An Apprenticeship with `Aina

Ha`ena Beach, Kea`au, Hawaii

 

I left my home city of Detroit with nothing on my keychain. No house, no car, no keys. Modernity made it relatively simple to journey across a continent and an ocean. Instead of taking months or years to travel by foot and boat, I simply shelled out the money to jump on airplanes, and my belongings will be flown over later by the US Postal Service.

My first initiation into this new stage of my life was shedding of my belongings, giving everything away that I could possibly part with. This took months, and still I was left with 18 boxes of drums, yoga props, books, and clothes. I still have not completed going through photos, and seemingly endless files, the bane of a writer’s life. Not only did I have to shed material belongings, I had to bid farewell to many loved ones, dear friends, teachers, and students. I had to cut short my apprenticeship to Detroit, with so many lessons still remaining, and so many projects left incomplete. My long journey from Detroit to Chicago to Los Angeles to Hilo was devoted to emotionally processing, grieving, and simultaneously closing and opening doors.

My first morning on the island began with rainfall, as it typically does. I borrowed an umbrella and ventured forth. My senses opened up to receive the overwhelmingly lush stimuli, such a far cry from the dormant winter landscape of upper Midwestern North America. Bird calls I did not recognize, plants I am just getting to know, unfamiliar fragrances, a different rocky soil under my feet.

Even though I lived here as a child, and I have been back numerous times to visit my children and grandchildren, I felt like a newcomer to the land. I brought tobacco from Waawiiyaataanong, my former home. I sprinkled it at the roots of trees as an offering, I walked across volcanic rocks and gave it to the crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean.

To the spirits of the land, the trees, the animals, and the ocean,
Greetings from Waawiiyaataanong.
I come in service and goodwill.
I ask to be in relationship with you.
I ask you to receive me.
I ask you to teach me how to be your faithful student.
I ask for your guidance.
I promise to take care of you, and ask you humbly to take care of me.
I hope to live out my earthly time on these islands,
and I gently ask for your permission to be here in intimate relationship.
Please teach me how to be a loving servant to the `aina, and all living beings of the islands.
Please teach me how to honor the indigenous people of this land.
Please teach me how to tread lightly on the land, and be in loving service.
I know I will make many mistakes, and that my presence will inevitably be harmful.
Please help me learn how to minimize harm, and live harmoniously with the land, water, people, and all beings.
I ask you to nourish me, and teach me how to sustain myself, lovingly giving and receiving.
May it be so.

When I arrived in Detroit in 2013, Grace Lee Boggs asked me, “Why are you moving here?” I answered, ”To join the revolution.” White folks, entrepreneurs, and artists were bombarding the city, often to the detriment of communities. Many were coming for cheap rents or to purchase property or to start a business they couldn’t afford in their former cities. Instead, I made a commitment to be part of the fabric of community already here, and not to come as a colonizer. But old habits die hard, having grown up in imperialist white supremacist patriarchy, and I had my hand slapped a number of times when I did not adequately wait, listen, and respect the will of Detroiters themselves.

Detroit taught me how to be in community, how to apprentice myself instead of coming with answers and solutions. Detroit taught me how to consult and listen to elders, and what it means to be an elder. Detroit taught me how to be part of the land and water, how to share it, how to listen to it, and nurture it. At the energy vortex of several Great Lakes, and a national border, Detroit is a hub and crossroads for every type of being and interaction. Detroit paved the way for me to move back to the islands, as an adult, this time.

My second initiation back to the islands occurred three days after arrival. My daughter, Katja, and I decided to walk to the nearest beach from her house. The maps app told us it would take 1 hour, about a 3 mile walk. No problem. I put on my swimsuit, a wrap skirt and tshirt over it, and my sturdy walking “slippahs.” My daughter said, “It might be muddy, you might want shoes.” But I didn’t own any hiking shoes and I said, “I’ll just wash off in the ocean.”

Ha. Famous last words. Midwestern mainland mud doesn’t even begin to compare to Big Island mud. Not to mention the wildly uneven terrain of volcanic rock and roots of trees in the dense rainforest. I felt ridiculous holding up my skirt, skipping from rock to rock and over roots. Several times I miscalculated and sloshed down into mid-shin mud. Several times I lost a slipper and had to drag it out of the mud. I won’t even mention the mosquitoes. Any number of times I could’ve slipped and fallen. It’s only by the grace of the gods I made it through the rough trail.

Finally the trail opened up to a remote, empty beach, with breakers slowing down the waves to a gentle ripple at low tide, and a narrow strip of black and gray sand. My feet practically cried stepping into the soft yielding warm sand. The tiny bay was the meeting place of a river and the ocean, and the water currents flowed between the warmed ocean water and chilled mountain spring water.

I laid down on the sand and looked up at the cloud-dappled sky and the waving palms. “This is what it must feel like to be dead,” I announced to Katja: unbelievable beauty, calm, and ease, having gone through an ordeal, probably much more harrowing than my short hike, and a feeling of joy mixed with the grief of having left behind so much that you love.

After a swim and a delicious meal of leftovers, chips, and sliced mango, we decided to make our way back home before the predicted rain started. As we retraced our steps, each footfall became a prayer. Instead of shit, damn, fuck, I decided to say yes, thank you, please, I am here, I am listening, I am receiving. After a while, I started to use each step to bless the earth, to caress the stones, to send love to the `aina. It was still arduous, and I still fell in the mud once or twice. One false move and an injury could have required an airlift rescue, which happens frequently in Hawai`i. Thank god for my yoga practice and the moderate strength and balance I’ve managed to maintain.

When we got home, I had to wash off my slippers several times, scrubbing them with gravel and rainwater. Even after soaking in the bath, I could not get all the mud off the cracks in my feet and in my toe cuticles.

I asked the `aina to teach me. I am receiving my lessons. There will be many more to come.

