gave his White adjacency away, while it shackled me to his apparent representation of me, the other, other White meat. I hope everyone understands that this is not a petition against the reading materials because I appreciate reading all sorts of things regardless of personal comfort or agreeance. However, I would be remiss should I not mention this because this is the purpose of the class. Thank you for reading. I welcome open discussions, whether in the classroom forum or in private. I believe honesty is the only way to get beyond being snowed by eloquent speakers and figureheads (regardless of group) charging a population into war with cause-worthy but hollow actioned missions of uncertainty by design. I wrote the poem a couple days ago, please let me know what you think!
The Metaphorical Transformation from Advanced Organism to Amoeba
You must be thinking it is impossible to regress in such a drastic manner, but I can tell you from experience it is possible. In fact, my experience is shared by countless individuals around the globe. But first, I have to explain a little bit of life before America in order to develop the rest of the story properly. My memory of the time I lived in China seems like the old scratch and sniff stickers when a sensory memory is reanimated, but you know it paled in comparison to the real thing. I will do my best to recount my encapsulated life as child-Rui that was made-in-China. I am inserting song titles into the text to help show my feelings at the moment.
I was indeed made in China
I had a happy…
I started school early and was one of the youngest in my class. My reading and Chinese language skills were above average with average math skills. There are many stories of my antics in school because I was so young, therefore hard to control. Nonetheless, I had a sense of belonging, I knew my way around, and my life was reflected in the micro, meso, and macro environments that surrounded me. In China, I had an anchor for getting back to equilibrium when I became unbalanced. I was nine and a half years old and in fourth grade when I moved to America (Somewhere over the rainbow). The strangeness of immigrating to America sent me back to square one, or my metaphorical amoeba stage of development. I went from a relatively self-sufficient kid with well-developed and self-evolving daily living navigational skills and educational background to being fully ambulatory and consciously aware but completely incapacitated. It sounds confusing, I know, but it was a lot worse in practice (The Rolling Stones – Paint It, Black).
The twisted road I traveled
Zigzagging Timelines Will Make Sense in the End
Similar to the house I lived in, in ChinaThe change was dizzyingSimilar to the first place I live in Chicago
None of my skills or knowledge applied to school or American life in general. Nothing I knew about life made sense in my new country. Not being able to read or understand the language was devastatingly stunting for me. I was the caged bird, trapped with my feet glued to the cage, but I also became mute, unable to sing my inarticulate song. I remember being thrown into school with zero comprehension of what was going on. My first American elementary school was located in a Chicago inner-city neighborhood. The student and faculty population were predominantly African American with two or three White kids, and there was me and my brother, the poor Chinese kids from Inner Mongolia. At the time, my dad earned around 800 USD a month to support a family of four. We had nothing, but the-nothing here in America was riches compared to the average life in China.
I could not understand why I could not understandMust learn English…I wish I could learn it fast
In America, we had a television, refrigerator, indoor plumbing, separate bedrooms, electric stove, a bathtub, all types of ready-made food, etc. We did not have any of these things in China. In fact, I studied by candlelight up until I was around six or seven years old. We had at the most two or three changes of clothes and one pair of shoes to wear until they were worn out. Going to school wearing the same clothes every day in China was typical, but in America, I became acutely aware of the looks of disgust. I sat in class, trying to be as small as possible and wanting to crawl into the ground. I did not even know how to ask to go to the bathroom, so for a while, I would just run out of the classroom. I came back to shocked looks and laughing ridicule. I wanted to cry.
Dark days
The kids made fun of me. Even though I could not understand what they were saying, I knew they were laughing at me, which crushed me. I had no solace. My memory of those days only come in flashes because I had no English language skills for contextual attachment. I used my love of music to express emotions, so my memories are tied to the music of the time. When I come across Chinese or American oldies from my first few years in America, I can become very emotional. My educational circumstances took another drastic turn when my parents moved us from Chicago to the suburbs of Pittsburgh.
