Good Evening, all. 9/6/16
I read a very touching story for my creative writing class entitled “Two Kinds” by Amy Tan. There’s a PDF of it floating around the internet ether if you’d like to give it a read. It’s a short six pages.
For my American Literature class, I was supposed to read and skim through a section entitled “First Encounters: Early European Accounts of Native America”.
You can guess I took one read of the bullshit and set it down.
My more recent followers may be a little confused by my discontent, and I’ll briefly explain: I’m mixed race, a portion includes Native American, and I’m no stranger to the mountain of hell historical truama has put that part of my family through. I come from a steady line of slaves and ancestors who were forced along the trail of tears. I therefore come from an open, unhealed wound, riddled with alcoholics, depressives, and oppressed people. The last thing I feel like reading is a piece of shit from some old “explorers” who felt entitled to do what they did.
I know there are natives and aborigines all across the world who still feel the repercussions of similar histories. And one day I’m sure it will happen again. And again. And again. If there is life on other planets, I’m almost certain it’s happened there as well. There always seems to be a power struggle between creatures somewhere, somehow. Plants fight for the beams of the sun and there are vines that suffocate other brothers and sisters of theirs for just that.
Perhaps the other planets have found a way to heal. There are some countries on our planet who have learned to heal from that kind of truama, but America isn’t one of them. And therefore I don’t take lightly people saying “that story doesn’t make sense” and then laughing at the world resting upon the back of a giant turtle in an Iroquois story. I don’t take lightly the fact that when some European described watching some tribe wail every morning at a certain time at the death of their son for an entire year as “ridiculous” or hearing them laugh at that.
Whether or not there was something lost in translation, have some fucking respect.
Sometimes it takes three generations to heal from truama. It’s not inconceivable that there were different forms of mourning in different tribes. Mourning too long isn’t always a sign of depression you spiritless idiots, it’s also a form of healing. You have to feel that pain, you have to let it out, and you have to reconnect with yourself and your surroundings. Grief is extremely powerful and it needs to be treated as such. Trauma is very powerful, and it needs to be handled as such. If you can’t understand that, they keep your mouth shut.
I should have spoken up in class. The way they were talking, I could feel my blood boiling. But something held me back. Remnants of oppression, perhaps? Habit? I’m used to people talking that way about cultures I’m apart of. They don’t ever seem to talk shit about that straight up Polish/Irish part of me though.
I fell silent that class period. I refused to speak or participate or listen to a word anyone had to say. Maybe it was my anger, maybe it was my way of rebellion: maybe it was my middle finger to the world. I don’t know. But if it happens again tomorrow, I won’t hold back.
My professor said the book does a good job of expressing native american views. Among the hundreds of settler stories, there is one native american creation story that was probably written down by a settler.
Yes, there are tons of documents by natives believe it or not, because I read many of them in high school when I took a college american history course.
How I see my professor at this point:
I stopped that post last night. This morning the tides turned and I awoke how I always do: balanced on the edge of my mind willing to either fall and land steadily on the surface to my left or the abyss to my right. I ended up fighting a little harder than usual and the result went something like this:
And yes, I switched gender and race in the process.
Something took over my mind today and I ended up not going to that English class I specified above; I sent an email saying I had an appointment I couldn’t miss. I got a call from work for a shift, and for some reason it spiraled out of control after that. I had to spend a lot of courage attempting to call them back (to which the phone wasn’t answered) and it just reminded me of the fact that I have a letter to still give to the accessibility center, an appointment to reschedule because someone gave me the wrong room for it and I missed the appointment, and that I still have to dish out all of the accommodation letters to my professors which means I have to approach them during office hours.
I got extremely overwhelmed. And when I get overwhelmed I have no tools to stop my mind from freaking out. I try explaining the process but I’m assuming people think “why are you freaking out about nothing” and then decide there’s no point in talking to me about it. That frustrates me even more as I don’t tell the inner workings of my mind to just anyone. In fact, I rarely tell them to anyone. So to be blatantly rejected when I do manage to share some of my stress only pushes me further downward.
It’s like climbing up from a hole and getting your knuckles stomped on and your face kicked back down.
In my creative writing class I couldn’t focus. My mind does not have the capability to shut up. I think there were a few times I whispered something to myself or I started rocking, I’m not sure, I wasn’t really present for the class.
Then comes the suspicions: is that person next to me asking the other person next to her a question to spite me? She knows it pisses me off. She’s doing it on purpose. She was nice to me earlier but now that she knows I’m insane, she’s refusing to speak to me.
I figure both people at my table can hear what’s going on in my head and that’s why they were quieter this class. Maybe I was whispering too loud, I don’t know.
Maybe I didn’t whisper at all and it only felt that way because my mind was so loud today.
To be quite honest, I don’t know what the fuck went on in class.
It’s been very stressful lately, and I know what happens to me when stress hits me: my moods jump around like a ten year old on a trampoline for the first time, I’m suspicious of everyone around me (have I told you at this point I only trust my manager at work?), I shut down . . . and during that shut down I force everything in the back of my mind, putting pressure on my subconscious. Then she erupts with fury and vengeance and that, my friends, is what I call a panic attack. Then I get sent to the hospital, miss classes because the Ativan IV puts me to sleep for a good day and a half, and then I wake feeling like a complete fuck up of a person.
I would know as this has been happening systematically for the last two years. It’s the reason I am not yet out of this mind fuck of a junior fucking college.
So I try to let my stress out. I try to talk to people. But what happens when that fails as well? Where do I turn? This blog? And bore all of your eyes to death?
I don’t know.
What is this blog anymore, even?