Earlier this week my friend Apricot shared a beautiful video on her blog; apparently it’s been making its way around the intertubes. It’s a brief, loving tribute by artist/filmmaker Julia Warr to her 95-year-old friend, former ballet dancer Maia Helles.

(By the way, if you want to learn Maia’s isometric exercises, there’s a video of those too.)

The video made me think of a number of powerful exercises that have helped me get perspective on my life by imagining myself at the end of it. In other words, who do I want to be when I’m Maia Helles’s age? What do I want my life to be like? What do I want people to remember me for?

How do you see yourself at 95?

See you in the comments!

—–

LOCKER ROOM

The worst part of sixth grade is you have to change for PE. At the end of third period you scurry down to the locker room with Edda and Holly, fighting your way in amidst the outgoing rush of girls. The seventh- and eighth- graders look so mature, all breasts and makeup, though there are plenty of your classmates too who spend ostentatious minutes peering into square green compacts, dabbing foundation, refreshing lipstick.

After you dial in the combination and shove your backpack into the long compartment, you remove the grey and navy bundle from the small shelf and prepare for your daily run to the restroom stall. It astonishes you, the way these girls just take off their pants and skirts and sweaters as if they were used to changing in front of other people. Many of them chat and laugh, standing there in their bras as if proud, though most of the others duck their heads and do some kind of complicated maneuver with their arms underneath their t-shirts, emerging fully suited-up without ever exposing their skins. You have no idea how this works and anyway the restroom stalls are just a few yards away, always empty while everyone else is changing. Chantal teases you about it a couple of times, but she’s no bully (unlike Beau who thank god has a locker at the other end of the row where she can’t see you), and after a few weeks everyone leaves you alone.

Over the months you get up the nerve to look more at the other girls and you start to notice what sets them apart: that they shave their legs, that their bras have lace and little bows on them, that before she put her clothes back on Chantal removes a green and white container from her locker, uncaps it and quickly swipes her armpits, then puts it back. After a while you see the other girls doing this too, though their containers are all different colors and Pamela’s is more cylindrical than the others. At home you ask Mommy about it and she says deodorant is for white people and so is shaving your legs. “You don’t need it,” she says, and that’s it, end of story, though every few weeks you repeat the query hoping she will change her mind and take you to the drugstore so you can join their ranks.

One day after PE the teachers come down from their office and put a box down on the table next to the lost-and-found. “Free samples,” Mrs Russ announces, and the room surges forth with curiosity. You see a pile of slender green-and-white containers… the box is full of hands and arms but before they get them all your own hand darts in and snatches a container and stuffs it into your backpack.

Back home, you lock yourself into the bathroom and take out the container. It says deodorant and anti-perspirant and when you open it the smell is strong as perfume, a sickly powdery floral, and when you rub it on your skin it leaves a white track. If you use this at school everyone will recognize it and know you’re using the one you got for free. Is that better than not using it at all? You sniff the tube again and again, trying to decide.

Nearly overwhelming Caribbean Cool Teen Spirit layered over perspiration, musty air, wet concrete, and shame.

—–

Over the weekend, in between packing and giving away our belongings, I read (and listened to) an inspiring interview between my IWL friend Sarah and poet Matt Blesse. Finding out more about Matt brought me to the blog of Lisa Marie Rollins, whose final reading at VONA 2010 moved me very much (I never caught her name, so I am really glad I’ve found her now). I spent hours reading the entire archive of Lisa Marie’s blog, and I talked about it to Erik afterward, I was so rocked by what she wrote.

As I read, I could feel Lisa Marie’s and Matt’s words and thoughts resonating through me like dreams that tell the truth. I was filled with gratitude for their teachings and their work. But soon I realized there were also uncomfortable emotions moving through me: shame, sadness, fear, resistance. I’ve had these feelings before, when I’ve encountered other powerful work, and this discomfort is the heart of what I’m writing here. What is it all about?

