Avoidance

The Arizona sun, a tapping shoe, Jesus watching.

This piece contains intense reflections on family trauma, systems of oppression, and memory. 

I can count the weeks since I’ve made a blog post or written at all. 

The thing is…

I’ve been avoiding something. 

It’s like that room in the back of your mind with the flickering light. 

The room you’re not ready—

Or too scared—

To enter. 

Sometimes, it’s so gradual, it’s so easy to miss—

The excuses. 

I’m tired. 

Brain dead from four hours of Spanish classes,

Monday through Thursday. 

The apartment needs cleaning. 

My projects—

Stacking. 

Two books,

Illustrations,

Paintings,

Crochet wearables,

Customizing apparel,

Brainstorming… 

But that’s half of it.

An avoidance of finishing things to truly start something I could fail at. 

I’m telling myself, everything has a time, a season—

And maybe these books, incomplete paintings— 

Have their own seasons. 

But I had stopped my daily yoga and breathing exercises, too. 

Sure, I’m still going to an intermediate yoga class 3-4 times a week,

A three hour art class every Tuesday…

But to go where I need to go— 

Much needed additions to finish my book— 

It’s been difficult and fatiguing putting myself there. 

The discomfort of sitting, 

Breathing deeply,

Not because it hurts,

But because feels too good.

I’m trying to teach myself to enjoy feeling good.

Sometimes, it get’s too uncomfortable.

The avoidance of yoga alone at home,

To avoid the thoughts that lead me back to my book. 

Stillness has a way of turning the lights back on in that room.

Avoiding having to think about relationships—

Finishing the book, means telling the truth— 

About my mother. 

And in avoidance, avoiding the work of, yet again, more healing. 

And here’s the heart of it:

All roads lead back to her. 

The “maybe I’ve healed just enough” I can get by and avoid adding her.

After all, I’ve spent almost all my 20’s trapped in memories of her. 

Trying to heal and move on from her.

Now things are good.

Now the good times are starting to stack up—

It’s creating memories I want to remember. 

Now, sometimes a good memory from my childhood resurfaces. 

But here’s something I’ve learned—

Avoiding memories, 

Even the bad ones, 

Robs you of the good ones.  

And to be truly free—

To write a book about healing and reclaiming power—

There’s the weight of soul truth. 

Years of therapy has taught me sharing your pain— 

Your grief— 

All the scary stuff—

To crack open—

Feel all of it—

Eventually— 

Even if it’s reliving torture now—

Creating space—

And time—

To process.

Even if it’s years later— 

The joy slowly returns.

One of the first pieces in my book is an unfinished poem on mothers—

A mother’s truth. 

These mothers speaking up for their daughters throughout history—

Daughters who weren’t given a voice.

Women not given a voice. 

Every time I get close to this unfinished poem,

The anger rises like a tide.

At this point, avoiding the book is avoiding her.

Wishing my own mother hugged my sister and I,

Instead of pitting us against each other and everyone else—

So we can be tigers. 

But even a tiger comforts her cubs. 

I feel this need to open up about my own mother,

Balance her trauma with my own she caused,

Delve into how insecurities lead to the strangling claw of control,

While acknowledging I don’t know any other mother but my own. 

I’ve been avoiding it. 

Because it’s a lot. 

I got some surprising feedback about my book from a friend, 

A first reader, 

Who handled my words with care.  

Man-hating. 

But fiercely feminist.  

Man-hating.

It hadn’t been my intention. 

I didn’t realize I might be angry at men—

Being a man who has predominantly been in relationships with other men. 

Being a man who finds joy in the entire spectrum.

Being a man who has been abused by both. 

Being a man who has lived as both.

I think I’m angry at man-kind. 

I’m angry at this stupid, absurd timeline. 

I’m angry at the taking and taking and the taking and more taking

Without the asking.

Without thankfulness. 

And I’m not sure how to convey that 

Without this massive wave of anger 

And sorrow. 

I think about our national parks being sold for extraction—

Rape of our own land—

And for what?

Illusions.

Convenience?

Further feeding the 1%.

Stripping our children’s and their children’s inheritance 

Of the bliss, 

The wild, 

The weirdness, 

The peace of the wilderness—

Of awe. 

Of feeling small.