I didn’t need to understand English to feel itI had a sad song of my own, but I could not sing it
Get Up and Keep Moving, Maybe I Will Get Use to the Torture
Not speaking English and not progressing in school due to the lack of English as a second language (ESL) assistance rendered me useless. I was dropped back to second grade in Pittsburgh. I am sure it had something to do with the placement tests I took in Chicago. I had my own Chinese to English dictionary and answered only one question on the entire test. I am not even sure I wrote my name correctly. This time around, my elementary school population was almost all White, except for a handful of African American students and me and my brother. I was tormented, ridiculed, pushed, shoved, called names, shunned, and isolated. I do not talk about my brother because he abused me with my parents’ awareness which compounded the stress, pressure, and desperation (The beautiful people – Marilyn Manson).
A safe place did not exist for me at homeI was not able to see anything but sadnessThey were relentless
I do not know how I made it into middle school because it took me up to sixth grade to be able to have the average daily conversation. I spent my time fearing school and even more scared to come home because I was the punching bag, among other things. Those were very dark days for me. I remember a few incidences which confirmed my aloneness in the world. For example, I was walking to class one day, and three large football-playing boys came barreling down the hallway, knocking me unconscious and laying on the ground. I remember waking up and hearing voices accompanied by some snickering and wanting to cry. I could not see and searched for my glasses with the lump in my throat begging me to cry. I had to swallow hard to stop myself because I knew at the precise moment no one cared because no one helped me. I was sent back to class. I think the boys made some insincere apologies. No one bothered to check or monitor me for a concussion. The incident was never discussed again by the school or my parents.
WILL WORK FOR LOVEAlone and suffering
Read the Lyrics for RunawayTrain – Soul Asylum
My life from elementary through high school reflected this way of life. I would get tortured at school and get abused at home. The icing on the cake of all this torture was the poem they made about me. I can only recall the first couple of lines. It goes, “Rui, Rui, the refugee, came to us from across the sea.” The following line was something about me smelling like rice patties. I was irritated by the rice patty line because I hated rice and could not understand the inference. Even one or two American-born Asian kids tortured me. I seem to remember one of them calling me a chink, which left me scratching my head. I had average grades in high school and was an awkward and depressed girl looking to be loved. I was starved of love. Sadly, people saw my desperation and often tried to take advantage of me. I was often sexualized as the exotic being from the orient. I was lonely. I hated myself. I hated my Chinese heritage because it brought endless torment and abuse. No one gave a rat’s ass about me.
Funny not funny because it was my lifeTold to go back to where I came fromPart of the script and often used
My outsider persona was complete in high school. I was either the focus of torment, completely ignored, treated as a nuisance, or objectified as the embodiment of the Asian fetish characterized by unworthiness. I had good enough grades to be able to skip copious amounts of school. Having the opportunity to escape may have saved my life on many occasions. The hidden grace for being the proxy for my English illiterate parents meant I wrote the excuses for being absent. I was sick a lot. On my sick days, I smoked, drank, and did other crazy stuff. I also tried to find ways to escape my life in general.
While I was a delinquent, my strict Chinese upbringing kept me from becoming a criminal. I still wanted to be honorable and searched for ways to prove to everyone my life was worthy. Worthy of what I am not certain. I wanted approval for my life. The Army came into my life as I looked for a way out. I took the ASVAB in eleventh grade and somehow scored extremely high, which resulted in the Army calling me. By this point, I did not think academics were in my future. I was told and treated as having inferior intelligence by my family and passively by teachers. I learned to smile to hide the pain, but if anyone took the time to look into my eyes, they would have been able to see my struggle for heaven in hell (Vincent (Starry, Starry Night) – Don McLean).
I joined the Army reserves against my parents’ wishes. I told them I joined for the G.I. bill, which was partially true, but my real intention was to go on active duty once I completed all of my training. I was the only female in my class to join the military in high school. Everyone said I would not survive and predicted I would commit suicide in Army boot camp. But I loved boot camp because the training was heaven for me. No one tortured me or beat me relentlessly. I did not know it then, but I was apparently a unicorn in the military environment. At that point in America, I was one of the minute percentages of Chinese people to join the military. Being female added an additional dimension of me becoming the focus for men with Asian fetishes, but that is another long story. If I had to choose a song that characterized what I was to military men and men in general, 2 Live Crew’s song, Me so horny would be it.
