They want a Korean...ting!

I am in Korea, and I can't get a date.
All my other ethnic friends in the place seem to be getting some. I had a discussion with a sexy Chinese teacher, a beautiful Italian teacher and an attractive African-American teacher, who all told me they were trying to see what Korean women were "saying."

Now, at no other time in my life would I have found this normal, but in this setting, I just can't be mad. The cultural melieu that is my social reality right now, does not extend beyond certain forms of carnal, simplistic, chauvanist and honest foolishness. I just can't be angry at the abundance of Korean "opportunity" around me. When I think about it, we are all here for the same reason. My physical and mental attributes are not necessarily meant to be compared, but lets just question that if one had the option to explore the planet, its resources and its humanity to the fullest, could one really deny the chance to know...What is it like? I am here to teach English, earn some money, have a good time and learn about another culture. And this is not limited to embracing romance if it comes, but it might not come. Others are here to teach English, "protect democracy", earn some money, have a good time, learn about another culture and chase Korean girls. Let that not be limited to embracing some enlightening self-revelations about personal space and aptitude for change.

For this reason and this reason only do I shake off the rejection that pervades me. I reckon that this be the only time in my life that I can feel and look A-sexual and embrace the lack of opportunity to confuse sex, love, lies and circumstance.

I am not opposed to any love. I am just opposed to faking it.

Nothing gained...thereof (I hate that I can be so literal in poems)

I have too many stories about falling in love,
But nothing gained in what I ventured there of,
Facing the fact that I lack wisdom of heart,
Because trusting these feelings is time wasted in part.

They could call me bitter now because bitterness appeases,
The feelings I've had for all the wrong reasons.
I have grown in spirit but my heart is still faint,
And now in all reasoning I sing and write and paint.

This life was purposeful and full of intention,
But over thinking myself is a chore into oblivion...for most.
Some loves tear apart these pieces of gold
And I walk like an Egyptian with less than before.

So honestly...
Honestly speaking,

I don't really know what to do about these scars.
These keloids of relationships that have now left some marks.
Stains on my soul
Bathing in possibility that one or two years will go by and I will feel brand new.
I want to be able to love without fear and look with promise and feel safe in you.
I learned to love from the best example in practice,
The covenant we have broken but the love/rain still falls on the just and unjusted.
Sanctified by commitment to teach the world new love
Nothing gained in that which I ventured there of.

So we can stop fighting, you won
But I broke the mold on possibility.

The guitar I play,
The lies they say,
The acceptance of wrong intentions
And walking away.

The kisses I bring
The melodies I sing
The kitchen I slaved over
Walking away with that sting.

The strain in my voice
The reputation destroyed
My strength is a marker
For conquest and ambitions void.

No feelings
No dealings
No wasting my time
No reason to continue living a lie.

The cop, the bassist, the singer and his friends,
The banker, the rasta, the teacher make amends,
The Muslim, the Christian, the Athiest all see
The beauty, the judge, the fire in me.

They call me crazy, psycho and head case.
They venture there not seeing how vulnerable I am but would rather spit in my face.
They get there and see how open I love
But agree that nothing is gained from those ventures there of.
And then called me selfish because I broke the mold on possibility.
I broke it to the point that things seem to straighten out after me.
It all becomes clear what you want and don't want,
Finding versions of me with weaker and calmer fronts.

Its so funny.

I don't think its harder to love someone like me.
And now after all this time.
Don't say hi to me.
Don't try to be pleasant.
Don't wish me Merry Christmas.
Let me disappear.

Because that is all I want to do... without you.

You broke my heart.

My hair story. (I only want to do this once!)

I am in a time where I, clearly and unequivocally, am disenchanted with so many things. As a black woman, I realized that there are certain things that you will never be able to expect people to understand. Some of them relate to race, some of them relate to money, some of them relate to gender and sexuality education/exposure, some of it has much to do with tolerance. And when you get up in age, travel and become part of a global village, there really are some things that don't translate. EVER!

One of the things that rarely translates is black hair. And this particular scenario, is not something that we all experience. Since my trans-continental identity has me dealing with it, I figured I would talk about it. Its different, I'm different. And here is why...

