state of motion

I was recounting my experience at that training with the 'agitation' in it to my friend Claudia, and we got to talking about something I hadn't considered: how useful that sort of badgering is when you go out and live your life in the world. "Maybe if we lived in New York, then yeah, I think I'd want to know how to respond to people getting up in my face about shit, and I'd probably benefit from knowing how to challenge people when the need arises," she mused. "But, shit, this is Minnesota! We never do that! We're the land of hedging and non-confrontation! The moment we encounter tension we try and tamp it down! So you can't go around expecting antagonism or antagonizing others, otherwise you'll be the only one with that attitude and no one will like you!" And once again, it's not like getting people to like you is essential or strategic, but, c'mon, how far are you going to get being the resident asshole?

And then she brought up something so brilliant, I had to write it here: "The thing about that training, or about organizing or activism or whatever it is, is that it really depends on categorizing, simplifying, clarity. You know exactly who'd oppressing and who's oppressed, who's blind and who's conscious, whether the personalities you wanna have on board should come on or stay off. We can't help but do this, we have to, because our society shapes us that way and makes us suffer because of it, it rids the complexity and uncertainty and wholeness of our lives. So what would it be like to do work that doesn't do that? That builds itself out of that complexity and humanity that can't be pared down? Would that be...art?"

I think that's one of the clearest observations I've heard about the distinction--hazy as it is--between the work of organizing and the work of art. And I think it comes at a good time for me now, right when so much seems to be moving but to what, I have no idea.

In college I was a fair-to-middling student and a much better organizer. I was growing as a writer, performer, and musician, but I think for terrible reasons--clout, reputation, admiration, not really committed to the discipline, the hard work, the critical eye. I was good at half-assing and the accolades came in, but I disrespected and dishonored the art forms and the ones who have made them so amazing. And, much later, I realized my organizing was a lot of half-assing too. I think key to both lasting so long that way was that I made them easy. If I set up an event on campus and a good number of people came out for it, it was a success. If I performed a marimba solo and people still clapped at the end, that meant I was a great musician. I came up with these measuring sticks because I wanted to be certain about my skillz, to prove I was a good guy that everyone liked, and that was that. I guess I believed that, as an organizer, I could organize myself, hiding faults and trumpeting strengths, playing to popularity, appearing radical and also remarkably harmless.

So it's telling now, you know, I look at what excites me today and practically all of it is about writing, dance, music, cooking, learning, gift-giving, shit, even fashion and style are up there too, and almost none of it is about organizing. I'm a new addition to a social movement research collective, which sounds like it's about organizing but it's really all research and writing. I'm joining up with folks out here to put in a bid for bringing the national APIA spoken word summit to Minneapolis in 2011, which takes a lot of organizing work for sure, but I do it mostly cuz the Asian American writers and photographers and dancers and other artists out here are fucken rad and the Twin Cities are a regular art hotseat. Claudia and Asa and I just held our first monthly monochromatic potluck (green to start, baby!) and despite the 95 degree weather, I hadn't felt so joyful and inspired and bloated since forever, I'm talking a feeling of real surplus here people. I'm going to Detroit in July for a great many reasons, but mostly to learn, learn, learn from some amazing elders and heroes of mine, including Grace Lee Boggs. And then there's the grad school preparations, which probably has me more scared and more excited than anything else right now. Six years of learning, reading, writing, creativity--damn.

It all seemed rather hodgepodge and lacking in strategy as it all came together, but maybe this is just me making up for the wilderness years, moving from hard-line to complexity, the organized activist world to the ridiculous complexity that art can show when nothing else can. So even tho I'm still mad uncertain about all these currents, I'm less concerned now about where it all leads. I'll get to that one way or another.

Sis probably recognizes this about me better than anyone else right now. She liked me less when I was always like this:



And then, today:



Superficial judgment based off of appearances? Don't think so. What and where you are really guides what you show to the world. I know where I was at in the first picture, I know where I am in the second picture, and while I understand that aloof/hardened organizer look and the head that caused it, I sure as fuck won't be doing it again. Call it being healthy. Call it wising up already.

Today's No Greater Joy Than: stuffing your lovely maw with green dish after green dish at a potluck, pesto pasta and stir fry and pistachio brownies and cookies and snap peas and edamame and mo chi and popsicles and frozen bananas coated in chocolate and green coconut, and just when you think you're done, someone new arrives at the potluck bearing yet another dish. Top that yo.