#####

For those who’ve expressed a desire to come and visit me here, here are some recommendations:

• Right where you are, honor your own land, and seek to be in harmonious relationship with all the beings of your land.
• Learn as much as you can about your desired destination: history, politics, flora and fauna, language, etc. Read articles and books, listen to podcasts, ask questions.
• Create an altar of images or symbols of the desired destination. Consult with the spirits of this place, and request consent to be on this land. Express your intention for this journey. Wait and listen.
• If you feel a resonant “yes,” make plans to come in a responsible and respectful way. Bring with you an offering for the `aina. Include an offering for the indigenous people of the islands.
• When you arrive, make a point, as soon as possible, to engage intimately with the land and waters. Create your own prayer and ritual of exchange.
• Create opportunities to be in community, and to contribute your time and energy, which could include financial reparations. Come to be in relationship and reciprocity.
• Whenever possible, support the local economy and local people. Do your best to avoid exploitative, tokenizing, racist businesses, institutions, and platforms.
• Be humble and modest. Come to learn and to serve.

Thanksgrieving

 
THANKSGRIEVING

i am just beginning to dip my toes
into the ocean of grief
my parents tried to protect me from

no longer here to shield me
no children i have to tend
i peer into the waters
and begin to wade in

mmmmm, with cross-lateral arm strokes
forward and back
the water is ice-cold
but underground springs spurt volcanic hot currents

this is the suffering i have put aside
in order to proceed
chopping wood, carrying water
ever mouths to feed
gas tanks to fill
compost to turn over

i have listened to your stories of suffering
and held them in my body
believing they took precedence over mine
as if grief is finite
i used up my quota of grief on others

but now
waking from sleep
or chopping vegetables
or humming on my exhales
my own ancestors peek through
lifting the curtain to enter

true grief is abundant
wraps around us like river currents
grief begets more grief
like rivers flow into oceans
and oceans flow into other oceans

grief tenderizes rage
keeps me on my knees

healing has become commoditized
sold to the highest bidder
as if reparations can satiate my grief
as if the brittleness of justice is adequate

give me the temporality of justice and repair
but let me stay here
in my ocean of grief
knowing it will never be commercialized
nor subjected to the ravages of capitalism

grief is an elder to healing
we cannot heal until we have wept each other’s tears
i absorb your grief and mine
like the wetland absorbs the hurricane
like the willow tree flails and dances through the storm

no one has exclusive rights
or a trademark for grief
no one queues for grief
all our ancestors call through the ether
in many tongues that i have come to understand

may it wash over me
may it flow through me
may we weep oceans
may we bathe ourselves in one another’s grief
and hold each other with tenderness

A Humble Request

Beloved Iyengar Yoga Detroit Collective Community,

I have been unspeakably blessed with our beautiful community. I am so deeply grateful to each person who has helped to build and evolve it. I will be departing in 1 month for my new home in Hawai’i. I will continue to teach weekly online, conduct study groups, and continue to be a worker-owner from afar. I plan to return to Detroit twice each year to conduct study intensives and daily classes.

Here is my tentative teaching schedule as of January 3, 2022 in Hawai`i Standard Time (UTC-10) unless otherwise noted. Convert to your time zone here.

Sundays, 7-9am HST, Level 2
3rd Sunday, 3-4pm ET, IYDC Yoga Philosophy (Iyengar: His Life and Work)
3rd Sunday, 7-8:30pm ET, IYDC BIPOC Study Group (My Grandmother’s Hands)

Mondays, 4-5:15pm HST, Level 1B
Mondays, 5:30pm HST, Level TBD

Tuesdays 7-9am HST, Led practice

1st/3rd Wednesdays, 8-9pm ET, BIPOC Apprentice check-ins
2nd/4th Wednesdays, 8-9pm ET, Mentee assessment prep check-ins

Thursdays, 9am HST, Level TBD
Thursdays, 6:30-8pm ET, IYDC Common Ailments (formerly Yoga Therapy)

2nd Fridays, 7:15-9:15pm ET, IYDC Pedagogy Study Group

2nd Saturdays, 11am-2pm HST, Monthly Āsana/Prānāyāma Workshop
4th Saturdays, 6:30-8:30pm ET, IYDC Yoga in Society Study Group

I have been happy to teach, especially since the pandemic, for nominal pay. I have thrived with a strong roof over my head, an abundance of nutritious and homegrown food, a generous community of friends, and none of it has required very much money.

However, to be perfectly honest, I will be needing a much stronger flow of income once I move to Hawai’i on December 14.

I have gladly led study groups, taught workshops, taught Community Gift classes, participated in committees, held office hours, provided consultations, and mentored teachers and apprentices for little to no pay. My particular skills, honed over many decades–teaching, writing, caregiving, holding space–do not translate to high pay under capitalism.

As I transition to life in Hawai’i, I come to ask you to financially support me to any degree that is right for you. I will continue to follow my dharmic path no matter what, and give all I can to our community. Your financial support will not define my relationship with you, nor will it determine my teaching and mentoring commitments.

Some of you already support my work monthly as Teacher Education Subscribers. Thank you! I appreciate your continued and/or increased support as I relocate.

If you can offer dāna each month, beginning in January, that will make it much easier for me to devote myself to the yoga path and continue my work. As a full-time teacher over the past 20 years, I have sometimes taught up to 12-13 āsana classes each week, and I am prepared to do so once again if required. However, if financially possible, I would prefer to teach 6 or fewer āsana/prānāyāma classes/week, while continuing the monthly workshop, study groups, BIPOC Apprentice Program, mentoring, and continue to serve as an IYDC worker-owner on several committees.

If possible, I would prefer not to open a separate Patreon account for myself. Instead, I prefer to ask you, as a practice of sovereignty, to take it upon yourself, if you choose to donate, to use the payment method of your choice and give monthly (Venmo @PeggyKwisuk-Hong, Cash App $gwiseok, PayPal to friend at paypal.me/gwiseok, Zelle kwisuk63@gmail.com).

If it’s easier to conceive of paying me as a transaction for services provided, here is an itemized budget:
 

Teacher Education Subscription: Community Gift $50-200/month

• Pedagogy Study Group, 2 hours monthly, $20-40/session
• Yoga in Society/Philosophy Study Group, 2 hours monthly, $20-40/session
• Monthly Āsana and Prānāyāma Workshop, 3 hours monthly, $20-60
• IYDC Yoga Philosophy Study Group, 1 hour monthly $10-20
• IYDC BIPOC Study Group, 1.5 hours monthly, $15-25
  
• Email, text, and phone consultations, as needed, $100-150/hour

As further incentive, I plan to rent a 2 bedroom apartment, so that I can host visitors. A friend of my son is willing to rent her beautiful unit to me at a steep discount short term. I will need cooperative rental assistance in order to afford this $1500/month unit (normally $2300–argh!). If you would like to visit me for 1-4 weeks of intensive study and practice, please consider paying into this cooperative housing plan at an additional $50-100/month.