I will start out by saying that black women's hair care can be a beautiful story. We can have a relationship with our hair that is strong, proud, and sensitive to our feelings of belonging. But then there is me... My hair story is just so..weird. I don't have a nice relationship with my hair at all. As I try hard to cultivate it now, to change my mind, I start to realize all the damage I did in the first place by assuming my hair had to be a certain way for people to accept me. This is not a lie or a misunderstanding. Caucasian and Asian people have been very direct in telling me that they did not like my hair or my hair texture and asked me if there wasn't anything I could do... to make it look like Tyra Banks or Beyonce or just not so...so...so...(use your imagination). Why does their hair look like that?  I try to explain. I really do. I try to tell them that these women have hair that naturally looks like mine and the process that they go through to keep it looking "acceptable". I found it problematic that they felt comfortable to even say that to me when they clearly do not know what kind of racism or physical/cultural disrespect is attached to it. (Colonizing of my mind where even I have had to look at myself and wonder if I was wrong for being natural). I also try to explain that my hair never really grew from my head for more than a year or two with out me doing something chemical or heat-oriented to it and could they imagine having something chemically treated every 6 weeks, attached to them their whole life?

Here in Korea, I question the many discrepancies I witness in cultural identity. This is a culture that is clearly psychologically disenfranchised, but are extremely nationalistic and self-reliant. Its like a dichotomy that is increasingly hard to explain. An analogy: An old world meets a new world but the old world only likes certain things about the new world. Mainly the aesthetics because the old world lacked the gift of being "shiny".

So eurocentric features are really only better if you are Korean. Because to be anything but the status quo in Korea is co-signing yourself to a very sordid reality of plastic surgery and heavy make-up. Men and women alike.

And then there is the topic of value/values. I am an acceptable black woman because, "I am pretty.".. "I have a small face"... "My legs are long". Oh... the friends I have made, because my legs are long. Its funny but true. I am valuable because of my appearance and because I speak English. And in a way, this is troubling, but I am here and I can't help but wondering if it has anything to do with this punishing ideal that looking the part is better than being the part because you can always be the part later (with the assistance of a make-up artist and some acting classes). In Korea, I truly am trying to grow into my own beauty, but not the outside one. So organically growing my hair, in order to feel more 'me'. Organically growing my hair, in order to feel more authentic since my sincerity is always under fire (along with my passions). This may be the only time in this life that I can look in the mirror and appreciate the fact that who I am is (emphatically) amazing. No if's, but's/burns or lyes (pun intended), about it.

Now I could go into the geo-neo-race politics of why black hair care, specifically black women's hair care, is systematically irresponsible. I could talk about the 'why', the 'who' and the 'how' of what is means to be so disenfranchised that we bleach our skin and straighten our hair because of "jacked-up" ideals. I could talk about it all. But I realize that this has been done and done again.. and again.. and again.. In class rooms, in ciphers, in homes, in beauty shops and on screen (both TV and film). After a while we resign to what works for us as individuals (and I see a bald-headed future myself).

The conversation continues to bother me. It continues to be a sore spot, unless you are praising what is naturally mine and beautiful about me and other black women who out of sensibility and pride, wear their hair naturally.

I realize that at the end of the day it takes an increasingly strong female to be who and what she is without the pressures of the world. It takes an extremely strong female to be a foundational, unwavering soul on what is right, or to be a smart uncompromising individual with very little dependency on public opinion.

Solitude, my friend.

Just yesterday my mind raced into oblivion and I barely caught the end tale of this thing called "solitude". We go through life responding and reacting or not. But being still? Like really being still and trying to make use of that emptiness is special.

When I think back on the moments where I had time to spill my heart, I did, but now, I question what amazing things could have come from just being a bit more silent and conscientious. How many loves would I have kept? How much more feeling would have been spared?

In that silence we hear all kinds of things. Some negative, some positive, some encouraging, and some spiritual. In growth, I think this must be the secret place of the most high and I doubt that I could stay there forever. I started to miss connecting with people and I plugged back into the internet the moment it became uncomfortable. However, I felt refreshed and renewed at the fact that I had spent something like 9 hours awake without saying a word to a soul. Walking the streets, taking in the sights, brave to the world and completely muted by thoughts, memories and experiences.

I dare you to try it.


Laslty, this wouldn't be a blog without some form of promotion. So one of my (many) brothers, has a record coming out and you all need to listen to it, support it, buy it. On this here 999 aka number of completion and manifestation (read:http://www.calleman.com/content/articles/999_and_the_mayan_calendar.htm) the September 9 MIXTAPE by Ian Kamau is important, warm and insightful. Unlike his records that have come before, this one has its roots in what is classic yet still strongly appealing to the evolution of musical sounds with his own fusions of hip-hop, spoken word and RnB.There is fire and healing in its content and compilation. Its solid.


http://www.zshare.net/download/64980421079eb4df/

Enjoy.