Medicinal Love Poem from the Universe

a medicinal love poem from the universe

stand up and read it out loud to a jazz track

open your window, stick your head out and shout it to your neighbors

claim it and proclaim it

namaste, pkh

KNOW THIS

know this, friend

my love is the embodiment of angels

a flood of devas

a hurricane of cherubim and seraphim

encircling you, embracing you, lifting you

know this, child of god

when you look at the cloudless dome of the midwestern sky,

my love is wider

when you see the grandeur of mountains and know that its reverse

anchors it into the earth

my love is deeper

will the sun stop shining? will the wind stop blowing?

my love is a force of nature

infinite and irrepressible

know this, daughter

I will protect you with my own body

I will fight any demon

you can stink to the high heavens

be an asshole the size of iowa

kick scream punch me in the solar plexus and knock me off my feet

and I am still here

arms spread palms open

I will hold you through any storm

I will stay the night, watching and praying

know this, sister

I’m not letting you off the hook so quickly

don’t you break the promise you made with the angels, god, and me

to take human form and plant your feet here on scarred earth

to know suffering

to take it into your bones and your soul

so as to burn it up

and transform it

we are here to sit in the fire with each other

soulmate, know this

you have soul sisters

spirit mothers

boddhisattvas waiting in the wings for the invitation from you

we hear you and see you even when you’re determined to hide

we are at your beck and call to walk at your side

catch you when you falter

cradle, cajole, shake you awake to say

be here now

BE here now

be HERE now

be here NOW

NOW

now is the moment you have chosen

to bless us with your wild iridescent brilliance

a brilliance honed by lifetimes

tumbled and tossed, smoothed and polished

your wounds make you glow

beloved, know this

my love is a sliver of the infinite eternal

a ray of the sun

a drop in the ocean of the great lakes

a single blade of prairie grass

one link in the story of the interconnected self

in which multitudes embrace you

clouds and beetles and dandelions

children with sticky summer skin

squirrels balanced on powerlines

lightning piercing night sky

all fully present in your story—our story—to bear loving witness

know this, teacher

you matter more than rain

you matter more than earthworms

you matter more than paychecks

you matter more than poems

your significance cannot be measured in earthly terms

your reasons for being here cannot be counted out

only our souls convey your irreplaceability

why you have taken this pain, why now, why here

only our souls know

and we thank you

thank you for staying

thank you for bearing it

thank you for being in the story with me

thank you for this breath

this moment to be

pure electric

sparkling radiant

alive

An Ode to Detroit

YOU BRING OUT THE BODHISATTVA IN ME

sterling toles is a bodhisattva sitting in the corner chair

smile broad as grand boulevard

arms as long as detroit summer

brother sterling’s third eye glows like the lights on belle isle

brother sterling chose post-industrial detroit to come back

so he can freestyle to the house didj

as mankwe practices her circular breathing

sterling’s hands are empty and open

sterling is here to say yes

and yes

and yes

sterling toles brings out the bodhisattva in me

(can’t remember what I was pissed off about)

and in you too

in a past life brother sterling was your mother

and before that you were his

we are all crowded into meiko’s living room

during july full moon thunderstorm

here for each other

for to heal ourselves is to heal each other and the threads that bind us

our hands are open and empty now too

we have also chosen to come back

into this house of crumbling plaster

down the street from grace lee boggs

abandoned by neighbors though music blasts on sweltering summer nights

we have also chosen to come back

into neighborhoods of 100% unemployment

and multigenerational front porches

do you mean to tell me you’ve forgotten?

that in some past life you took bodhisattva vows

that for the sake of all beings
you would generate the mind of enlightenment

and put your body on the line
so here we all are

in the beautiful broken city of detroit in 2012

we bring out the bodhisattva in each other

sterling’s long fingers describe the air as he jams

and I am beginning to remember

Fight/Flight/Freeze/Thaw

another poem from the "trauma series"

pkh

  

fight

“stay and fight”

says krishna to arjuna

startling me out of dream into cool june morning

what kind of bloodless revolutionary am I?