Thanks for supporting me in my continued growth, as I strive to come ever more into right relationship, with the planet, with the land, with the practice of yoga, with each other, and all beings.

Namaskar,
hgs

Finding Home, Making Home

 

 

“I’ve written a whole book on home and I still don’t know what it is.” ~ Bayo Akomolafe

“If you want to fly, you have to give up the things that weigh you down.” ~ Toni Morrison

I come from serially displaced people. Koreans take great nationalistic pride in their “purity,” and are dismayed to find out their racial and ethnic make-up is an amalgam of many peoples from many lands who criss-crossed the peninsula in the name of empire, adventure, accident, and plunder. More recently, my parents left Korea in the aftermath of war. A proxy war between two aspiring superpowers and their ideologies, it devastated the peninsula, divided it arbitrarily in half, and impoverished it in the wake of genocide.

My parents ultimately embraced the occupying power, as all good survivors know instinctively to do, and brought their three children to the far fringe of the USA, Honolulu, Hawai`i, to suck on the teat of American empire.

Torn from a primary caregiver, my maternal grandmother, and the land of my ancestors, and my mother tongue, I floated along, adapting with vigor. I entered school and quickly learned English and pidgin, leaving Korean behind. Whatever sadness I experienced at this rupture I learned to bury, and move on.

I experienced further trauma when our family left the islands in 1975 seeking better research opportunities for my father at University of Buffalo. Overnight I became Asian, other, strange, alien, and fugitive, in the 7th grade. Desperate for some sense of belonging, I developed armor, practicing making fun of myself. I learned to wear pantyhose, feather and curl my straight hair, and start to speak with curled r’s.

Since then I’ve made my home in many places: New York City, Nashville, Milwaukee, Detroit, and finally, I’m circling back around to Honolulu.

This morning I said goodbye to a home in Detroit, a year-long housesitting gig for my dear friend Adela, who is now based in Puerto Rico. It was not my intention to live alone in the large duplex for the entire year. Honestly I’ve never lived alone. I went from living with my parents to living in dorms and apartments with friends, then having my own family in my own home. After my  young adult kids left home, so did I, embarking on a new stage of my life, living in house-share cooperatives and intentional communities.

Once I overcame my resistance to living alone, I savored it. I ate when I felt like eating, I cleaned when I felt like cleaning. I kept all the lights off and used a single candle. I drummed at all hours, turned music up whenever I wanted. My main room was my yoga room, stripped of all furniture. The whole house was my dance floor, the houseplants my witnesses. I didn’t realize how much I had conformed myself to the needs of others until this year. I experienced deep healing in this house, in this pandemic year, and I will be forever grateful.

Now, as I prepare, at age 58, to make a new permanent home in Hawai`i, I am relinquishing this house, and so much more. I am determined to whittle my material life down to a dozen boxes, to ship to the island.

I have been gradually dissolving the library that had me bound for decades: small press poetry, politics and social commentary, Korean language and history, yoga and healing.… In waves, I have given away hundreds of books, and I still have more to release. Yesterday, I took four boxes of books to the free store at the recycling center. A feeling of loneliness swept over me as I stacked the books on the shelves. Who the hell is going to appreciate these literary works? Avant garde poetry, experimental fiction, and essays? Many are first edition, small press, out of print. Many are signed and have personalized inscriptions to me. Yet I cannot keep hanging on to them. They hold me back, saying, “stay, stay, hold me, turn my pages, keep me.” But as long as I hold on, my arms are full, and I cannot embrace the new.

It’s not just the books. It’s clothing: hand knit sweaters by my mother, a cashmere vest of my father’s, silken hanboks, myriad scarves–many gifted or inherited. It’s artwork–by me, my children, and friends. And endless photos, and albums from back in the day.

Worst of all, the notebooks. What was I thinking, writing all this shit down? What do I do with them now?

On the car radio, I heard a piece about a junkyard in Chicago, where the remains of significant historic buildings are piled up. You can see bits of beautiful architectural landmarks peeking out of the rubble. That’s what it felt like to see my formerly treasured, carefully curated books on the shelves at the recycling center, randomly stacked.

All the parts of my life are open to review and renunciation now. All my identities. Remember “Peggy Hong”? The poet? The wife? From Milwaukee? Remember Hong Gwi-Seok? The daughter? Teacher? Caregiver? Activist? Detroiter? Remember when I shaved my head? The Badass Yoga Nun? In Hawai`i I will be Halmoni, Aunty Peggy, and Mom.

In this grieving process, past, present, and future flow together, weave, and blend. Who am I outside of time? Who am I without my identities and their markers?

This morning I swept clean every room of the upper flat I had been occupying. I opened the windows and smudged each room clean with tulsi and sage, singing, crying, and praying. May we all move on, with grace, trust, and love. May all spirits be released and liberated. May we all joyfully enter the next stage of our lives. May this house be a blessing for the new family. My final gesture was harvesting a handful of onions from the garden, resplendent with green stalks despite the recent frost.

I’ve released so much, but there is still so much more to go. We cannot force or rush grief. I touch and stroke each piece of paper, each photo, each article of clothing. Keep, give away, recycle, or landfill? Some pieces I come back to three times, six times, ten times, undecided. Some pieces I photograph for a digital archive.

I remind myself that the objects have their own lives, outside of me. I attempt to shed my anthropocentric, Judaeo-Christian, capitalistic notions of ownership. My books at the recycling center will continue their existence, even if they are discarded, burned, or destroyed. They are artifacts of a stage of my life that is now over, and artifacts of an author’s particular expression at a particular time. Aside from the raison d’être of the book itself, it exists as paper and cardboard, made from trees, and it will, like every object and embodied being, return to the earth and be composted. If we’re lucky, we will all ultimately feed the soil, beetles, rhizomes, worms, and bacteria.

When identity through objects is shed, what is left? 

The practice.