Some of the feelings are easy enough to analyze and understand. I’m comparing myself with others, and not liking what I see; their words make me feel bourgie, reactionary, sheltered, and privileged.* Not that I shouldn’t try to be otherwise, but the reaction is fear, childlike and instinctive: I’m afraid I am not good enough and people won’t like me. I try to let go of the fear because I know — I’ve been training myself — I can grow without needing to apologize for who I am or where I come from. On a related note, thoughtful, intelligent critiques bring me face-to-face with the narrowness of my own assumptions and my too-often complacency. I’m forced to think new thoughts. This is a really good thing, even if it hurts. I can accept these uncomfortable feelings without needing to question them.

But there’s another kind of discomfort at work here, and this is the one I have most trouble with. These writers are sometimes angry. They’re forceful. They express strong thoughts in strong language, and that makes me uncomfortable. Why? They are right to be angry. There is much to be angry about. But… I don’t like it.

A few days ago, I think Friday night, I was reading a magazine and found a quote from Diablo Cody. She’d said,

I’ve learned that you absolutely cannot create anything without offending somebody. Like ever since everyone on Jezebel discovered the term “privilege” in a textbook, suddenly anybody who’s not like a destitute amputee isn’t allowed to write a book because they’re privileged. And it’s like, look, ladies, you’re privileged, too. I’m just saying, I give up. I’ve stopped caring.

Taken in context (from this interview), the quote makes sense, but when I read it by itself I had a strong reaction to it — two strong reactions, in fact. As an artist — in the sense that art can be this thing unto itself that stands alone and apart from the world — I say “Yes! Go for it! You tell ‘em!” As artists, our job is to preserve our self-integrity, to do what we need to do in complete disregard of what others may think. An artist shouldn’t care, an artist shouldn’t give an inch to anyone. But as a person — particularly as a person in community, particularly as a marginal person – I want to shake her and yell, “But it is precisely because of your privilege that you can say that!” We’re all here at the expense of someone else; we all bump up against each other in ways that are hurtful, offensive, damaging. But does that mean we accept it? Does campaigning to right some wrongs give us permission to forget that by our existence we create suffering for others?

Obviously at this point I’m no longer saying anything about Lisa Marie or Matt (or any of the other artist friends whose work — or Facebook updates — sometimes gives me that unpleasant feeling), but am now writing from who I am and the way I respond to other people. Lisa Marie writes, in one of her most popular posts, that her love for her family does not stop her from critiquing them. Well, it does me. Is it because I’m Chinese? I have a very, very hard time reconciling love with critique. Not that I don’t say plenty about the people I love, but I bite my tongue too. People don’t even know the half of it (which is, alas, integral to my ongoing identity crisis with my parents).

Whenever I read a scathing, self-righteous response to an ignorant remark, even if I want to throw my first in the air and shout, “right on,” I always want to cringe too. I think of my own flubs, my own moments of ignorance (and there have been some really appalling ones), and I plead compassion. Lisa Marie says intent doesn’t matter. I agree with her, and yet… I don’t. It seems to me that even if intent doesn’t fix bad choices, it should count for something — not excuses, not permission, but something. As someone who’s been on the flip side, I’m sure it matters somehow.

I think, to be honest, this is something I started thinking about at VONA and then even more with IWL. I have a lot of friends who are politically and socially apathetic. VONA and IWL have brought into my life a wonderful, energetic community of artists of color who are also politically and socially aware, radical, and activist. I read or hear their words and I’m filled with pride and love and support — but sometimes I’m also ashamed, timid, nervous, and uncomfortable (for the reasons I named above). Sometimes I’m thinking of myself, and sometimes I’m thinking of those other friends I love equally dearly — the ones who shop at big-box stores and never read the news, the ones who don’t vote and only carry reusable bags because they’re chic right now — or of my relatives who still think “sex” is a bad word. I understand that too, because that was me, and maybe, depending on the situation and who you ask, is still me.