I’m not a fighter I tell friends

but they just laugh

they recognize my karmic burden a mile away

even if I do not

how does the pacifist

confront the madman?

how does the satyagrahi resist spray painted toxic fumes

that twist her words into bludgeons?

we repaint the kitchen red over the slanderous yellow

put some resistance into the plaster

a circle of protection primed and sealed tight

flight

pack your toothbrush

3 pairs underwear

2 tshirts

and go

this flimsy summer dress

now always to hold the story

of the white man’s revenge

develop an allergic reaction to trauma

feel your chest tighten

sneeze four times in a row

as the whole body inflames into heightened immune response

choose the car not the bike

avoid street festivals

heart races when spotting a shaved head

or a black ford focus

come back a week later

chiming your way in to clear a path into the house

collect mail and phone messages

but leave quickly

forgetting what you came for

even now you can’t remember

the color of his deranged eyes

freeze

like the baby rabbit trying to cross locust street

the impala before the cheetah’s teeth plunge in

isaac on the stone slab before abraham

I prostrate myself

rounding my back to expose my kidneys

my polite neighbors are shocked

into impotent complicity

watching the drama unfold on a second floor balcony

starring three brown women and one screaming white man

I fall asleep at random moments

packing myself in ice

mid-sentence while teaching

I encase myself in a cool blue silence

i startle awake

to the sound of traffic or a pre-dawn robin

ready to fight or flee

where is the toothbrush my shoes my keys?

thaw

this time I give myself permission

to weep

no children or husband to put first

salty baptism in showers

in cars

between classes I teach

at dinner tables

and breakfast tables

I weep my way through songs

through prayers

I cry before strangers

I cry before civil servants behind glass shields

I cry naked like a newborn

or swaddled in bedclothes

I cry for omma and feel her presence near my right ovary

appa I call out and he appears under my shoulder blade

I cry in the presence of angels

the flutter of their wings creating an indoor draft

I cry in the arms of women who hold me as I held my slippery daughter at birth

or my deathbed mother in intensive care

I cry in the arms of my son

whose shoulders were so broad it took two extra pushes to urge them out

I cry as if my wealth is measured in tears

lavishly generously I weep

I cry as if I deserve to cry

for what woman does not?

I AM FROM A PINK HOUSE

If you are outside Milwaukee, I may not have told you about this crisis on June 3, 2012. In short a resident of our housing cooperative had a breakdown which involved physically threatening behavior, verbal abuse, and spray painting and writing on the walls of the house consisting of racially charged hate speech targeted toward me. We called the police, contacted the landlord, and he was evicted that night, and the lock changed immediately. We are all safe, though shaken up. I am processing the trauma with friends, poetry, yoga, and much more. Five weeks later, I feel I am more or less back to normal. The only means I have found to write about this trauma is through poetry. Here is a piece I wrote that night. This has been an epic experience and an amazing teacher. The healing continues.
 

I AM FROM A PINK HOUSE

I am from a pink house with yellow walls covered with spray paint, and my name markered on walls

I am from he keeps his door open now and “you and I are the same person”

I am from his violent father and his hypochondriac mother

I am from his connective tissue disorder and a shoulder that dislocates during sleep

I am from “I painted this for you to teach you,” staying up all night with rolling rocks, practicing stand-up, and crushed cans thrown across the room

I am from camels smoked on the deck and a knife next to his bed

I am from jars of pepperoncini that burn up his stomach

I am from “white liberals are the worst” and thinking everyone can be your ally

I am from give him the benefit of the doubt and no judgment, no blame, and take responsibility for everything

I am from hurt people hurt people hurt people hurt

I am from I can’t think of what to do, a squad car that never shows up and better change the lock tonight

I am from what if he’s right and I’m wrong? and maybe if I stay still and breathe through it it will disappear

I am from it feels more comfortable to bear it than fight it and where did my body go?

I am from put your head down and work, hurry up and buy something to feel better

I am from “guchuh”: stop crying already or “are you holding back tears?”

I am from jess faces off against him in her bare feet and skinny legs while the neighbors are watching us up on the second floor deck and trying to decide what to do

I am from friends on either side shoulder to shoulder who won’t leave me until I am safe

I am from I don’t even recognize my mistreatment until the white male in recovery points it out to the police

I am from rip off the bandages and look at the wound, and give yourself a whole day or week or month to weep

I am from weep for the mothers, the grandmothers, the maidens and crones, the asian call girls in the backs of alternative weeklies published by white liberals, the manicurists in nail salons, generations of picture brides and comfort women

I am from generations of women suffering alone and silently, accepting the blame and wearing it like a cloak

I am from kombucha, powdered greens, and probiotics tossed into a canvas bag,

I am from kefir strained at midnight and strawberry rhubarb crisp from the first spring harvest

I am from setubandha until sleepiness comes, under full moon through lace curtains

I am from you are safe now

Do I Hate You?