Just what do I practice? Leaning into the unknown. Failing with magnificence. Dissolution of egoic attachments. Asking questions with no clear answers. Change as the only constant. I utilize the body, sound, image, breath. All of these modalities are available to me at all times, and have nothing to do with my possessions. This is how I find home, and make home.

Aloha `Āina

I stayed up well past midnight last night, caught in endless clickbait of …… Hawai`i real estate porn. It culminated in a minor obsession with a 2-acre farm in Waipahu, with a house, mature fruit trees, off-grid with solar panels, and more. So what if they were asking $900,000? That’s a bargain on the island, and isn’t this exactly what I had been wishing for?

I forced myself to close the screen and go to bed. All night long I dreamt of the farm, and my dream journey took me all the way from conversation with the owners, to a path to cooperatively finance the purchase, and plans to build a retreat center. The dream brought me full circle: a retreat center for whom? Tourists??!? When so many Indigenous Hawai`ians will never be able to own the land they came from?

When I awoke to the light of day, everything became crystal clear: NO, I was not going to buy the farm, or buy any land. Even if I did have a million dollars.

The morning clarity snapped me back to my values and ethics through the concept of `āina: the land. `Āina is not real estate. It is the living, pulsing land itself, which is the basis of all life. `Āina is land as being.

Even though I have childhood roots in Hawai’i, I am not Native. My family, who came as settlers, albeit in the aftermath of war on the Korean peninsula, gave up any legal ties they had to the land decades ago. I come with no claim to the land.

The best I can do is return to my childhood home in the spirit of aloha `āina: in loving and humble service–kuleana–to the land and all its beings. My grandchildren are an embodiment of `āina, and will largely be my focus on the island. The spirit of aloha is created through relationships.

When I moved to Detroit in 2013, I made a commitment to come in the spirit of solidarity, and to be part of the fabric of community, already rooted here for centuries. I vowed not to come as a colonizer, to grab land, impose myself, nor exploit the community. I have done my best to be a student, to be of use, share my resources, and live my most authentic life. The generosity, which is the spirit of Detroit, has allowed me to do the work I love–teaching, caregiving, growing food, cooking, making, studying, building community–while requiring very little money. Even though I have lived below the poverty line, my life has overflowed with abundance. This has been tremendously healing for me.

I hope to bring that spirit to Hawai`i. I have so much to learn and unlearn, and remember. As I study the maps, cellular memories are coming back to me: Amana Towers–the high rise we lived in when we first arrived, and the pool across the street where I fell in; the parking lot of Mānoa Elementary where we spent recess; the sloping back yard of our house and the plumeria, gardenia, and so many kinds of ferns; the fishing spot where my brother used to go.

I need to immerse myself back into the land, back into the culture, reconnect with ohana (family), and build relations with my new ohana. I need to literally have my feet back on the land, feel the breeze, smell the plant life, immerse myself in the waters, and live among the people. This is how I can practice right relationship with the land. Will I eventually own property there? I don’t know. I must reknit the fabric of relationship to the people and the land, before I attempt to claim property of my own.

Anyway it’s not like I have deep pockets to draw from. When I made the decision in 2010 to take  the path of a renunciate, I made the vow that I would live and die in the hands of community. If I had something to offer that was needed, I trusted that community would support me. When I eventually arrive at a day when that support vanishes, it’s a signal that my work is complete. Perhaps there will be opportunity for community-based cooperative ownership of property in the spirit of aloha `āina one day. As the African proverb says, “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” I’ve already wasted much of my life rushing and going fast. It’s now time to slow down, and go together.

I also urge visitors to the islands to recognize and practice aloha `āina. Hawai`i is not your playground. Exactly the way some wealthy suburbanites come into Detroit for a ballgame or a concert or a wedding, without any connection or sense of responsibility to the people or neighborhoods, I feel strongly that we should not travel anywhere just for recreation, in a world so lopsided with disparities through the ravages of capitalism, colonization, and cultural appropriation. What are some ways to practice right relationship and pay reparations? Here are some thoughts.

The land has pulled me back down to earth. The avarice has settled. Capitalism says, hurry, the competition is fierce, buy it while you can! I will take my time. I will learn the land. I will step tenderly, carefully, intentionally–in service, healing, and love.

Once a Settler, Always a Settler

You could say “settler,” or you could say “foreigner.” Or you could say “outsider,” or you could say “alien.” As an obviously Asian person in Detroit, I am in the most extreme racial minority of this city.

The nature of the Black community in general has been to welcome other marginalized folks into the fold. My experience has been that, once I demonstrated that I sought to be part of the solution and not part of the problem, I earned my solidarity stripes and was welcomed with open arms. Once my Black neighbors and colleagues could see that I was not there to extract, colonize, exploit, or dominate, but rather to be part of the fabric of community, they treated me as comrade and kin. As an Asian in Milwaukee and Detroit, I have been welcomed into many Black spaces, and many wonderful relationships.

The Black community gave me a grounding I never received in the white communities I was surrounded by, once my family left our homeland of Korea, and the Asian enclave of Hawai’i. Like many middle class immigrants, my parents were coached to select white suburbs to raise their kids. White communities welcomed me too. But on an unspoken basis of: you must help us enact our agenda.

What agenda? some might ask. The unspoken agenda of white supremacy, domination, and empire. I never heard these words, of course, and only well into my adulthood, after I’d married into the white community, and given birth to three children, was I able to put into words what I had discerned unconsciously. I was welcomed as an Asian in white society as long as I served as a wedge between white and Black, and helped to keep other Black and Brown folks at the bottom of the hierarchy, by assimilating into whiteness. The message from white society was, you’re different. You’re like us. Come on in, but close the door behind you.

The message from Black and Brown communities was, lean in with us, and help us get this door open! Or, let’s build another door to a better place together, or let’s work to get back what was taken away from us. Or simply, let’s tap into the inherent joy and celebration that is our birthright. Once I started to decolonize my mind and body, these projects as a way of life appealed to me far more than supporting the status quo of a racist society.

Yet, on some deep human level, I will still be othered, by white and Black communities alike. I will still be seen as a consummate outsider.

As I prepare to relocate to Hawai’i, where I was raised until my teens, I am once again feeling the discomfort of the settler, because I am not native Hawaiian. Meanwhile, East Asians comprise the ruling class, and many have enacted the agenda of white supremacy. White folks, haoles, comprise a minority in Hawai’i, but still represent much of the wealth, power, and leadership. Hawai’i is one of the most militarized and colonized places on earth. So what business do I have moving there?