Well at least someone wanted me, maybe this will give me worthI thought I was a part of something now?? But I got asked if my sexual organ was also slanted too Not sure what or who I am or where I belong
Read the Lyrics for I Miss the Misery – Halestorm
I thought I had escaped my horrible life and family. I was trying to go on active duty as planned. Being the tragically tortured people they are, my parents had other plans and said they would disown me if I went on active duty. I relented because I feared losing the only people I knew in America. I remained as a reservist and attended college. A miracle must have occurred for me to get into the University of Pittsburgh. By this point, I was so envious and hateful towards other college students because they had the intelligence, I did not think I possessed. My first college roommate recalled being very frightened by my swearing and loudly talking about other horrible things. She ended up being a great roommate for my first two years at Pitt. This White girl from a loving home never encountered anyone like me, so I am sure it was jarring for her.
I spent my four years in college testing out various potential career paths and hating most or not being smart enough for some. My professional level of being a functioning alcoholic and not attending classes while working sixty-plus hours a week did not help either. My grades for the first two years of college were rather abysmal because I was aimless. My parents interceded once again to dictate my major because I was not smart enough to be the medical doctor of every Chinese parent’s dream. They were pretty hateful in their lamentations about my birth and life being a colossal disappointment and waste of their time. I once again yielded and majored in computer/information science, which I hated with a vengeance.
Never lived up to anything and a waste of life
The Entire Album of Mental Jewelry – Live
At the time, Pitt’s student body was bland at best for all four years. I was a minority on campus, and I did not see many people who looked like me back then. I never belonged to any specific groups except for required groups like ROTC and tried to make friends with a wide range of people (Beauty of Gray – Live). However, I did notice the looks I got when my former friend, who is African American, and I walked together on campus. He tried to explain the reasons to me, but I was busily occupying myself in self-hatred and thought people were just repulsed by me. My awareness concerning my Chinese heritage and being fetishized grew in the military and college. To tell the truth, I was a mess. I walked around as the little girl starved of love, feeling insecure, dumb, and worthless. A lot of terrible things happened because of my internal struggle.
WILL WORK FOR LOVE
Despite my self-sabotaging behaviors, I remained on the Dean’s list once I started studying the major I hated. Having a goal that I hated was better than aimlessly searching and failing at everything. I joined the Marine Corps during my last year at Pitt and left for active duty twenty-three days after graduation. I told my parents I was leaving three months before I graduated. They were not amused, but they knew I would never physically return to living at home this time, so the cold war tactics were employed. My need to find an escape without knowing what I was running from and why I needed to run led to more failures and suffering through most of my life. All the things I experienced being an outsider, the Asian fetish, and worthless-being followed me into the Marines. Interestingly enough, passive and overt racist, sexist, and discriminatory behaviors were all around me, but I was in denial. I had already developed Stockholm syndrome at epic levels, and I increasingly leaned on alcohol to keep the pain at bay. I lived in a haze for many years. I am still contending with its aftereffects of Stockholm syndrome (This Little Light of Mine – Sam Cooke).
WILL WORK FOR LOVEWORKED HARD BUT GOT NO LOVEWORKED HARDER NOT SMARTER…STILLING WORKING
Being an adult and trying to evolve regardless of the environment can be difficult. Why can’t it be simple like all these people tell you it is? Is simple actually simple?
A bridge too far is sometimes too close to home
The world is full of suggestions for how to change.
Just take these easy-effortless steps to change your life forever.
But what if regardless of your effort or persistence, you have come to an impasse?
Maybe a bridge too far is sometimes too close to home…
Maybe traveling to a faraway bridge is actually best route to deliverance.