As I heal my own racial wounds and internalized racism, I seem to be attracting white people bringing up issues of race with me. It may be that they feel safer with me, a petite Asian woman/yoga teacher/poet, than, for instance, a pissed-off militant black man or woman. Or it may be I am the only person of color they know well enough to bring up risky topics, and besides, Asians are “honorary white people,” right?

Often these discussions become impassioned. After all, a beast like global white supremacy won’t budge without a little …. feeling.

All too often, as the conversation progresses, my white friend becomes uncomfortable. They claim I am shouting, that my anger is coming from nowhere, that I vibrate hatred, that I hate white people, and specifically, I hate them.

I know from anger. Not only are Koreans expressive, passionate people, but I’m a fire sign, pitta dosha, and as the baby of my family, the bearer of the emotional baggage. I was a rageful child and had temper tantrums well into my grade school years, driving my parents crazy.

As a teenager and young adult I learned to channel my vague sense of rage into art, dance, music, writing, activism, spirituality, and more. I learned that my anger was larger than my personal wounds and unmet needs, but also cultural and intergenerational. As an adult I began to understand my anger in the context of deep injustice in a capitalist, patriarchal white supremacy.

Despite my hours of meditation and yoga asana practice each week, it’s still all too easy to marinate in anger if I am not channeling that energy consciously into constructive projects. One foray into a racist, sexist mainstream media can set me off, or any number of other prompts.

As for hatred, probably like many of you, I like to think I bear hatred toward none. While I certainly have favorite folks to hang out with, and others I choose not to, I don’t feel enmity toward anyone. Even when I picture someone who has committed serious harm to me or others, I don’t feel hatred. I feel compassion for their suffering or lack of knowledge that has led them to harm others.

Do white friends and acquaintances wanting to talk about race prompt my rage and hatred? Certainly the injustice and oppression wrought by white supremacy should not be tolerated. Maybe the more constructive question is: why aren’t more white people equally outraged about the system of global white supremacy? Yes, even when I don’t hate the perpetrator of racism, there are times when I hate the racism that runs this nation and the world. Then my equanimity training kicks in and I realize that we attract what we resist, and fanning the flames of aversion only keeps me trapped.

So all of this comes up as I discuss race in impassioned conversations with white friends, when they stop and back off because I Am Shouting and Raging and I Hate Them.

I discussed this phenomenon with an older white friend. She attributed it to white people clinging to their privilege when they feel their status being threatened. “White people aren’t used to seeing people of color as their equals,” she admitted. So they may see an assertive, passionate person of color as aggressive, threatening, angry, and hateful, when maybe, I’m “just sayin’…..” Just speaking my truth clearly and directly, that’s all.

Dear White Friend,

Are you my ally? Do you really want to dismantle racism/white supremacy, or are you trying to convert me to your point of view, get me to salve your wounds, or flash your anti-racist resume to win points from a person of color?

What are you passionate about? What do you raise your voice over? Or were you brought up to keep strong feelings suppressed? Can you experience strong feelings or disagreement without hating? Haven’t you had an impassioned conversation with a teenage child or other family member that, even though voices may have been raised, was not hateful or rageful?

I do not hate you. What a waste of energy that would be. I hate the actions of white supremacy that oppress and exploit. Don’t you feel the same way, and if so, why aren’t you expressing it? After all, white people need to take responsibility for dismantling white supremacy.

For God’s sake, don’t be afraid of me. Walk side by side with me. Join me in the sacred battle of eliminating oppression and exploitation on every level. Confront your own anger so you don’t interpret every feeling I have as rage or hate. Do your own inner work so you are not threatened by strong feelings, and you feel your own feelings. Do your own research so you don’t expect me to educate you. Meet me halfway at least, so you’re not coming to me at the Racism 100 level when the rest of us are at the 700 level and ABD.

Most of all, stop taking stuff personally. What a God-awful distraction and waste of time.

Of course we’re pissed off: if you’re not outraged you’re not paying attention. But nobody’s hating on anybody. We’re too busy for that. Let’s get to work.