Once a settler, always a settler. My homeland was decimated and torn asunder by American empire. My father came to Hawai’i in an effort to provide a better life for himself and his family. In the process, my brothers and I lost touch with our indigeneity and mother tongue, and assimilated into America.

Where is home now? In Korea, I am gyopo, a foreign Korean. My Korean is bumbling and childlike, and my ragtag clothes, tattoo, and long gray hair mark me as an obvious outsider. In Korea, I am perceived as American, and I come bearing my privilege, granted by the empire.

In Detroit, I remain a perpetual outsider. I am “the Chinese lady,” “that Asian woman,” and more. Last night I walked into a memorial celebration for a childhood friend of Baba Baxter Jones, the disabled elder I help care for. As usual, I was the only Asian person in the room, and the only non-Black person. In such a situation, I am typically overlooked, ignored, and treated as a servant, as most caregivers are: we become invisible. But in my case, I become more visible, and possibly suspect, because of my unusual appearance.

At this event, I was actually told by the hostess, the widow of Baba’s friend, to stop going up to the buffet. I had already gone up 4-5 times, because they only had three items that met Baba’s dietary needs, they were serving on small plates only, and I was trying to feed two people. I felt immediately confused and shamed, like a child, and was speechless. There were a hundred or more friends and family in attendance. Had someone complained about me? That Asian lady has gone up 4 times….

I had forgotten how much I stand out at such events. I was seen as an outsider. As a settler. In addition, caregiving, and the needs of people with disabilities, remains unseen and unacknowledged. The accommodation of allowing a caregiver to take multiple trips to the buffet  to feed a PWD was not understood. In a city like Detroit where so much has been stolen: land, labor, water, and more….I was perceived as another taker.

I am a settler in Detroit. I will be a settler in Hawai’i. I am a settler everywhere I go. Wherever I go, I will be occupying stolen land.

The best I can do is try to be one of the “good” settlers, like Grace Lee Boggs, who came to join the labor movement, and lived in Detroit for 60+ years, rooted on Field Street, organizing, writing, teaching, and learning, instead of myriad other settlers who came to build their fame and fortune, by buying up swaths of cheap land, making sweetheart deals with city government, and extracting knowledge, labor, and other resources from multi-generation Detroiters.

What will it mean to be a good settler in Hawai’i? Is it even possible? I take seriously the words of Haunani-Kay Trask, who points out that Hawaiians are not Americans. Americans appropriated and colonized the islands by military force. Americans are the enemy, and from the Hawaiian sovereignty perspective, are not welcome on the islands.

In every yoga class I teach, I have been offering a land acknowledgment, always closing with “We commit ourselves to coming into right relationship with the land, its people, and its spirits.” How do I make this meaningful, and not trite or rote? I embrace the overall commitment of the yogi to sovereignty, and see the practice as one that trains us to take charge of our own lives, exercise agency, and liberate ourselves, while supporting others in their own sovereignty and liberation.

I must surrender to the land and its people and spirits, including my two grandchildren. I must be a steward and a servant. At the same time, in Hawai’i, I must also challenge and dismantle the privilege of being East Asian. What will these commitments look like? What will they consist of? Caught in capitalist society, I must also make my own living. How will I do this in ways that support sovereignty and not empire?

I remain troubled. I have no choice but to embrace the contradictions I cannot escape. The same way that, if I wish to stay alive, I must ingest the life force of a plant or animal, I must also grapple with the issues of land, place, and settler colonialism everywhere I go. I hope you will be troubled alongside me. How do you practice right relationship with the land you are on, its people, and its spirits?

A Sigh of Relief: Teaching a BIPOC Yoga Class

As a person of color in America, I am habituated to doing an unconscious audit of each room I enter. How many Black and brown faces do I see? How many people who look like me, an Asian? I habitually read the room to gauge my level of probable safety in that setting.

All too often I am The Only One: the only person of color, and/or the only Asian person. This happens in many settings, and alerts me to be on guard, and to expect microaggressions. How much I am on guard may depend on the degree of familiarity with the others present, whether there are strong, consistent allies present or not, the reason for our gathering, etc.

BIPOC often end up The Only One, or vastly outnumbered in Iyengar Yoga classrooms. The BIPOC who do show up are often the ones who have assimilated into white dominant culture, whether by choice, by necessity, or by default. I have routinely experienced racial aggression in these settings, both from members of the white dominant culture, and sometimes by BIPOC who may feel pressured to conform or remain silent.

The nature of racial aggressions, whether micro or macro, is such that the casual observer may notice nothing out of step. But those of us who have heard or observed these things many, many times are extra sensitized and on high alert. Here are some examples of racial or other aggressions from Iyengar Yoga classrooms:

• A white teacher touches or strokes the hair of a Black student without invitation or consent.
  

• A white teacher displays “fawning” or tokenizing tendencies toward students coming from underrepresented communities, giving undue attention and compliments. 
  

• During class, we hear two presumably Black people in a heated exchange outside. One white student offers to call the police.
  

• A white teacher repeatedly corrects a Black student’s buttock actions, implying that their body is not “good” or “right.”
  

• White students feel free to frequently interject, ask questions, and centralize themselves and their experiences.
  

• When George Floyd is murdered, your teacher says nothing about it at all. When a student asks for their counsel about it, they give a bland, canned response, indicating they had not prepared any kind of thoughtful response, despite their status as respected spiritual leaders in the community.
  

• Teachers hold colleagues, students, apprentices, and mentees to expectations based on access to expendable funds, childcare, transportation, and other factors that may not be realistic.
  

• When you point out such examples to organizational leadership they respond with incredulity and denial.
  

For all these reasons, a BIPOC class may be welcomed by many practitioners. It’s one place where folks of color can be that much more relaxed. Already, āsana requires us to do difficult things that may be quite uncomfortable, new, or make us feel vulnerable and awkward. Already we may feel we have had to be polite, well-spoken, and obedient in white dominant culture. When we remove as many of the potential barriers as we can, we can be more present, with more ease.

I have been teaching BIPOC-only classes with great joy since the mid-2000s. Here are some things I’ve learned.