Dad's Day and I'm overwhelmed in the head

It's Dad's Day--popovers and grits and eggs for breakfast and a brewery for dinner. I got a snapdragon-heavy bouquet for Dad at the St. Paul Farmers Market yesterday morning, and he showed me the trick of cutting the flowers' stems underwater to keep them fresher longer. Sonya just called him a moment ago, thanking him for his birthday gift. Windy with spots of rain here, but mostly relaxing. I was aiming to see Caroline, or Change at the Guthrie but it wasn't happening today. No complaints, though: I miss Kushner, I still have Dad, pretty good deal.

Here's a photo from last year, during Mom's Day:


That's the twins on the right-hand side, Dad on the left. This is in Boston, actually, for Mom and Dad's first trip out to Sis's home. We made pancakes and I made a concerted effort to stay awake.

Spent the night at Mom and Dad's as I often do, on the weekend, when the Hodges come over, only this time I was so exhausted I hit the hay before I got to see them off for the night. I think it was because of that training I alluded to earlier, the one that Sonya just ranted about. I can say with a great degree of certainty that it was unlike any training I've ever been to. Dai led the first part, Amee and I went next; our section was fine and we had some great discussions, but we had to cut down on time and move quickly because Dai's section went over the 2 hours he was given, and almost all of that time was spent in introductions and 'agitation.' He had each person stand up, say who they were, why they were there, and to name a person in the public arena that had particular meaning to them. Then they would sit down and he would get on with agitation. Believe me, it was uncomfortable. Or rather, after two hours of it, the process became so normal and comfortable, you'd almost think it was perfectly OK for people's general security to be violated. It didn't matter if the people there knew Dai well or were just meeting him for the first time; if they were in high school or if they were an elder; if they were shy or very confident. Dai hammered on each of them, making judgments, asking accusatory questions, saying "This is not a training for people to make friends or like each other or help people or become a better activist. This is a training about you knowing yourself and challenging yourself to be POWERFUL, to practice respect and dignity, to have a vision and build relationships with people that will support your path toward that vision. I'm not hammering on you and I'm not hating on you. I'm doing this because I care about each and every one of you."

There was some interesting psychology going on in that room. When people collectively laughed, you could sense an intense desire to lighten things up and ease the tension, mostly unsuccessfully. Sometimes a participant would take great pains to make the correct statements in their introduction, only to find Dai pounce on them, recognizing that this was done mostly to deflect attention and 'get off easy' instead of being true and being vulnerable. Sometimes a participant said, "I came here because Amee invited me" or "I'm here because this seemed interesting" and Dai would immediately note how this signalled an inability to accept responsibility or be strategic about what one does or have anything like a personal vision or commitment. When someone else would pipe during another's introduction to help them out, Dai looked at them and said, "Stop being a caretaker." And it continued like that.

All my previous trainings--both the ones I've facilitated and the ones I participated in--were vastly different. Most all of them had ground rules, including things like "speaking thoughtfully," "acting respectfully towards others,"and this would all get laid out before anything else. Most had everyone do straightforward introductions--who are you, why are you here, what's one thing you hope to take away today, if you could be a slice of pie what would it be etc.--with no fear of how people would react, because no one was allowed to respond. Most value where each person is at in their growth, beliefs, values and thinking, and do not presume judgment, and if challenging is necessary, it is done respectfully, as in, "I hear what you're saying, and it's great that you're thinking about it so much, but there's something else I want you to consider/something else you may want to remember in the spirit of this training and the ground rules it's based on." In other words, my previous trainings--at least the really good ones--are founded on a temporary atmopshere of sacredness, a sacred space. In yesterday's workshop, at least during Dai's section, you are meant to feel as though you are never safe and there is nowhere to hide.

In any other setting I would dismiss this and refuse to participate in any similar training again, but for some reason I can't. I think because:

1) "This is the same training, from the Gamaliel Foundation, that has trained many organizers, including Barack Obama." So say the folks at TakeAction Minnesota, and apparently this is true. Not that everything associated with Barack Obama is good (or even useful), but, shit, if this has been tried on lots of people to much success and a freaking foundation actually puts money and resources into making a good training, then I'm sure they have an answer to every criticism I can think of and I'm sure those answers can't be easily dismissed.