For filtered mirrors and body-aching, numbing “convenience.”

Stripping ourselves of community and nurture. 

Nurture. 

Our society deems it second-rate— 

Pathetic— 

Soft in the eyes of the patriarchy. 

My mother, who has suffered under it to such an oppressive extent—

She is it’s fierce defender too scared to question

The cost it took from her. 

The revulsion I feel is nauseating. 

Not just from everything she took from me.

Anger At Her:

I am angry at the bedroom-size closet of hundreds of shoes. 

I am angry at the blisters from entire days shopping,

Demeaning the clerks, 

Waving expired coupons,

Spiting snide remarks— 

About minimum wage workers,

And “lazy illegals”— 

Missing a spot of carpet at the car wash.

I’m angry at my embarrassment and shame 

Later turned into indifference and ‘jokes’. 

Jokes let me pretend none of it hurt and didn’t hurt others.

Easy punches—

Punching down others—

Punching myself.

I’m angry at the inadequate graded papers thrown in my face. 

The lies I felt I needed to guard myself with. 

I’m angry at the marks from metal clothes hangers 

Once those lies surfaced. 

I’m angry she took my dreams 

Of dancing and fiddling around a campfire 

Laughing with traveling musicians.

I’m angry she turned it into a 2-3 hour stationary ritual

Of tears streaming down my face,

The stains on my violin.

Screaming at me to count,

Wasting her money—

Embarrassing her. 

I’m angry she took my dreams. 

I’m angry she told me at age 8, 

I could never become a vet—

Frumpy, ugly, unlovable. 

Not marriage material.

I could never become an artist—

Not creative enough. 

Do you want to starve? 

Not marriage material. 

I could never become an engineer—

Not smart enough.

Stealing men’s jobs.

Not marriage material. 

Know your place.       

Never argue. 

Never raise your voice. 

Never have a differing opinion. 

Respect your elders.

I’m angry she ridiculed my dad. 

I’m angry she took his models from him—

Packed them away— 

Thick dust covering them in the attic. 

I’m angry she took that joy from us. 

I’m angry she took away our laughter. 

I’m angry it was always mom— 

Unloading the never-ending piles of laundry.

I’m angry it was always mom—

Cooking massive meals and meal prepping every Sunday. 

I’m angry it was always mom—

Loading and unloading the stack of dishes.

I’m angry at the cast iron I was never told how to clean—

But expected to know how. 

I’m angry it was always mom—

Making breakfast in the morning.

I’m angry at my fear of her,

Too scared to tell her 

The 1 pound Costco bag of garlic 

Infused the butter and toast—

So I forced myself to eat the entire meal 

And later threw up. 

Watching in horror as she took one bite— 

And threw it out.

I’m angry it was always mom—

Taking me to school,

Working at my school 

Or the school across from mine. 

She was always there.

I’m angry it was always mom I had to entertain. 

Where were her own friends? 

Am I a doll? 

What of her own identity?

Is this what was to become of me?

I’m angry it was always mom—

Incessantly there—

In neediness.     

I’m angry at the showers she insisted I take with her. 

I’m angry at the nude naps after the showers. 

I’m angry I didn’t have the vocabulary,

I’m angry I didn’t have the courage,

I’m angry I didn’t know whether I was mistaking 

Massive discomfort— 

For the Korean culture I had limited exposure to. 

I’m angry mom stole my sleep. 

Bursting into my room at 8 am

Screaming she’s been up since 5.

I’m angry for years at the height of my PTSD,

I’d cry out at night—

“Mom— 

Did you call me?” 

Waking up screaming and in tears.

I’m angry mom tried to steal our memories. 

She’d come into my room

After screaming and hitting my sister

And tell me to comfort her—

Tell her those things didn’t happen.

And if they did—

My sister deserved it. 

My sister didn’t deserve it. 

Nor did she deserve the self-inflicted scars

She covers with tattoos. 

I’m angry mom can look us in the eye

And say that didn’t—

None of it—

Happened. 

I’m angry for a moment—

We believe her. 

I’m angry she believes it.

I’m angry she claims pride—

Claims ownership—

For my success—

When she scoffed—

And mocked—

And bullied—

Me—

For everything I was—

That didn’t look like her—

Looking, being— 

Too much like dad—

Who she doesn’t have an ounce 

Of respect for. 