I am sure lots of adult students have experienced insomnia at one point or another. I thought I would share this crucial plot contributor to the lived experiences of an adult-student. I am giving writing poems a try because why not?
To sleep or not to sleep: Is there even a choice?
Zero-dark-thirty is when my subconscious mind likes to come alive
Buzzing with images, sounds, ideas, and sensations in every crevice of the hive
Why can’t this happen during the day so my bed can be the place for restful sleep?
My pillow and blankets act as the key, animating an alternate universe, making me want to weep
Where do these things come from, why and how?
I guess I could be a creative if I can remember during the day what is in my mind now
I wonder if the Men in Black really do exist.
Do they hide in my home waiting to disperse my hidden nighttime revelations into the morning mist?
Whatever, I think to myself
I just want to get through the next day, complete adulting stuff, and not put them on the shelf
OMG, I am exhausted, and it is only early afternoon
I work on focusing on the task at hand with the tactfulness of a goon
I got schoolwork to do!
I got regular adult stuff too!
I swear my consciousness must be the Manchurian candidate facilitating a subconscious coup
Wouldn’t it be awesome if can be like all those brilliant writers?
Documenting or just using all this content to create an epic story with epic characters?
Anyways, I gotta get back to work
I know it will only be hours before my subconscious will once again soar undeterred
Hello everyone, my name is Rui Babilonia. Please call me Ree. My name sounds just like the prefix of re. I am in the graduate certificate program for college and university teaching (GCCUT), and this is one of two classes I am taking. I want to become an online professor, and I thought this program would be a very helpful introduction. I have my Ph.D. in psychology focusing on research health psychology. After I got out of the Marine Corps, I searched for a way to continue serving the military population, which led me to get my Ph.D. My military service started in high school when I signed up for the Army Reserves and entered the delayed entry program.
I attended the University of Pittsburgh for my undergraduate B.S. degree in computer/information science. I left for my second round of boot camp for the Marine Corps twenty-three days after graduating from college. I was older than 3 of my drill instructors, which painted a nice big bright target on me. I spent countless fun times in an area called the quarterdeck and other places such as the sandpit, where all sorts of invigorating physical training activities were done. I found myself back in PA after twenty years of living the transient military lifestyle at the beginning of the pandemic. This is the abridged-abridged version of my adulthood. Now, I will go to my beginning.
Long ago (okay, maybe not that long ago), in a land far, far away, I was born in a town nestled between mountains. I lived in the northern part of China for the first ten years of my life. My parents immigrated to the U.S. to give me the opportunity to live my American dream. In truth, they wanted me to be the proxy for their lost hopes and dreams because they lived through and then had to survive the aftermath of the cultural revolution. As first-generation Chinese immigrants without money or English skills, my parents embodied the tenacity, perseverance, and hardworking characteristics of many immigrants who come to the U.S. My parents also exercised antiquated and oppressive behavioral patterns learned throughout their life in China. Life was interesting living on extreme opposites of a continuum where my school and home lives were night and day. Learning how to stay sane in my forced-by-design polarized life solidified my personality into who I am today.
Some of the hardships my family and I suffered as foreign people in a foreign land have never completely subsided. The perpetual foreigner persona was forced onto me and followed me through a majority of my life experiences. I spent most of my life trying to be accepted by a nondescript group of people within my daily life environments. I am often left feeling like a child with no home, an interloper outside in the cold peering through windows of other people’s warm homes. I will spare you the details of my countless failures and heartaches caused by my perceived helplessness and worthlessness. With that said, the lessons I learned from those experiences are worth their weight in gold, but I do not ever want to relive them again.
I currently use the popular phrase of “forty is the new twenty” as my motto because I get the chance to use what I learned in the last twenty-plus years to begin living a life that is true to me, come what may. I will keep the treasures I have collected throughout my childhood, youth, and adulthood as guidance and reminders of what was and what could be in the future. As we interact within the classroom, I am sure my personality shaped by my heritage, military service, motherhood, and educational background will add to the liveliness of our discussions. Please feel free to ask me anything. I will do my best to answer your questions.