2) The participants' introductions were all very weak, honestly. I don't think this reflected people's poor preparation (they didn't know how to prepare anyway) so much as what Dai was getting at: people have lost the ability to be true to themselves, especially when the pressure is on them and it counts the most. We're socialized and trained to dismiss our own human dignity and self-respect, to avoid having a vision and a way to get there, to fail at being truthful even if it's difficult or makes us vulnerable or looking bad. In so many trainings I've been in, it's awfully hard to know if people are really engaged, or just offering up answers, statements, and opinions that sound 'correct'/aren't well thought-out/don't really mean anything/are pure b.s. This was the first one I've been in that called this tendency out. A harsh way of doing it, but still, I've never seen a group of people so engaged and attentive and, well, vulnerable enough to really start taking things to heart.

3) If it's true that important aspects of our lives must be 'caught, not taught,' then it stands to reason that whatever's being thrown must be bulls-eye firing instead of wildly errant throws. I think of the many times Mom was asking me if I was considering grad school, and every time I said no, not because it didn't interest me but the way she put it--going to med school to be a doctor, to law school to be a lawyer, getting further education so that I can create change at a higher or larger level--never resonated with me. Quite the opposite. Every time she mentioned grad school, I became even more anti-grad school. Well, I feel a lot like Mom when I'm in discussions with people, or facilitating a workshop, and I throw something out there that, even though it sounded good and smart and reasonable and caring at the time, falls with a thud at the feet of the person who's supposed to field it--if they don't outright chuck it back at me in annoyance or disgust. But then, when my co-worker Reggie told me after 8 months of getting to know me, "Dude, you need to get out of this job, go get your doctorate, take six years to read and study and write about something you love, then you'll get a secure job and you can do anything and everything you want with your life and you'll only be 30 years old," somehow I caught it and held it, and have since kept it. What's particularly odd about that is I don't fully agree with his line of reasoning (Ph.D's don't get you any kind of security anymore) and I don't want the quickest ride to independence and freedom and ease and I'm still very hesitant about giving over six years to a higher education system I am very critical of, and yet this all matters less than Reggie's ability to discern what is holding me back and his bulls-eye throw intended to move me forward. Because he wants me to contribute a lot and grow a lot and be of service, but if he doesn't ask me direct about it and doesn't lay down a possible path for me to take, then he knows I might settle for less and be OK with it--only he won't be OK with it. Call it a refusal to lower the bar. I think that's an important thing to ask of the people you love.

I'm still very critical of the training. I don't know how you can demonstrate respect and love with 'agitation', no matter how much you say you're doing this out of respect and love. I don't know how we can create a culture of love if we aren't always practicing it. I don't know if you can really make people critical through agitation, or just turn them into hardened foot soldiers as they slog through organizing 'boot camps.' And I definitely get suspicious of anyone, smart training though they operate, who works hard to scrub complexity, nuance, and contradiction from our lives in order to engage us and 'empower' us.

But I'm not writing it off yet. Because I think part of embracing complexity is finding the incredible in terrible and hideous things, and that includes workshops which fundamentally value human dignity and encourage us not to settle for less, even if the facilitating of them is poorly thought-out and bizarrely executed. Eduardo Galeano wrote of writing, "I do not believe in the frontiers that, according to literature's customs officers, separate the forms." The line between moving from a place of love and moving through 'agitation' may not exist after all.

Yo sis--thanks for the rant. Remember that even organizers are not supposed to be working with each other. Maybe it's what they put in our Kool-Aid, but I think contrariness is in our blood. We're much better at bickering and criticizing and going off into strange lands fed by b.s. ideas. It's depressing, but in its own way, very interesting. (I'm sure the folks in my movement research collective are laughing their heads off at that euphemism.) More on that some other time.

Closing off today--quick study in uncanny attractive/unattractive twin contrasts:

Agitate, Shmagitate

Wow, this blog is already seeming more relevant to my daily Sonya concerns than I'd ever imagined. Way to set the bar high, Stevo!

But about agitation. And that scenario with the Hmong activist group. There's something about that whole scene that makes me want to reach through the computer screen and slap those people. What do they think they're doing? Prodding you into becoming a better organizer? Provoking you into effectiveness? Sure, an oyster needs an irritant to make a pearl, but let's remember what a pearl really is: a glob of hardened mucus to make the irritating thing go away.