I’m angry my dad mistakes this—

For love. 

Anger at Him:

I’m angry dad did everything to pacify her. 

I’m angry he did nothing to protect us. 

I’m angry dad wandered off to the study every time

She started screaming at us. 

I’m angry he’d sit there with his head down,

As she laid into him for not being man enough.

I’m angry at the hoards of guns,

Beefed-up cars he’s collected,

Proof of his ‘manliness’. 

I’m angry he traded an evening

Painting models with me—

For an evening polishing guns,

For her.

I’m angry dad didn’t help her. 

I’m angry he wasn’t a partner.

I’m angry my dad can logic his way

Out of anything—

So he doesn’t have to feel responsible—

To feel emotions—

To question—

His beliefs.

I’m angry I didn’t tell dad immediately

When she wanted me to pretend— 

To be her boyfriend at the mall.

It was so EASY to stuff that down too.

I’m angry I didn’t tell dad immediately

When she suddenly insisted 

I kiss her on the mouth

As I tried to rush off to school.

No—

A peck on the cheek didn’t suffice.

But no—

I had no time to think about that— 

If I was to do well in school. 

I’m angry I didn’t tell dad immediately

When she had him remove my door locks

Then tried to get into my bed at night. 

I was angry at my anger,

At my cowardliness—

His repeated words—

“Don’t rock the boat.”

I’m angry I didn’t have a father

I had an intermittent friend.

No one—

I trusted— 

To run to. 

I’m angry I have no way of knowing if he’d have believed me—

Back then.   

He refuses to acknowledge me now.

Anger at the Performance:

I’m angry the few times I saw my dad cry

Was in church—

Believing himself a wretched person—

When the longer he stayed—

The more scared and angry

He became. 

I’m angry the same people

Who claim they need church

To prevent them from murder—

Claim I’m the problem—

For walking away—

When I became a better human—

A more honest one—

A kinder one—

An empathetic one—

Once I walked away. 

I’m angry the church

Lead my parents to believe

They could pray mom’s ‘demons’ away—

So she never had to take responsibility

For her own actions—

Because something else—

Something external—

Made her do it. 

I’m angry at least twice a week,

I had to listen to how much

She’s learned and grown—

In Bible studies—

A mask of humbleness. 

Then sit through monologues 

Of how she was better—

The best teacher—

The best scholar—

The best wife—

The best mother—

The best dressed—

The best styled—

The best shoes—

The best skin—

The most forgiven—

The most humble—

The most organized—

The most perfect—

The most blessed—

The smartest—

A prophecy dreamer—

Because of god. 

And that—

That was why—

The only reason why—

Other women hated her. 

Clearly—

There was no other reason. 

I’m angry she cared more

About other people’s perceptions—

More about her students—

More about being seen—

Doing all these wonderful

Perfect things—

Than acknowledge my sister’s self harm—

My neglect—

Dad’s longing for approval—

Buying yet another gun—

And her emptiness—

Having given everything—

To everyone else—

Except to the ones that mattered. 

I’m angry the illusion worked 

On others. 

I’m angry she isolated us—

From everyone— 

Who saw through it. 

I’m angry self respect— 

Is somehow tied to the perception—

You simultaneously somehow spent

10 minutes—

And two hours—

Getting ready. 

I’m angry at the nauseating smell

Of Dawny “freshness”—

“Pink Sugar Fantasy”—

Caustic cotton candy clouds—

You can smell on a trail a mile away.

I’m angry at the system

That made my girl friends too uncomfortable—

To be compelled to walk down the street

In the dead of the night—

To use the bathroom at the 7/11–

Rather than break the illusion—

Girls shit too. 

Anger at the System that Raised Them:

I’m angry at the systems—

Actively hurting and brainwashing my mom. 

I’m angry at the systems— 

Telling mom she could never talk about what her father did

To her and her sisters. 

I’m angry at the systems—

Telling others to be silent 

When witnessing a man throwing a boiling hot pot.

My mother carrying the scars of her father.

I’m angry at the system—

My grandfather and my dad— 

For enforcing that system— 

Men are served first.

I’m angry at the system my mother believed—

Only first born sons matter.