• Excellent āsana instruction is not enough. Students who choose a BIPOC class often seek other kinds of support, guidance, and a sense of community from the teacher and other students.
  

• Take a few minutes to help students down-regulate their nervous systems when they arrive. BIPOC have greater exposure to potential harm on a day-to-day basis than their white counterparts. It may take some time in Supta Baddha Koṇāsana, Supta Swastikāsana, or Supta Vīrāsana to finally relax.
  

• Allow for some chitchat in the first 5-10 minutes. Take time for introductions and check-ins if the class is small enough. White supremacy emphasizes timeliness and productivity. An anti-racist yoga space understands that productivity cannot necessarily be quantified, and that there are many ways to be productive.
  

• Consider incorporating a land acknowledgement at the beginning of class, to help students contextualize themselves in the karmic interweaving of our larger time and place. If we are not native to our land, we arrived as captives, refugees, or settlers. Whatever brought us to this place, we hope to evolve into right relationship with the people and spirits of the land. Take your time to develop your own ways and words of acknowledging the land. I like to tie it into the invocation to Patañjali, and talk about the lineage of teachings.*
  

• Take time to explain why you are choosing certain poses, sequences, and set-ups, and what they have to do with being BIPOC. For instance, in Supta Baddha Koṇāsana, you could talk about how we often feel we need to protect or defend ourselves because of the racism we encounter or anticipate, and how expanding the heart/lung region and groins is an opportunity to let down our defenses and nurture ourselves. When practicing arm balances, you could discuss how empowered we feel when we can bear weight on our hands, as a reminder of our inner fortitude.
  

• Put less emphasis on textbook execution of the poses, and more on the physical, emotional, and mental impact. Help students by offering individualized instructions (otherwise known as “corrections”) to promote well-being rather than correctness. For example, teach them how to straighten the front leg in Trikoṇāsana so that they can access the full length of the spine and protect the knee from hyperextension.
  

• Feel free to reference current events, and how they relate to the practice of yoga. Connect the personal practice to collective liberation. For instance, we’ve discussed the current Covid-19 crisis in India, and talked about the reluctance of wealthy nations to share vaccines and technology, which is connected to the history of colonization. We’ve also discussed how our teachers are in India, and how much we all owe BKS Iyengar and his family, and when we do not give back to them in some form, that is appropriation.
  

• Feel free to share poetry, music, prayers, quotes, and other sources of inspiration, and invite students to do the same.
  

• Offer a flexible payment structure as an alternative to the capitalist habits which undergird systemic racism. Our economy has been built on exploitation of BIPOC. Allowing students to determine what they can pay through a sliding scale model teaches them how to practice financial sovereignty. Students take responsibility for both their own learning and their desire to support BIPOC teachers. Seek sponsors for the BIPOC class to lessen the financial burden—reparations!
  

• Offer more opportunities to build BIPOC Iyengar Yoga community, such as book discussion groups, celebrations, potlucks, panel discussions, etc. They can be low-key, and community-led, so responsibility is shared. For instance, a member of our community asked to start a donation-based BIPOC reading group for Resmaa Menakem’s My Grandmother’s Hands. Since we already practice Iyengar Yoga as a form of “cultural somatics,” we gladly welcomed this offer.
  

• Ask your white colleagues to do parallel anti-racist work among themselves. At Iyengar Yoga Detroit Collective, white teachers and students formed Ahimsa in Action, which meets twice a month to do anti-racist work together, and support each other in dismantling generations of white supremacy. Iyengar Yoga provides the perfect backdrop for this work, because we already have a common vocabulary, ethical philosophical foundation, and a somatic practice.
  

Every participant releases a big sigh when they enter a BIPOC-only space. We feel less guarded, and more welcome. Hopefully, we extend that sense of ease into other parts of our lives, so that we can help our society and culture evolve toward the beloved, equitable community we all seek.

*Here is a sample land acknowledgement and invocation to Patañjali, but each person will do it differently, and vary it each time:
As you feel the earth beneath you, acknowledge the beings of this land, human and non-human, past, present, and future. Here in ______, we honor the ________ people. Whatever brought us to this land, we commit to coming into right relationship with this land, its spirits, and its people. We also commit ourselves to coming into right relationship with the lineage of yoga, passed on through generations, as we acknowledge our teachers, and chant the invocation to sage Patañjali.

More reading:
Yellow, Black, Brown, and Beautiful  

It is Time

HOW TO TAKE DOWN A DISABLED BLACK ELDER: VIDEO DOCUMENTATION

 

https://www.facebook.com/OneMichigan/videos/719453185507150

 

The allegation of sexual assault being used to discredit Baba Baxter Jones is captured in this Facebook video. Read my detailed commentary posted with the video on the Facebook link. Here are the key points:

• The assault is announced at 2:10, loudly and publicly. The person yelling is wearing a white visor, seems agitated, and is looking over her left shoulder. The assault apparently happened seconds ago ("That man just grabbed my ass..."). 
  

• Watch the video from about 1:58, pausing every second to view each frame. Pause at 2:01, when this person is 6-10 feet to the right of Baba Baxter. 
• Note the movement and pace of the march, set by the chants and drums. 
• To drive the chair, Baba's (dominant) right hand must stay on the joystick. To move his hand off the stick would STOP THE CHAIR. It would also require that those behind him stop, while everyone else kept walking. Power wheelchairs to do not have "cruise control" or "auto-pilot." The wheelchair user's hand must be on the joystick at all times to drive it.
  
•  At 2:05, see this person walking forward diagonally to her right to report the assault.
  

•  The march was paused from 1:13-1:30 to let marchers consolidate. The person making the allegation is standing behind the DWB sign, with Baba about 15-20' back (1:13).
• As the march restarts at 1:30, Baba's right hand remains on his chair for the remainder of the video.

In conclusion, as a survivor of sexual assault, I support and believe other survivors. If the person in the video claims harm, it needs to be investigated, and the harming party held accountable. In this case, it's physically impossible for Baba Baxter to have committed assault as alleged, while driving his chair. Meanwhile, the actual perpetrator has not been held accountable.

HOW TO TAKE DOWN A DISABLED BLACK ELDER

Just how do you take down a disabled, Black, community elder activist? Read on.