Call me Minnesotan, but them pointing out that you want people to like you seems to cross a line. First of all, it presumes that that's a problem. Sure, there are ways in which that trait could manifest itself in needy, desperate ways (crying drunk into the phone! starting fistfights in parking lots!), but there a million ways in which it helps your cause and your person too. It's the reason you meet and unite people so well-- whole varieties of people, and with vast opinions. It's the reason you're a good conversationalist, with an attentive pair of ears. Hell, if you didn't have that trait, they'd call you "anti-social," "distant," or some other trait that needs fixing.

But what bothers me more is the patronizing tone of what they said. "Why do you think you're like that?" "We've noticed this about you." As if you are a lab rat under their watchful eye. I thought you were supposed to be working with one another, not against.

There's a line that our father says sometimes, that perhaps he heard from someone before him: "Religion must be caught, not taught." The same applies to community organizing, or political activism. This is not to say that a "teaching" element is not important-- quite the opposite, really. But what the quote indicates is that a person must feel some sense of agency when making such a decision; they must feel, in a deep and organic way, that it is they who are shaping the changes in their lives. Otherwise, I think, it's easy to feel like you're being brainwashed, or made gullible, or most important-- made to feel that your opinions and life experiences are lacking in some way. I'm in favor of trying to change people's opinions, but a person has to do so in the most careful, ever-listening, human of ways. This "agitation" step doesn't sit right with me. It seems uninterested in the unique qualities that every individual brings to the table, and their potential within those qualities.

Sorry, this is so much an engaging, storytelling blog post as it is a rant. I promise not to do this too much in the future! I guess I just get defensive over my bro, and I also have a problem with cause-crazy, humorless activists. I think that sometimes they overlook the individual souls that compose any group.

I'll post photos this weekend as well. There are some good ones.

so how's that blog going?

On the commute this morning, two med school students are talking organo-phosphates. They mention their younger siblings, undergrads at new colleges, one far afield and another at Iowa State. "Iowa State!" she says. "Big school. Does she like it?" "Oh, yeah, she likes it enough."

And it occurred to me that I do this too. A friend tells me they finally got a job: "Wonderful! Do you like it?" Or moved into a new house: "How is it?" "Are you enjoying it?" "How are you doing?" "What's new with you?"

And with stock questions come stock answers. Short and nondescript. People ask how I like the Twin Cities, I say, "It's OK overall." The moment I add "You see..." or "But..." or "Actually, just the other day..." it feels somehow like I've overextended the time allotted to me in the conversation.

This brings me back to when Sis and I talked at length about storytelling when I was in Boston. Something about this culture really discourages it. It seems the moment we bring up any big, complex thing into a conversation (your sis going to Iowa State, your new digs, your general state of mind), the implicit goal is to reduce it down to a bite-size chunk. I can think of any number of critical questions to raise when I hear about someone going to Iowa State--are they finding a good community of people to plug into? Are there ways to move out of the incubatory experience of a big university? Does it seem like their education and growth is valued there? Who teaches or studies there, what are they like? Are they already disillusioned with the limits of higher education institutions? Are they learning critical thinking? But I work like anyone else does. I ask "How do they like it?" and I can leave it at that and it's just fine by me.

Storytelling rests its head on insatiability, of a very focused kind. Not grasping for every straw of information out there, but slowly pulling a mouldering rope from up the well. Your arms carry that refreshing soreness in them. Your eyes direct each tug. As long as there is rope left to pull you will pull. Storytelling is hunger, not sensory overload. Nursing patience, not demanding to know everything now, if you could only have enough headlines to skim and website tabs to pluck. The sort of thing you force yourself to learn, hunt it down if you can, something, cuz no one's coming forward to teach you, that's for damn sure.

This is just one reason sis works at a literary arts center and I just started reading Eduardo Galeano's Memory of Fire. I like it enough.

Friday heaviness for ya. Just tired and a bit more discerning. If you like lighter fare, there's always this. I told sis it'd be going on the blog. A bit outdated but still. Your head will trap the song and won't let go, for funny yo.

get your agimatation on

Humid hot out, like only Minnesota knows how. It's reached the tipping point, now the inclination is not to stay inside air-conditioned buildings in front of glowing rectangles, but rather to relish the sun and heat for as long as you can stand it.