Her first born was a daughter—

With no “real” sons.

I’m angry at the systems—

That told dad he didn’t have to help her— 

With the mountain of chores,

With her mental health,

With helping us.

I’m angry at the systems—

Silencing us when it comes to violence. 

I’m angry at the systems—

Praising that same violence in the name of justice. 

I’m angry his religion and the systems,

Never gave him the words—

“I’m being abused by my wife.” 

I’m angry this church and this system,

Stripped my parents of themselves.

Stripped my parents of their children.

Stripped me of my parents.

Now trying to erase me.

Refusing to give them words to grow. 

I’m angry no amount of perfect words,

Has broken through years of hateful walls—

Scared of everything— 

Outside of this ‘perfect’ system.  

Anger at the Timeline:

I am angry that the system is trying to convince us— 

Truth doesn’t matter. 

The atrocities are fake—

Or if they’re real, not that bad,

And if they are—

‘They’ deserved it.

While the people experiencing those,

Experiencing the effects,

Are silenced—

Suffering in silence. 

I am angry the people who the system serves,

Think the worst possible harm…

…is being called a name.

Not being harmed,

Not causing harm—

Just being labelled.

That is the worst thing that can happen—

To them. 

I am angry the system wants us to be ignorant,

Choose the easy path. 

Racism is easy—

Homophobia—

Transphobia—

Misogyny—

Classism—

All easy.

Exploring the systematic landmines,

Deliberately placed for marginalized people—

Is not. 

Being a perfect A+ Asian— 

Because “Asians are smart”—

You must live up to that stereotype— 

Is hard. 

Racism is easy—

When you’re a “model minority.”

The rest—

Are just lazy.

"Model minority”— 

A silent killer—

A stereotype polished into a choke chain,

One fueling mass suicides.

Walking away from that—

Facing ridicule from your community

For not upholding the system’s value of you—

The smartest, quietest, cheapest laborer—

Never argue— 

Never raise your voice— 

Never have a differing opinion— 

Respect your elders—

Know your place—

Is harder. 

I’m angry at the system 

That punishes people for taking care of themselves—

And others. 

I’m angry we place more trust

In a talking mirror

Than taking risks and trusting ourselves. 

Robbing ourselves and others— 

Of the joy of creating—

The joy of sharing—

The joy of community.

Community is inconvenient.

I’m angry we allow companies to take shortcuts—

“A modern touch screen for your luxury car”—

As you try desperately to turn the windshield wipers on

Your wet, panicked hands don’t register 

On the capacitive touchscreen— 

As the pounding torrents of rain

Blinds the cameras that were supposed to keep you safe—

“Automatic driving disengaged.” 

Too frustrated, you don’t notice the car drifting—

Into the other lane.

$5.99 a month—

you can’t even turn on windshield wipers

Due to a software update—

In your luxury car.

Because companies were too greedy

To design and manufacture tactile buttons. 

Subscription-based survival—

Digital parasites.

Selling you a thoughtless, half-baked software

With empty monthly promises.

There is little that compares 

To the satisfaction of designing—

Pressing a tactile, responsive button—

Ta-click. 

I’m angry one of the only places 

I hear that satisfying sound,

Is my desktop keyboard.

When I remember 

My parent’s unbreakable 30-year-old toaster.

Built to last—

Built to be fixed—

Not just survive— 

A 2-year consumerism lifespan. 

We were robbed— 

Of fathers teaching us how to fix it.

I’d eat a lifetime of half-burnt toast,

For an afternoon— 

Fixing the toaster with my dad again.

Yet we’d rather pay for a smooth surface,

Reflecting our faces,

For tapping a widget that only works 1 in every 4— 

And none if our hands are slightly sweaty. 

I’m angry I want to design real solutions—

Not sell illusions. 

But it’s not in the system’s interest

To fund solutions— 

For real problems. 

I’m angry I can’t even watch batman anymore,

Too angry a billionaire—

Estimated $6.3 billion—

Would rather play superhero vigilante 

With his family servant,

Than actually help the citizens of Gotham. 

A fictional world and he can’t make sure

His city has: 

Clean water, 

Livable wages, 

Access to fresh food, 

And mental health services? 

But no—

He’d rather wait for a bat beacon in the night—

To feel needed.