On Offending White People

Like many other persons of color, I was raised to protect white people. Unwitting participants in white supremacy, my parents were determined to uplift their children by making sure we got our fair share. My immigrant parents could see no future for us that did not include excelling within the economic, political, educational, cultural system already in place, that of global white supremacy. This meant we internalized a sense of inferiority, so that we stayed submissive, respectful, quiet, and never offensive.

Now that I have awakened to this habit of thought and behavior passed on through generations, I have the responsibility of dismantling it. I have to catch myself every time I am tempted to please and protect white people, recognizing that the system of white supremacy hurts absolutely everyone, including white people. Instead of stifling my truth and making myself sick, as I have done for most of my adult life, I am finally learning, at age 48, to live and speak my truth, and stop unconsciously complying with systems of oppression. This means that I may offend white people.

White supremacy hurts everyone. People of color experience this harm daily, through the media and through microaggressions, which may marginalize them, exoticize them, objectify them, and reinforce a sense of inferiority and shame. The problem is white people can stay immune to the harm of white supremacy. After all they are on top. White people can be unconscious of the pain of white supremacy until it is pointed out to them. That is, until they are hurt or offended by a person of color.

Would-be white allies, take note:
If I offend you, I am compelling you to experience the harm of white supremacy, which hurts both white people and people of color. If something I say hurts you, it’s because you are awakening to the pain that white supremacy causes, the pain that has always been there, like the water table under the earth’s surface. While people of color live with this pain, you have been largely protected.

I will not protect you from feeling the pain of white supremacy, for white people will never dismantle the system of white supremacy without feeling this pain. I will not even protect my own children from experiencing the pain of white supremacy. Unless we all awaken to the suffering and harm created by this system we will be silently compliant. White people comply by upholding or resigning themselves to the status quo. People of color comply by internalizing a sense of inferiority and shame that compels them to protect and please white people, and support the status quo.

I will not apologize for offending you. Instead, I welcome you to our club. You have been awakened to the pain of white supremacy. Now what will you do with this awakening?

SURRENDERING ISLAND-STYLE

I woke up early this morning to hit the road with my thumb in the air. I knew I needed to give myself a good hour at least to get from Kapaa to Kalaheo on the island of Kaua'i. The buses are on weekend schedule, meaning they run every 2 hours instead of hourly. My only hope to arrive on time for 8am yoga class was to hitchhike.

Talk about making yourself vulnerable. I'm almost 50 years old for God's sake. But not a rental car to be found until Monday. After all, we're on an island. When car rental agencies sell out, they sell out. It's not like they can drive them in from another county.

I tried raising my hand boldly at head level, walking backwards. I tried a milder shoulder height gesture. I tried walking sideways instead of backwards. I settled on a low thumb, hip level and slightly outward, open heart center toward oncoming traffic, and direct eye contact with drivers. I practiced metta meditation as I walked, wishing every person well. Still, it took me a good 30 minutes until a middle-aged local marble worker in his big red pick-up truck was willing to stop, and then was only able to take me about 1/3 of the distance I needed.

At the bus stop where he dropped me off, folks had been waiting since 6-something in the morning, and here it was, 7:30 already. Once again I put myself at the mercy of the community and stuck my thumb in the air but 8am came and went, with no bus and no stopping cars.

How can I complain, deeply disappointed to miss my morning asana workshop, but hey, it's the tropics, and here I am on a beautiful, breezy, sunny day instead of sub-freezing Wisconsin. Surrendering island-style means not everything goes according to plan. It means you can only get so much done and get so far in one day. It means you have to slow waaaay down.

The pidgin I overheard on the bus was music to my ears, which had grown used to nasal Midwestern accents. I soaked it in like I soaked in the sun to replenish my vitamin D appetite. I picked up a spam musubi, a nori-wrapped roll, in the convenience store and ate it as a rite of passage, re-entering island life, tasting my childhood.

Riding the bus, eating processed convenience store food, talking to locals on the street and in their cars, I shed my privilege, my expectations of efficiency, my pretense of control. I remove my mainland layers of not only clothing, but values of whiteness that I have internalized. I become that little brown girl again that I left in Hawaii in 1975. I sit on the curb and watch the boys in the skate park at the bus stop, talk to the grandmas, eat manapua and crack seed. The bus will come when it comes.