And here I am, in an air-conditioned building, in front of a glowing rectangle. Just a little longer, I hope.

Among other things I'm trying to get done are the finishing touches on a workshop this Saturday. I'm co-facilitating with Amee Xiong from TakeAction Minnesota, it's an introduction to racism and oppression as we see it in our communities. I've done workshops like these before but it's been a while, so I'm excited to get back into things and serve my folks here in the Twin Cities. But. This is also my first workshop not done with mostly white participants. As a matter of fact, they're Hmong. Every last one of them. Except for me.

Now instead of being mature and just dealing, I've been stoking all these weird complexes, cautionary notes, asking Amee questions all the time like "Do you think it will be OK when you switch back from Hmong to English as you present and then you translate for me because I can only do English? Is that going to suck?" And then I start fearing that I'm so obviously white or so obviously mixed or so clearly, absolutely not-Hmong and this is somehow going to manifest in all these terribly unknown ways in the workshop, because we are talking about Hmong culture and history and politics and I am so not on this playing field. Shite.

Amee has been remarkably understanding and so damn efficient I get embarrassed. She's reserved judgment on me for the most part (we've only known each other for a few months now), but then yesterday came around, and our final meeting before the workshop, with Dai Thao, who's leading an introductory session on power. They were explaining the different avenues for building power to be addressed in later workshops, including one-to-ones, locating people's self-interest, and 'agitation.'

"What's agitation?" I asked.

"Agitation happens when you get to know someone long enough that you decide it's time to make a judgment," said Amee.

"Right, so you're in a one-to-one with someone for a long time, and you're able to figure out what their self-interest is, you're with them the whole way..." added Dai.

"But you know that something's holding them back," continued Amee. "Something that's preventing them from moving forward and organizing, really starting to make change happen in the community. So agitation is when you name that thing, and you challenge the person on it.

"For example: Stevie, now that we've been meeting regularly these last few months and gotten to know each other, I've noticed that you think it's really important that you get people to like you."

I waited for Amee to say, "Now, in that example, you..." but she didn't. Instead, Dai shifted in his chair and propped his head on upright left arm, and helpfully piped in, "So, Stevie, why do you think that is? Why do you want people to like you so much?" And fixed me with an intent eye.

Holy Shit.

It lasted for about three full seconds, Amee and Dai staring calmly at me, and me with silent alarm bells in my head screeching "RUN! RUN!!!" and feeling like I could shrivel up or throw up or suffer a spontaneous sweat gland eruption. Then we broke into laughter as I said, only half-joking, "Are you serious?! Is that what you've figured out about me this whole time?!"

"No, no, no, let's get back to the agenda for today," said Amee, still laughing. "That's for a later time." And there was this knowing twinkle in her eye.

Well. And here I was, trying to do the correct antiracist thing by asking a lot of questions, expressing my fears about working with an all-Hmong group and whether it was appropriate for me to be there, and all Amee got out of it was that I have an annoying self-hatred complex or a fragile ego in desperate need of validation. She may not be far off the mark, actually. I mean, I felt pretty fucken, well, agitated in that room. Which is the point. Of Agitation.

I have me some wicked savvy and hella smart people in my life. Even if they throw me off a bit, they are still a blessing.

On the walk home from that meeting I stopped at Merriam Park Library, grabbed 4 books and a DVD, and sailed on past Blue Door Pub when I heard "Steve!" And it's an old high school friend, Christina Ackert, coming out of the pub to meet me. Christina was one of our posse, an unexpected but very compatible amalgamation of my friends and Sonya's friends in the last years before graduation. I don't keep regular contact anymore, Sonya does (she went on a roadtrip with three of them just last month), which makes for interesting and often awkward conversation when I run into them here, as so many still live in the Twin Cities where I am, and none live in Boston where Sonya is.

I told Christina where I was living, off Snelling and Selby above Patina's. "Oh, for funny. I live off Cleveland by the bridge over 94." She said "oh, for funny!" a few more times, which kinda threw me. Is this a Minnesota phrase or a Christina phrase? Anybody?