Because at the end of the day—

Even with dead parents—

He’s just a spoiled rich brat

Who wants to play with other people’s lives. 

And we’re supposed to glorify them,

In hopes their 0.005% of wealth—

Trickles down to you?

Your rent? 

Your groceries?

Your entire year of survival—

Costs a billionaire what a cup of coffee costs you.

Yet they laugh at your ‘indulgence’ of avocado and toast.

And they still call you spoiled?

I’m angry living under systems,

Modeled by the worst of us.

A war god dripping in blood,

To become the god of everything—

Who cares about nothing. 

A sacrifice of a wandering martyr,

A stolen symbol to wage wars,

Fighting illusions,

All in good faith,

Promises of heaven,

Forsaking our Earth. 

At least the old gods reminded us of something—

Of fertility, 

Of spring,

Indulgence,

Wild things.

Time passing—

Death. 

We understood what the gods were for—

To give thanks in times of abundance, 

And mock them in times of stupidity.    

What good is a god who can’t be mocked?

This isn’t theology. 

Just metaphors.

Just metaphors for a system

That stripped us ‘clean’ and whitewashed us. 

This is such a fucking stupid timeline. 

Insecure people worshipping an insecure god,

Falling for illusions,

Starved of substance. 

Tired of the absurdity of wealth,

Too overwhelmed to know left from right. 

Unable to look inward to see the hypocrisy. 

My parents are the victims of their systems,

And the perpetrators inside of them.  

Both hurt and hurting. 

Too often we compare mothers to Mother Mary. 

One must not talk bad about their mother. 

A mother can do no wrong. 

So how do I write about mothers—

Without being a mother,

When my own was lost so young—

A wife at 21—

A mother shortly after.

Her fear and insecurity blinded her to abuse

She inflicted on her own children. 

To hold sadness for her while holding my own pain?

To tell a story that isn’t mine,

Only pieces I’ve put together during family gatherings.

I am angry at my fear—

If I reveal I’m a trans man in my book,

I will be written off as a ‘lost daughter’—

A ‘daughter’ who didn’t want to live 

With the oppressiveness of the patriarchy.

Couldn’t live with the thought of ‘her’ mother 

Touching and mocking her breasts—

So ‘she’ lopped them off. 

Instead of what it was—

My mother seeing I wasn’t a girl

And reminding me—

Daily—

I was born one.   

I’m angry it took so long

To see someone like me—

To meet someone like me.

I’m angry I’m afraid

When trans people—

Like me—

Are clocked—

Mocked—

Compared to used-car salesmen—

And much, much worse.

I’m angry I’m afraid to speak up too loud

When my heart bursts—

After so much work—

I am finally starting to see— 

Me!

And still—

I’m sad my parents— 

Never got to know me.

I’m angry if I say something—

Something so small,

Yet impactful—

“I don’t talk to my parents.” 

That shame is somehow mine.

I refuse to carry that. 

I’ve been sad for such a long time. 

Now.

I’m angry. 

I think it’s a good time to be angry. 

Anger is not the opposite of healing. 

Sometime’s it’s the engine. 

“Granny Weatherwax was often angry. She considered it one of her strong points. Genuine anger was one of the world's greatest creative forces. But you had to learn how to control it. That didn't mean you let it trickle away. It meant you dammed it, carefully, let it develop a working head, let it drown whole valleys of the mind and then, just when the whole structure was about to collapse, opened a tiny pipeline at the base and let the iron-hard stream of wrath power the turbines of revenge.”

—Wyrd Sisters, Terry Pratchett

I hope this anger is the fire that makes way for the forest to return… 

This week is Trans Awareness Week.

I believe in stories that transform us.

This is part of my story.

 I am part of the 1%—

Not the elite,

But the endangered.

The watched.

The erased.

Some of us can no longer update our passports.

Some of us are being stripped of rights quietly—

Through policy,

Through delay,

Through silence.

We are not your experiment.

We are not your mistake.

We are not your metaphor.

We are real.

This is what it means to live,

To speak,

To rage,

To remember—

When the world is trying to erase us.

If this moved you, consider supporting Trans Lifeline or a local trans organization near you.

Stories are one way we survive.

So is showing up.

Below is a link to my other favorite organizations: