Sojourn
No words in my heart to speak today.
My heart is basking in a metaphorical and distant sun.
My heart is meditating on the realization that my ego is content, healing, and balancing.
My heart is sipping on the fresh juices, squeezed and dripping from the melee between my insecurities and principles.
I long for nothing more than the continuation of the grace I have right now.
My heart is napping, dreaming of realities that include hardships overcome.
No fantasies to pervert my heart's dreams, only romantic sounds to decorate the already gorgeous set of qualities put in motion by my lifestyle.
Maybe as the sun sets, I'll light a candle for my heart to have just enough light to see the flickering glow of naked hope, a flicker we can dance to.
A heart that is traveling!
Lacking
When I don't know that, how much I have right now, can be all I need, life becomes about what I don't have. Is 'what I want' the trails and passages to my sadness, envy, and fear? Gratitude for having everything I need, reminds me I am free, lovable, and art.
How do I help a 12 year old girl and a 15 year old young lady trust this principle, when most adults that inspire them still struggle, filling their lives with superficial spectacles and posting polished personas. De-colonization can happen, slowly, purely, but not without the pleasure withdraw. Don't let me catch me Lacking!
Don't be sell-n-out meaning for happiness.
How do I help a 12 year old girl and a 15 year old young lady trust this principle, when most adults that inspire them still struggle, filling their lives with superficial spectacles and posting polished personas. De-colonization can happen, slowly, purely, but not without the pleasure withdraw. Don't let me catch me Lacking!
Don't be sell-n-out meaning for happiness.
E-race-ism
The term white privilege is used to label the contemporary advantage that Anglo lineage has gained from the likes of convenience, legacy, exploration, exploitation, commercialism, education, slavery, genetics, industry, technology, and other factors. I find that this concept is difficult for some Anglo people to recognize or acknowledge. As people grow closer and closer to identifying with the colonial concept called 'prosperity' so does the belief in their right to property. What role does generational advantage (A.K.A privilege) play in the understanding of prosperity?
I think privilege is a characteristic of competition and life doesn't have to be a matter of winning or losing. I feel bound to intellectual concepts that promote culturally tainted values like competition and advantage. I feel like I have missed out on how valuable sharing, collaboration, and vulnerability can be in commerce, education, and technology. The word privilege points to the corrosive prosperity that very few in the dominant societies care to confront. Dominant societies, meaning those that participate in luxurious markets or have first world problems. Prosperous peoples rarely relinquish their desire for prosperity. How else can we help these self-made believing peoples feel valued? (Self-made by Franklin's definition and not the definition of Douglass...for which Douglass' definition is more appealing)
Privilege is a strategy of luxury, possibly leading to the understanding of being owed, honored, obliged, or authorized. I find that this darker quality exists in close minded, fearful, stubborn, aspiring, and dogmatic peoples. The hard part is that when you put a racial component in the front of such an authoritative word, I see the disservice it does to the commonality that all people suffer from the misuse of privilege. Even more complex is that the definition for the proper use of privilege is too personal or perceptual.
I wouldn't disagree if we called white privilege, colonial privilege. I do find it unfair to many humble and modest Anglos that white privilege has become a blanket condition. But I have spent many hours and thoughts on how to find peace when dealing with privileged people. I found that privileged people who live in luxury or thoughtless spending, cannot see themselves as excessive or thoughtless with their resources. I find the opposite. Privileged people believe they are bettering the world by bettering themselves. There is virtue and rational in what luxuries they are participating in. Privileged people can almost always see themselves as blessed. Privileged people conjugate with and around similarly privileged people. Racial privilege is real, but it distracts from the real corrosive privilege that pollutes cultures of people.
I find that cultural privilege is a formidable concept worth confronting. I see that racial privilege is far to radioactive to approach. I think as I have erased the racial component that often precedes privilege, I can encounter truer shared value for life, resources, and technology. I have also added to the concept of privilege a heavy dose of responsibility. I have this idea, a faithful belief, to be responsible to questioning and bringing awareness to the irresponsible. I hope others do the same for me.