It could be that what this comes down to is what kind of person I want to be, and — since to me it’s the same thing — what kind of artist. When I compare my work to that of a Staceyann Chin or a Suheir Hammad, I just feel so insignificant. But maybe it’s quite simple: maybe some people are just more comfortable being warriors, doing what must be done, at risk to themselves and sometimes at the expense of others. Maybe what I’m learning is that I am not one of those, and if so, I should make my peace with that. What I do is needed too; the world is not always soft and nice, but I am, and I believe that takes courage of a different sort. We can’t all do things the same way. Could be that my discomfort is just telling me, This is not your way.

—–

Okay, I thought this was going to be one of those posts in which I came to no conclusions because this was something that would be figured out later. Turns out it’s a different kind of post: the other side of the room. Half a year ago I decided I was authentic enough; this is another riff on that.

*Footnote: If I’m not going to apologize for myself, I might have to accept my bourgie-ness. Is it too stupid to claim it as part of my heritage? Because if I’m fully honest, it is; at least, it’s a part of the heritage I know from my parents and grandparents. I come from bourgie people. We all know it. Maybe that’s okay, as long as I never cease to be mindful about it.

This week, as regular readers know, I’ve been busy packing and preparing for our upcoming move. Actually, in spite of the busyness, I’ve managed to do a lot of visiting (including hanging out with some of you, in person!), but I’m reeling a little from all the running around. Maybe you’ve had a similarly active week. Want to just sit for a little while with some tea (or a whiskey, if you’re so inclined) and catch up?

DIY satsuma candle I made this week -- click for directions!

In our second week of IWL workshop, over the summer, Jaime opened the meeting with something he called “Highlight, lowlight.” We all went around the table, sharing briefly the highlight of our week and the low point. Of course a busy week is actually a lot to look back on; some of us couldn’t remember what we’d done, so we just mentioned the incidents that came to mind first. And that is perfectly okay.

I’m aware your week might have contained a highlight and/or lowlight that you’re not willing to share with the internets. Just say whatever you like. I’ll be here, with my tea (Tulsi ginger with honey), listening.

As a result of my olfactory explorations, I ended up with a new signature scent that I’m ridiculously crazy about (The Golden Bough, from Arabesque Aromas), and — after a couple of weeks of sampling — a creative idea that was so galvanizing it got me out of bed and scribbling as if my life depended on it. That idea became Yesteryear Apothecary, a collection of 12 imaginary fragrances based on childhood memories. Each of the dozen “scents” follows the more-or-less-standard format of the indie perfumiers: title, image, evocative blurb, list of fragrance notes. In my case, the image is an old photo and the blurb a capsule of creative autobiography (names, details have been changed or combined). Enjoy the sample.

RECITAL

One Saturday morning you all dress up. Daddy wears a suit and you and your sister put on the fancy dresses Gong-Gong bought you last December: ruffled pink for Sarah, black velvet and turquoise satin for you. In the car Mommy pulls down the mirror and applies lipstick with a little brush.

Daddy parks the car and you file through the courtyard with the little fountain and into Mrs Zabel’s living room. The big tan sofa has been turned around and the coffee table is gone, replaced by rows of folding chairs. Daddy takes a seat in the back and sets up the Camcorder and tripod. Mrs Zabel guides you and Sarah to the sofa: “You girls get front row seats.” When the Chos arrive they bring a sheaf of papers and Su-Wen hands one to each of you: twelve names including yours and hers, with the titles of your pieces and their composers, and a pretty border of piano keys and musical notes, all printed out by a computer.

Soon Mrs Zabel stands in front of the pianos and the room goes quiet. “Welcome to our first recital of the year,” she smiles, and before you know it you are getting up from the squishy sofa, shuffling a few steps across the carpet to stand next to the black Steinway the way Mrs Zabel showed you last Monday. You bend at the waist and everyone claps, and then you turn around and seat yourself on the bench to play.

When you are done you stand up and bow and shuffle back to the sofa, but everyone is still clapping and you look at Mrs Zabel and she gestures to you to go back and bow again. You do, and then sit again, and Mrs Zabel announces the next student.