June 29, 2020

It was the height of the Black Lives Matter protests. I was at home, for a respite from the urgency of the daily protests, when I received an alarming text from a friend: “Seems ______ is saying baba baxter touched one of "her youth" inappropriately at the march. Just look out. She actively, consistently targets activists. And I dunno what happened but I would expect a shit show.”

I had just come home from the rally with Baba Baxter Jones to protest the recent police aggression against marchers in Southwest Detroit. I’d been attending marches for several weeks by now, and had come to see the young protesters like my own children.  The night before, the police had responded with such violence that protesters could’ve easily been killed. As a survivor of multiple incidents of racist police brutality, Baba Baxter felt passionate about these marches and attended as frequently as possible. I participated with him once or twice a week, and other nights we asked allies, friends, and advocates to accompany him.

A little later I went to pick Baba up from the march. Several march organizers waited with him, to help load him and his power wheelchair into the truck and trailer. He seemed confused and shaken up, and I told him about the heads-up text I received from our friend. “What happened?” I asked.

Baba said, “I don’t know, it was really strange. This big guy came up to me during the march and he was trying to talk to me. I was distracted because we were chanting and yelling, and I was trying to steer the chair through the crowd. I couldn’t really hear him, but he said something like, ‘I know what you did back there.’ I didn’t know what he was talking about, and then he walked away.”

When we got home, we started to piece together the situation:

• A youth* claimed Baba had touched her inappropriately. This was in the midst of a crowded street march, with hundreds of people around, with Baba flanked by organizers, while he was trying to navigate his power chair.
• For some reason, Baba was being targeted as the perpetrator. The man who came up to him was an organizer with the group, One Michigan, that hosted the youth.
• The allegation had already begun circulating through the community.

I contacted some of the march organizers by text to warn them of the allegation. Several responded right away:

• “that’s insane - here for baba 100%!”
• “People have troubling personalities that need energy work. Sorry this must be stressful AF. We don’t believe that of Baba ofc. Love to you and Baba.”
• “I was next to baba the whole time I didn’t see him touch nobody inappropriately”

As of that night we did not even know exactly what was alleged. What kind of touch? When and where did it occur? Who was touched on what body part? Why did they think it was Baba? Who witnessed it?

The likelihood of the allegation struck me as nearly impossible for many reasons:

• We’re in a pandemic, Baba is immuno-compromised, and strict about spatial distancing. No hugs, only elbow bumps, masked, no physical contact.
• He’s acculturated march organizers to have wheelchairs in the front line as an accommodation for disability. It’s extremely difficult and stressful to navigate a wheelchair through a crowd, and nothing’s worse than getting bumped from behind by a wheelchair. For safety and practicality, it’s best to put wheelchairs in the front of the march.
• Because he is always in the front line, he is flanked by organizers leading the march. On the night of the 29th, One Michigan stepped in front of DWB for one section of the march.
• The power wheelchair makes Baba highly visible and impossible to hide, sneak around, or do anything illicit.
• Baba has a spinal cord injury and nerve damage in his arms and hands. He can only reach out so far towards people around him. He maintains a space bubble around the chair. With his right, dominant hand he must steer the chair continuously. His right hand cannot ever leave the joystick while moving. His left hand can only reach so far, especially while he is in motion. The likelihood of touching someone, anyone, in any way, while driving the chair, in the midst of a crowded march, with his left hand, seems nearly impossible. Those who’ve never used a power chair should try this out themselves, while imagining they have a spinal cord injury and nerve damage that restricts both lower and upper body movement. Someone would’ve had to be practically leaning on his chair to even be accidentally brushed by his elbow, and this was unlikely at the height of a pandemic.
• If such a touch occurred, wouldn’t there have been witnesses? Hundreds of people were marching, and Baba was smack in the middle of the street, surrounded on all sides by marchers.

So many other questions arose: Why did the youth think Baba touched them? Why didn’t the adults in charge discuss the allegation with Baba, aside from the brief, threatening, non-specific reference from the man who came up to him? Who else at the march that night knew about the allegation? Did anyone investigate the situation that night, to get to the bottom of it, and clarify exactly what happened?

To me, it felt like there was clearly a misunderstanding of some sort, and that the youth may have been confused about exactly what happened. After all, it was a hot night, a tense situation, and a loud, shouting crowd of folks from disparate groups and identities moving through the streets. Trauma confuses our senses and perceptions, and impedes executive function. If I experience inappropriate touch in a crowd, it would be easy for me to blame the wrong person, or mistake an accident for an assault, or be triggered and relive a past trauma. As a child, I would hope that the adults in charge would recognize these possibilities and respond accordingly. If the adults had calmly and rationally investigated the situation right then and there, the damage could’ve been nipped in the bud.

Inevitably in community organizing—especially when coalitions are rapidly assembling to address urgent issues—rifts, disagreements, and factions start to bubble up. Rumblings at the marches had been ongoing for a couple of weeks or so. This is human nature, and no big deal, but these conflicts and growing pains present necessary challenges to work through in mature and strengthening ways. Was this allegation arising out of these rifts? Was Baba being scapegoated?

I felt strongly that, for some reason, Baba was being singled out and attacked, and that he needed immediate protection. The following night, June 30, I was unable to accompany Baba to the march but a friend, a well-connected Southwest Detroit resident and indigenous healer, volunteered to be with him. I asked her to smudge and cleanse the space and the people around them, because it seemed apparent to me that a lot of messy, destructive energy was circulating. I advised Baba to speak out and ask for protection, and specifically to ask members of the safety team to march alongside him because he was being singled out and accused of perpetrating harm. But when he finally got a chance to speak, a Detroit Will Breathe organizer cut him short and would not let him finish, saying “Nobody is beyond reproach,” implying that the rumored allegation may have been true.

The next day, July 1, Baba and I had a phone conversation with a DWB organizer, acknowledging the allegation of harm made against Baba. Baba and I immediately requested investigation, dialogue, and a restorative justice or mediation process to address the allegation. DWB agreed to the process, and asked that meanwhile, Baba stop attending DWB events. I suggested that if a cooling off period was desired, then One Michigan, responsible for making the allegation, should also stop attending DWB events. DWB disagreed, because the organization was part of their coalition, despite my argument that all coalition members needed to be held accountable.

Days went by, and we received no word from DWB about the dialogue. I also reached out personally to One Michigan, by phone and email, and received no response. At a July 4 community event, we spotted members of One Michigan whispering to our friend, one of the event organizers. Later, my suspicion that they were spreading the allegation proved true, although our friend did not take the bait, and instead urged One Michigan to take it up with Baba, and seek mediation.

The following week, On July 6, I urged Baba Baxter to start attending marches again, because they are public events, and one cannot be barred indefinitely from public events. On July 7, I reached out to DWB to reassert the need for dialogue. They responded that they no longer planned to pursue dialogue because the youth didn’t want to participate, and also because they took Baba’s presence at the July 6 march as a gesture of disrespect. They closed our text thread with “We are looking for ways to move forward and will keep you posted.”

Baba and I took it upon ourselves to reach out to a member of the Detroit Safety Team, an experienced restorative justice facilitator, who agreed to facilitate a process between Baba and DWB. They reached out repeatedly to DWB that summer, who failed to follow through with the requests for information to get the RJ process started.

It was getting clearer and clearer that DWB and One Michigan had little to no interest in resolving the situation.

We thought the whole ordeal may have died a natural death, until a representative of DWB revived the allegation, through an email listserve to the Coalition for Police Transparency and Accountability. I responded to the message with clarifying information, reiterating the ignored requests for dialogue and investigation. CPTA agreed to support the process and help move it forward. We are currently in that process.

Most recently, the allegation resurfaced on Facebook, in the context of the upcoming Michigan Democratic Party Disability Caucus elections, to argue against Baba Baxter’s campaign for Chair. This person even posted a video in which a voice can be heard saying, “that man just grabbed my ass, in the wheelchair, he just grabbed my ass!” (2:10)

Rewinding the video frame by frame reveals the implausibility of the allegation. Namely, the accusing party was diagonally to the right of Baba (2:01). He could not be moving in his chair, and grabbing someone on his right at the same time. Apparently the accusing party and those perpetrating the allegation do not understand how a power wheelchair works. It doesn’t have “cruise control” or “auto-pilot.” The wheelchair user’s hand controls the chair, which will only move when pressure is applied to the joystick. If the user moves their hand off the joystick, the chair comes to a complete halt. To “grab [someone’s] ass,” he would have had to stop completely to reach his right hand out. The youth would also have had to stop to be within reach. Everyone behind them would then be forced to stop, and they would have witnessed said assault.

Baba keeps his water bottle and food bag hanging on the right side of his chair. Did she brush against something and think it was a hand? Did someone else in the march assault her? Who knows what she actually felt? But what is clear is: Baba’s right hand was driving his chair the entire time, and that hand never left the chair, and the chair did not stop moving.

I wish this kind of scrutiny and logic could have been applied much earlier. So much secondary harm could have been prevented.

The elephant in the room is ableism. I wonder how much Baba Baxter’s disability consciously or unconsciously scared the youth and adults who alleged inappropriate touch? PWD (people with disabilities) are often objectified, and seen as deviants from the norm. PWD can elicit fear because they are othered, kept out of the public eye, and dehumanized. Seeing them reminds us of our own mortality and vulnerability. A wheelchair often elicits fear, especially a power chair which we perceive as a small motor vehicle. Just like racism, ableism shows up without our conscious realization. Like white supremacy, it is both the air we breathe and the water we swim in. Baba Baxter especially stands out as a Black man in a wheelchair, not to mention an assertive, visible, unapologetic Black man. He often elicits trepidation. Is it possible that this young person unconsciously projected such fears onto Baba, even if he never touched her, then told an adult, who may have taken her literally, without scrutiny? A conversation and investigation could’ve addressed all of this months ago.

Meanwhile, none of us in good conscience can allow further assertions of this allegation. We must put it to rest immediately. At the very least we each need to view this video closely, understand the mechanics of a power wheelchair, and understand Baba Baxter’s physical disabilities. We need to actually investigate the harm the youth may have experienced that night. Unfortunately, DWB and One Michigan may have put more energy into assassinating Baba Baxter’s character than to conducting a proper sexual assault investigation. We need a clear, well-facilitated restorative justice process to address all harm. Unless and until we take these steps, true healing remains elusive.


*A subsequent Facebook post stated that “the youth” was not a minor as we were originally informed, but a 19 year-old young woman.



ADDENDUM: Baba Baxter’s Personal Statement, July 8, 2020

When Black lives are under attack ... What do we do..? What do we really do? Is that just a hollow meaningless chant that makes us feel good when we say it? How can we say Black lives matter, if we're not prepared to actually protect Black life? How do we really protect Black life? What do we really do? How are Black lives being attacked? Is it just the police or are they just a symptom of a much larger problem?

George Floyd was a Black life. George Floyd was a Black man. The whole world watched in shock as George cried out for his mother, as his last breath was squeezed out of his helpless body. Why was George attacked? Why wasn't George protected? George was not the first Black life, or the first Black man to be attacked. He was not the first Black life or Black man to not be protected, or not matter.

Black lives, and Black Bodies have always been under attack. Black men have never known what it feels like to wake up and not be under attack. Black men are always perceived to be the 800 lb gorilla in the room. Black men are taught at a very early age that you have to tiptoe through life like you're walking on eggshells. A Black man can never appear too aggressive, or assertive, or confident, or masculine, or any characteristic that might intimidate or threaten others, except if the other is another Black man.

A Black man is conditioned to live in fear. Fear of himself, fear of other Black men, and especially fear of others who do not resemble Blackness. The mere presence of a Black man causes others to feel insecure. So how can a Black man matter, or be protected in a society that is conditioned to fear him, a society that targets him, and places a bullseye on his Black body from the moment he is born? When a Black man tries to protect himself he becomes the enemy, When you try and protect a Black man you become the enemy.

This society was founded on the oppression of the Black man. This society with all of its -isms thrives on the oppression of the Black man. These -isms are structured and institutionalized. A Black man is always under attack, and forced to defend his very existence within these -isms. Society has carved out a place for the Black man and if he dares to step out of place he's punished.

Now what if that Black life, that Black body is a Black Man, and Disabled? Now it becomes even more complicated because another -ism is attacking. It's called Ableism.*