Happy Birthday Cesar Estrada Chavez. You helped me to prefer responsibility over privilege; service over commerce; and progress over profits!
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| Arthur Schatz—The LIFE Picture Collection/Getty Images |
Happy Birthday Cesar Estrada Chavez. You helped me to prefer responsibility over privilege; service over commerce; and progress over profits!
Trust in Pride
With permission from Cecelia, here is her contribution on the subject of toxicity in the Chicano culture. First a brief description about Cecelia. Cecelia and I met at a writing workshop. I was there with a living hero, Jimmy Santiago Baca. He allowed me to participate despite never being published or credited as a writer. Cecelia was there too. She supported me during a really difficult moment during the conference. I didn't believe myself to be a writer and I was among professional and aspiring writers. I was challenged to share my work out loud.
I was asked to read aloud my novice writing. With my voice trembling in my tentative tone, I read a poem. It got rocked and I was told my writing wasn't passionate. I was called out, and I remember it went something like this, "your writing seems to lack passion". With that statement, woke the calloused part of my soul.
I found an inner passion to describe the sadness I live with. I told them about the parts of me that skirt around the big dogs because I don't feel I belong. I have never been asked to read aloud. I told the group how difficult it is to play passionately because what I am passionate about will provoke and confront their privileged metaphorical Anglo playgrounds. I have to be somewhat abstract to conceal the sacredness of the moment and those involved. But I let my educated, learned, and vetted understanding of myself and history propel my passionate, possibly disappointed, perspectives flow.
They came out in a voice that turned from trembling into a shaking near tears fountain of rawness. Out came my thoughts, from the depths of the cellars they have been kept quietly pacing. Like bunched up New Mexicans at the labor lines waiting for the opportunity to contribute to my cause. It felt like a petition, and quickly I realized I had spoken my truth. At the end I found myself embarrassed and ashamed. I felt like I had no right to be so passionate in someone else's passion playground.
But to sum it up, I described how I hold myself back because it feels like my place. My place is modest and purpose centered. I watched my grandmother prepare the best New Mexican food for the richest Anglos in New Mexico, and never ask to be called a chef. I watched my grandpa build cabinets for several churches in the North Valley of Albuquerque never asking for recognition or profits. I try to live the same way.
Here I was a wanna be writer among skilled writers just happy to be in the same room as Jimmy Baca. I couldn't be passionate because I was scared that what I had to say would hurt feelings. The source of my passion is in their ancestors injustice. Especially the judgment, maybe jealousy, I see in how free the Anglo culture is allowed to be proud and loud. The passion I have is rooted in the paradox of being given opportunity to be great but only knowing how to be modest.
Cecelia and a few other strong Latin writers supported me and best of all shared the feelings. I had skeena. I have shared my passion with people who rarely understand and often call me disruptive, cynical, and harsh. I have had to remind myself that I am a tender person who is a warrior. I have to keep close the reminder that I was raised not to fight, and not to be afraid to protect myself. Cecelia ratified my emotions, ideas, and passion.
We sat at dinner and she shared her story with me. I knew after leaving that weekend that I must speak my passions modestly. I will not be afraid to defend myself, my story, and my perspectives. I will know that my truth is not necessarily offensive but can incense emotions in others. It's not my responsibility any longer to wonder how my story will make others feel.
Thank you for the standing along side me. It has felt for awhile as if my ideas are isolatingly antagonizing. It is a joy and relief to be in the spirit of great people like Cecelia.
Cecelia shared the following:
Ron,
This is a reflection on both Toxic Humility and Mistrust of Pride, as I see the two topics inextricably linked - at least in my experience as a Mexican-American woman growing up in southern California in the 50s and 60s.
My father was a strong man, with a humble spirit, and unspoken pride in his heritage, his work ethic and the accomplishments of his children. He taught me "never draw attention to yourself" as that was arrogant and unnecessary. He believed that "If you work hard and do what you have signed-on to do, people will notice and they will recognize you and reward you, as appropriate. You don't need to promote yourself."
I have lived my 65 years of life believing this is true, acting in concert with it and seeing his prediction play out in my own life. And yet, there have been moments when I too have been unable to take pride in the "magnificent" parts of myself and that has felt uncomfortable and (although I never would have come up with the term myself) "toxically humble."
These posts have shined a light on layers and layers of my being and my identity - for me to reexamine. I will let you know where that road takes me. Thank you, Ron.
Cecelia
I was asked to read aloud my novice writing. With my voice trembling in my tentative tone, I read a poem. It got rocked and I was told my writing wasn't passionate. I was called out, and I remember it went something like this, "your writing seems to lack passion". With that statement, woke the calloused part of my soul.
I found an inner passion to describe the sadness I live with. I told them about the parts of me that skirt around the big dogs because I don't feel I belong. I have never been asked to read aloud. I told the group how difficult it is to play passionately because what I am passionate about will provoke and confront their privileged metaphorical Anglo playgrounds. I have to be somewhat abstract to conceal the sacredness of the moment and those involved. But I let my educated, learned, and vetted understanding of myself and history propel my passionate, possibly disappointed, perspectives flow.
They came out in a voice that turned from trembling into a shaking near tears fountain of rawness. Out came my thoughts, from the depths of the cellars they have been kept quietly pacing. Like bunched up New Mexicans at the labor lines waiting for the opportunity to contribute to my cause. It felt like a petition, and quickly I realized I had spoken my truth. At the end I found myself embarrassed and ashamed. I felt like I had no right to be so passionate in someone else's passion playground.
But to sum it up, I described how I hold myself back because it feels like my place. My place is modest and purpose centered. I watched my grandmother prepare the best New Mexican food for the richest Anglos in New Mexico, and never ask to be called a chef. I watched my grandpa build cabinets for several churches in the North Valley of Albuquerque never asking for recognition or profits. I try to live the same way.
Here I was a wanna be writer among skilled writers just happy to be in the same room as Jimmy Baca. I couldn't be passionate because I was scared that what I had to say would hurt feelings. The source of my passion is in their ancestors injustice. Especially the judgment, maybe jealousy, I see in how free the Anglo culture is allowed to be proud and loud. The passion I have is rooted in the paradox of being given opportunity to be great but only knowing how to be modest.
Cecelia and a few other strong Latin writers supported me and best of all shared the feelings. I had skeena. I have shared my passion with people who rarely understand and often call me disruptive, cynical, and harsh. I have had to remind myself that I am a tender person who is a warrior. I have to keep close the reminder that I was raised not to fight, and not to be afraid to protect myself. Cecelia ratified my emotions, ideas, and passion.
We sat at dinner and she shared her story with me. I knew after leaving that weekend that I must speak my passions modestly. I will not be afraid to defend myself, my story, and my perspectives. I will know that my truth is not necessarily offensive but can incense emotions in others. It's not my responsibility any longer to wonder how my story will make others feel.
Thank you for the standing along side me. It has felt for awhile as if my ideas are isolatingly antagonizing. It is a joy and relief to be in the spirit of great people like Cecelia.
Cecelia shared the following:
Ron,
This is a reflection on both Toxic Humility and Mistrust of Pride, as I see the two topics inextricably linked - at least in my experience as a Mexican-American woman growing up in southern California in the 50s and 60s.
My father was a strong man, with a humble spirit, and unspoken pride in his heritage, his work ethic and the accomplishments of his children. He taught me "never draw attention to yourself" as that was arrogant and unnecessary. He believed that "If you work hard and do what you have signed-on to do, people will notice and they will recognize you and reward you, as appropriate. You don't need to promote yourself."
I have lived my 65 years of life believing this is true, acting in concert with it and seeing his prediction play out in my own life. And yet, there have been moments when I too have been unable to take pride in the "magnificent" parts of myself and that has felt uncomfortable and (although I never would have come up with the term myself) "toxically humble."
These posts have shined a light on layers and layers of my being and my identity - for me to reexamine. I will let you know where that road takes me. Thank you, Ron.
Cecelia
Mistrust of Pride
"Son I am proud of you", that phrase brought that clinching feeling in my throat, the feeling I had learned as a child to hold tight, to fight back, and endure its cramp. The feeling that was actually uncomfortable enough to feel like pain. A feeling that freezes the thoughts. Back in the moment, on a grass field, busy with parents hustling kids around soccer fields, I think I was 35. At this point in my life I had found comfort in crying. Why now was I holding these tears back. It was a conversation with my dad, that I wasn't prepared to hear. He followed up describing that he was proud of the path I took after my divorce. He was proud of the feelings that I was willing to endure. He was proud that I took my pain seriously. He shared how many things he did differently. I wanted to cry. Even writing this I still hold back tears.
I have a good idea for how to process my suffering, but what I am now being encourage to do is something new. I am being asked to be proud. The dysfunction in the catholic Chicano is the lack of emphasis in the ciriculum or catechism about healthy pride. I actually feel toxic when I start to be appreciated, valued, and honored. I have shame in being magnificent.
Where did this shame to feel accomplished come from? There is an overwhelming need to depreciate myself. I believe there is an aspect of pride that requires modesty and then it can be appropriate. I feel the need to give glory to God, my parents, my elders, my mentors, my friendships, my dogs, my children, and the academy award list goes on extinguishing any appreciation for the gift I am expressing through the actions deserving gratitude. But then there comes the mistrust of pride. Is vanity creeping in?
My moral compass starts to spin wildly as my navigation panel dials spin recklessly faster and faster until I feel ashamed for doing something wonderful. My blog, my marriage, my friendships, and my attitudes might be gentler had I somewhere along the way of life been told I'm proud of you. This was that day. My dad took a sledge hammer and swung it hard with his words, "I am proud of you", it landed solidly right in the middle of my catholic Chicano ego. He shattered the cinder block wall that had been hindering my luminescence, like the Berlin Wall coming down, my ability to see my greatness with the blessings and grace from God, is trickling out from the deshreveled concrete jungles. My ability to feel helpful, worthy, valuable, magnificent, and successful is happening.
Dad, I am proud of you!
Toxic Humility
Most New Mexican communities are Spanish descended with Catholic roots. Peoples left here, reinventing here, or who fled here. I am describing people from the 1500's, 1600's, and into the 1700's. We are of the gringo empire. We are the spawn of those with ambitions for gold, who landed here, finding refuge in the pinon hills, ponderosa filled rocky ridges, sage brush mesas, and cottonwood infested valles del rios.
We are of a similar ambitious European unsettledness. A branch on the vine of Monarchies with insecure desire for power and control, acting from discontentment, causing masses to migrate, calling it exploration, and eventually conquering. Most modern New Mexicans cannot recognize their pretentious and imperial beginnings, even though it is paraded in the glorious image of the conquistador. That glory now lives in the shadows of the new conqueror, the innovative industrial American. Most New Mexicans find a way to remain loyal to suffering maybe to distract from the diminished Spanish ego. As if a honorable way to be noticed or respected in this new, foreign, and American way of life.
The conquering Spaniards withered into faith driven humble villagers. They had nothing to offer the royalty, so the withering began and their faith became valuable. And so did the land. As the mestizo cultures began to dilute the hardened pride of conquering peoples, equally a colonial pride was stirring in the east. This mountain desert region was only a pit stop to the riches known in the west. With this desperate form of purpose the subservience was birthed. This region grew from the isolation of Spanish communities. Slowly each community displaced with a desperate grasp at having purpose in an American expansion. Spanish speaking, crucified Christ preaching, my ancestors adapted to desert life, orphaned by Spain. This desperation is how I can envision the conception of my subservient and maybe toxic humility.