Now you have to sit through everyone else, from Stephen Marks who plays Beethoven’s “Minuet in G” to that big Bobby Koch who stumbles through “The Entertainer” to Geoff Ng who makes the piano strings pound with a Rachmaninoff concerto he plays with Mrs Zabel at the walnut grand that stands back-to-back, yin/yang style, to the Steinway. Finally Mrs Zabel sits at the Steinway herself and announces she will play an Etude, and her fingers are rippling over the keys, her profile focused, drawing sound and power from the ivory and wood in way that even Geoff couldn’t match.

Afterward everyone goes into the dining room to silver platters of cookies Mrs Zabel has baked herself, stacks of little plates and square paper napkins, and a glass bowl of punch with scoops of ice cream floating in it. Mrs Zabel pours coffee for the grownups. Remembering your manners, you and Sarah take a plate, a napkin, and two cookies each, and retreat to the corner where you can prop the plates up on the windowsill and look out over the yard while you eat.

A dainty scent with strength behind it: berry sherbet, ginger ale, chocolate chips, butter cookies, walnuts, faint perfume and breezy aftershave, ivory keys, fresh brewed coffee, patience, and Chopin.

To be honest, getting rid of stuff has its thrilling moments, especially for a super-organized, super-thoughtful pack rat like me. Case in point: my recipe binder. I’ve subscribed to many magazines over the years, and when I’ve found recipes that sounded good, I’ve torn the pages out and saved them in a three-ring binder. Since I can’t seem to do things casually, the binder is divided into sections based on the type of dish and how much trouble it is to prepare. A few days ago it hit me that I was never going to be able to make all those recipes before we left, and I might as well recycle the pages rather than schlep the binder down to my parents’ house or to storage.

I sat at the dining table and excised every recipe except the ones I could make — and wanted to make — in the next few weeks. Out went everything that wasn’t in season (roasted rhubarb, marinated asparagus) and everything involving elaborate preparations or extensive shopping (vegan nut cheese, tom yum goong). At some point I looked at the stack I was making for the recycling bin and realized I wasn’t just tossing recipes, I was letting go of whole fantasies, emotional burdens posing as kitchen advice. There were the mushroom recipes I’d saved out of guilt for eating too much meat (even though I rarely cook with mushrooms — much as I love them — because the things just don’t keep well in the fridge). Every time I flipped through those pages, the photos were a reminder that I’d reneged on my former vegetarianism. Then there were the pages and pages of bread recipes, because for some reason I always think I should bake my own bread; maybe I think I’ll be a thriftier or more authentic housekeeper if I do, or maybe it’s because my mom does. I put all these nagging accusations of imperfection into the bin, and let them go. I will live with myself, just as I am, excess meat and farmers’-market-bought bread included.

The recipes were easy, though. The books are harder… and the clothes and shoes… and I haven’t even begun on the kitchenwares. Partly it’s a practical consideration; we won’t want to have to buy everything again after we return. But then, who says I’ll need these things in the future anyway? We may decide to eschew book-owning, or my size may drop to an 8 (or rise to a 14), or we may prefer new dishes to our old ones. It’s not really the moving that’s the difficult part of the process, it’s the decision-making. Every single item requires a choice, and therefore every single item holds infinite potential for second-guessing. Maybe I should just make a rule to decide once and then forget about it. Nothing is truly essential, anyway. If I decide to keep it, I keep it, no guilt. If I give it away, I give it away, no regrets. Not a bad way to go through life, in fact, especially for an overthinker like me.

(Funny thing is, I went through the same process last time I moved. Oh well, my heart is lighter this time, so maybe I have learned something!)

I was standing in my room in my parents’ house (also the room in which I was sleeping), but it was daylight. People were running around the hallways and to avoid them I hid in the closet, which was full of clown costumes. I rummaged through the baggy, shabby red ribbon-trimmed overalls and colorful wigs to try to find something to wear. When I came out, there were several attractive, interesting-looking young women standing between the closet and the bed, all different ethnicities, all dressed in vivid outfits.