Hitting the Lake Calhoun beach in half a mo. Fellow Minnesotans, look out for the large hail.

oh, for funny

At some point soon Sonya and I should introduce ourselves, provide a blurb or two about who we are and what this blog is about, maybe even be extra-formal and create different sections on this site as references, sort of. And yeah, some pics of us might be useful, just so you all can verify we are twins.

But hey, formality can bite me. Twin collective us, rather. This blog is a birthday gift to each other, to the world, actually...aaah! Inspiring! Then again, our birthday was back in March. And this started in June. So, once again: formality, you can talk to our amazing twin hands for all I care.

It's long-standing blog doctrine that we can cover anything and everything in this space, and it need not make sense or even be nice. We can write amazing bits of cruel banter like this: "Blessed be the next fruit of thy womb. I hope it turns out to be uterine cancer. And I mean that."* And we can call it wicked funny, even though cancer is not funny, and hoping someone gets it is even more not funny. We can also disclose choice bits of Twin Candidness, like so:

"They don't call me...Adivising...Sis...for nothing! Or for anything, for that matter. Actually, they don't call me Advising Sis at all." --Sonya, 6/13/09, phone convo

I love my twin sis for this reason: we can be indiscriminate together. If everyone around us is salsa dancing at Ryles in Boston and is wicked good at it, Sonya drags me out and we dance however the fuck we want, after all we still dance great and look hot doing it. If our dialogue turns ridiculous with bizarre accents or nonsensical language, well, we ride that wave way past its end. And way past everyone else getting tired of us. We do not get embarrassed for each other, we can mock others and feel fine about it, and if need be we exchange looks so that we know it's Serious Time, but mostly we run ramshackle. It's hard to find that in others.

We started this blog when I was visiting Sonya in Boston, and she made me promise to write on here what I had to eat on my plane flight back to the Twin Cities. It was clam chowder and a banana at the Logan Airport Au Bon Pain. I sat down in the crowded waiting area at the gate and slurped and slurped at the chowder, and an older man sitting next to me decided he'd had enough and got out of his seat to stand away from me. The chowder was okay, the banana was better. I don't know why chowder appealed to me for breakfast, but then again, anything for breakfast usually works.

Coming back into things is weird. But some quick hits:

--I developed this crazy pain in my right wrist this past weekend, bad enough that I couldn't do anything with my right hand--cooking, writing, brushing, flossing (ew). I was worried it was carpal tunnel, but wouldn't you know, wikipedia proved my assumption wrong. So I downed some ibuprofen and it seems to be healing, whatever it is. It's amazing what something like that can do to your psyche--you can't focus on anything else, and pretty soon, before you know it, three days have gone by. Wha? Even worse is when you get acute paronychia in your fingertip. Yep, you'll have to look that one up too. It happened to me when I was in New Orleans and it hurt so bad I would have given anything to chop off my finger just so I could sleep.

--Walking home from the Macalester library, I crossed the Grand Ave intersection and a pickup driver said to me, "Faggot." Now, I've been called any number of things in my little St. Paul alcove--faggot, fag, wop, jap, chink etc.--except it's usually screamed at me from a fast-moving vehicle. This dude was freaking conversational, i.e. "Beautiful day, isn't it, faggot?" "Hey, faggot, do you happen to have the time?" "Excuse me, faggot, but I believe you dropped your umbrella back there." For whatever reason this really unnerved me. And I envisioned all these witty comebacks and/or threats to smash their car windows, and of course I remembered, no, there's a precedent for this, and you're on the wrong side of history. And it's almost the end of June, which means we queers are slowly amassing for Pride. We've got ourselves all in a tizzy about gay marriage and yet this lingering threat of violence has not changed, not one bit. The love I have to offer is divisible by the terror that I feel.

--No Greater Joy Than: this week's entry--bringing a pile of groceries home to an empty refrigerator and pantry and looking at both of them later stocked to brimming. Can I get a holla? Isn't that shit gratifying?

More tomorrow. Night



*James Baldwin, If Beale Street Could Talk. I found this at the library, and I mean found, I'm usually really purposeful at libraries, I know what books I want and I reserve what I can't find, but it's when I feel listless and just plunder through the shelves at whim, that's when I find tons of interesting shit. Sifting Aimlessly Through Library Shelves: has my vote.

Fellow Twin Answers!

Hello! Now I've got me the hook-up too. Twins are good to go!

Day One

We're here! Sonya and Stephen have made a blog.