Albeit a subtle hypocrisy, history tells a story of an arrogant Christ focused intimidation. We know the pueblos were coerced. These mountains smoothed and helped a restless conquering people to tolerate a local lifestyle that looks to have grown symbiotic with pueblos.
The indigenous people were converted into Catholics, for sure not wanting to dismiss their ancestral beliefs, possibly understanding that their lifestyle is more inline with divinity than the conquering evangelists. But now those communities are equally tired, trying to find a niche in America. Through the conquest tragedy grew a privileged lifestyle of land grantees, farmers, and shepherds that were coerced into becoming American. We are now a legacy of people that are enduring, ironically a similar wave of evangelists, squatters, speculators, investors, experimenters, and refugees. We are now visitors to the richness of the Sangre de Cristos.
The suffocating conqueror privilege and new desperate desire to belong seems to have left us toxically humble. Humble to point of believing ourselves as destined to suffer in self doubt. I seem to see this inability to feel appreciated, praised, valued, lovable, and worst worthy of the fruits of the spirit in the New Mexican Chicano people I counsel. The first person that comes to mind is myself.
I am my first client. In reflection, I preferred to uplift myself with validation from others, believing they might believe in me. When this failed I had no idea how to deal with the endless need to feel worthy. I forgot that Jesus Christ asked me to live as he lived, free of self depreciation, judgment from and of others, slavery, and free of a toxic humility. I now hear in my darkest moments, "I believe in you", and I wonder if that is me or Him.
I have grown to see my communities' subtle and gradual crucifixion of "hope in self", worried that this might reflect an overall inability to hope period. A slow death by punishing the misunderstood and toxically humble masses. I no longer want to punish toxically humble peoples. I am for a life of gracefully serving them with spirit so that they recognize the greatness God hoped for them.
Bosque from Ditches!
I turn right onto a road my mom and I traveled almost everyday during my middle childhood. We made the trip going to school and then wrapping it up with coming home from grandmas. Today I am a counselor, turning onto this same road to visit a client. I get to the side street I need to turn on and there they are, the Po Po.
That's the first thought that pops into my head, then the other internal voices chime in with "5-0" and lastly the "La Jura", but I'm unmoved by it. I turn onto the residential street off the main road. A street I must of looked down a thousand times as we passed heading home, never even pondering that 32 years later I might be helping here. I notice a sheriff's vehicle is parked at the intersection. His lights aren't on. Further up the road several unmarked police SUV's line the road, those lights are. I look into the sheriff's car and a square jawed, blonde, and buzzed cut county deputy, sits tapping at a mounted laptop. I looked down the road and something is definitely going down. I don't know what's happening, and what scares me the most is that I'm not shocked or weary.
I am not judgmental of the poverty that I find myself driving through. I haven't lived in a poor neighborhood for many years. But this is where I am from, where I called home. One of my many homes. I turn into their apartment parking lot, unaware of how unaffected I am with the situation happening not even 100 meters away.
I get out of the car and ask a young vato with tattoos scattered on his neck, face, and forearms, "is everything cool?" He shrugs and I get that he didn't know. I look like I don't belong here. He is dressed in all baggy black clothes, and has the burque fade. I just don't fit anymore. He gets on his cell phone, while pacing, and asks without asking, gesturing. He throws up to me a backwards peace sign, bringing his two fingers to his puckered lips with a quick single head nod. I know he wants a frajo, a cigarette. And as if I never left, I respond, "Nah bro" while shaking my head and showing empty hands. I find myself surprised that the accent I put away long ago surfaced so innately. I only bring it out now for nostalgic reasons. I am not home and a part of me never left.