“So what is it that you do?” they asked me.

“Oh, ummmm…” I didn’t feel any awkwardness, but I had to pause and look at the ceiling. After a long silence I explained, “I’m trying to think of how to frame it, because I recently had a number of conversations that have changed the way I think about my life.”

Before I could come up with a new framing, I woke up. I’m not sure of the significance of those clown costumes, but I do appreciate my remarks to the ladies.

I often go to parties heavily armored in close-minded assumptions. My own parties usually have better food (and more of it), and often better music. The guest list is one of my own device, and of course I’m on my home turf. But with other people’s parties, I don’t know what I’ll get. Since dressing up and meeting strangers already puts me on the defensive, I habitually sit through the first half-hour of any party mentally critiquing the setting and wishing I were someplace more compelling. (Not a flattering attitude, but why write at all if I’m not going to be honest?)

It’s a trust issue, essentially. I like parties, but people are such unknown quantities! I’m scared. I don’t trust other people to throw good parties, I don’t trust their guests to be interesting — and I don’t trust myself to live up to others’ scrutiny! My entire going-to-party mindset is a mixed-up web of insecurity and condescension: they won’t like me. Well, I don’t like them! Or their party! Let’s go home!

Recently I began to notice that I had this attitude, and once I noticed it, I realized how much I hated it. What’s the point of going to a party all self-conscious and determined to distrust everyone? I don’t need to prove anything; I’ve already been invited. There’s no reason to fear strangers who are, after all, already vetted (as the friends of my friends). Why walk through that door with mind and heart already closed?

I remember when I was working as a library adult literacy coordinator in LA, I observed that people seemed so interesting when I interviewed them, and that they opened up beautifully when I asked them questions. At first I thought maybe it was just the kind of people who found their way into the program, but eventually it dawned on me that it wasn’t only them; it was me. As coordinator, these interviews were one of the most important parts of my job. They were my (sometimes only) opportunity to find out if anyone seemed unreliable or unstable, and they were necessary for matching up compatible students and tutors. So whenever I interviewed anyone, I gave them my total attention. I wanted to know who people were, on their own terms; I wanted to get a feel for their nature and their habits and their preferences. I spent as much as an hour or more with each new interview, and during that time, I existed for no other reason than to listen and absorb. People sensed my openness, and they responded in kind — which made them even more fascinating to me!

That was my professional demeanor, and it served me (and, I believe, the students and tutors) very well. But it didn’t fully carry over into my personal life, and with each new life change (moving, meeting new people) my ingrained nervousness and defensiveness rose more to the surface. Lately I’ve determined to change that — recognized, in fact, that I truly want to. It is so much richer to meet people where they are, rather than judge them… and it’s easier, ultimately, to trust people to meet me where I am, rather than assuming I need to act cooler or smarter or more intriguing in order to hold their attention. One of my resolutions for 2012 is to feel more at ease in different social situations, and I’ve decided the way to do that is to actually be at ease. It is sometimes not easy; the jittery feeling and the self-protective arrogant reaction are so knee-jerk trained into me. But it’s worth the attempt when the reward is to just be myself and let others be themselves too.

Which brings me back to my dream. As I said to the strange women in my room, I do reframe my understanding of my life each time I go to a party where I really talk to new people. In the act of interpreting myself to others — honestly, without trying to sound more self-assured or accomplished than I am — I get responses from them that raise useful questions, or provide answers I couldn’t have thought of myself. And if things are going well, I get to hear other people interpret their lives to me, and that’s one of the great pleasures of my social existence: learning someone else’s view for a while, expanding my mind and my world.

In the comments of Friday’s Open Mic discussion on asking and receiving, I mentioned that I want to be more trusting toward others. In writing my comments, I began to understand that my distrust is directly related to the loneliness I’d been feeling a month earlier. For me, loneliness comes from thinking there is no common ground between myself and the rest of the world. But if I open myself to others, both in offering myself and in receiving who they are, there is a lot more space for connection. Win. Win. Win.