Now session complete, I am driving away. I am leaving the neglected sidewalk-less streets behind. I look back into memories of what my life had looked like, and now, as a visitor. I'm jolted by how versatile my perceptions have had to be. I find myself in tune with the progress that I have created. I am feeling the accomplishments of my family's work. At the same time I am dealing with the surprise for how numb I was to seeing the chaos, the police vehicles, and raggedness. It was a norm and that hit home in a self compassionate way.
I got on the freeway leading me to the privileged, blessed, and fortunate neighborhoods. My heart literally hurt, it hurt with remorse, like if I just learned my girlfriend cheated on me. I still don't understand the pain. Maybe I hurt because I can't do anything more than I am right now. Maybe I hurt because I get to leave and they don't. I no longer see La Jura surrounding homes near me daily. The families I work with have to find their way through the viciousness this place can create.
I get to my office having to prepare for my next client, sitting there, amazed at how far my mom and I have come, and I cried. It wasn't just me and her. We had a lot of help. We had so many chances to fail and fortunately we found our way. I don't like to think of us as rags to riches, but I do know we climbed out of some ditches. I am now able see how beautiful it is to be apart of the bosque, despite having to spend some time in the muck of the ditches. I want to say we made it out, but I am more proud to say I found my way back.
That's the first thought that pops into my head, then the other internal voices chime in with "5-0" and lastly the "La Jura", but I'm unmoved by it. I turn onto the residential street off the main road. A street I must of looked down a thousand times as we passed heading home, never even pondering that 32 years later I might be helping here. I notice a sheriff's vehicle is parked at the intersection. His lights aren't on. Further up the road several unmarked police SUV's line the road, those lights are. I look into the sheriff's car and a square jawed, blonde, and buzzed cut county deputy, sits tapping at a mounted laptop. I looked down the road and something is definitely going down. I don't know what's happening, and what scares me the most is that I'm not shocked or weary.
I am not judgmental of the poverty that I find myself driving through. I haven't lived in a poor neighborhood for many years. But this is where I am from, where I called home. One of my many homes. I turn into their apartment parking lot, unaware of how unaffected I am with the situation happening not even 100 meters away.
I get out of the car and ask a young vato with tattoos scattered on his neck, face, and forearms, "is everything cool?" He shrugs and I get that he didn't know. I look like I don't belong here. He is dressed in all baggy black clothes, and has the burque fade. I just don't fit anymore. He gets on his cell phone, while pacing, and asks without asking, gesturing. He throws up to me a backwards peace sign, bringing his two fingers to his puckered lips with a quick single head nod. I know he wants a frajo, a cigarette. And as if I never left, I respond, "Nah bro" while shaking my head and showing empty hands. I find myself surprised that the accent I put away long ago surfaced so innately. I only bring it out now for nostalgic reasons. I am not home and a part of me never left.
Now session complete, I am driving away. I am leaving the neglected sidewalk-less streets behind. I look back into memories of what my life had looked like, and now, as a visitor. I'm jolted by how versatile my perceptions have had to be. I find myself in tune with the progress that I have created. I am feeling the accomplishments of my family's work. At the same time I am dealing with the surprise for how numb I was to seeing the chaos, the police vehicles, and raggedness. It was a norm and that hit home in a self compassionate way.
I got on the freeway leading me to the privileged, blessed, and fortunate neighborhoods. My heart literally hurt, it hurt with remorse, like if I just learned my girlfriend cheated on me. I still don't understand the pain. Maybe I hurt because I can't do anything more than I am right now. Maybe I hurt because I get to leave and they don't. I no longer see La Jura surrounding homes near me daily. The families I work with have to find their way through the viciousness this place can create.
I get to my office having to prepare for my next client, sitting there, amazed at how far my mom and I have come, and I cried. It wasn't just me and her. We had a lot of help. We had so many chances to fail and fortunately we found our way. I don't like to think of us as rags to riches, but I do know we climbed out of some ditches. I am now able see how beautiful it is to be apart of the bosque, despite having to spend some time in the muck of the ditches. I want to say we made it out, but I am more proud to say I found my way back.
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