Liminal

It’s taken 22 years for my parents’ lessons to reach the outer fringes of my being. Maybe this is because I have only recently started “to be.” When I think about who I was when I was younger, what dominates is the sense of non agency. Rather than an actual substantive person, I was a simulation of one. I studied, worked, met friends, thought, felt, succeeded in a manner someone would eat, drink, and sleep. I was leashed to external factors, and led by no thing of my own. I know “action speaks louder than words,” but if there are no genuine thoughts behind what you pursue, then they are just as hollow.

“There is no greater treason than to do the right deed for the wrong reason.” – T.S. Eliot

Only after I integrated (was forced to integrate? the universe can be awfully mean sometimes) more layers into my character and developed what I call real, “human-y” emotions, did I understand the value of my life. By this I don’t mean that mine is worth more than another. What I mean is, compared to many others, I am so very lucky. I recognize that the relative comfort of my life isn’t any credit to myself, either. It is a result of numerous social, political, and – yes – parental forces that shaped the current conditions of my life before I was even physically constituted.

It starts in Vietnam, the country where both my parents, Lee and Thu, came from but where they did not meet. Instead, they met at a refugee camp in the Philippines. Lee and Thu were part of the large out flux of “boat people” who fled the communists from the 1970s to the 1990s. At the time, Southeast Asian countries like Singapore, Thailand, and the Philippines agreed to temporarily accept the refugees – as long as developed countries like the United States upheld their agreements to resettle them on their lands. Lee accepted passage to the U.S.; Thu headed off to Canada.

For seven years, Lee and Thu were in a long distance relationship. They wrote long, handwritten letters to one another on graph paper, and always in blue ink. They called each other when time permitted, and met rarely. Eventually, they married and settled in the United States. They had four children – Lily, Lena, James, and Johnathan – and dedicated their adult lives to general labor in order to send all four of their children to college.

And, here I am.

Aside from the genetic wonder of it all, I am here – against many odds, and as a result of structural forces beyond any one person’s control – as a privileged individual. My parents survived their journey to the Philippines, when they could have easily been captured by sea pirates. Politically, western countries were sympathetic to the Vietnamese population when they could have denied them access to a safe haven. In the 1990s, Haitians were not so lucky. U.S. policy directly violated international human rights laws, intercepted ships containing Haitians seeking asylum for political persecution, and sent thousands back to their country – often to their deaths, or to live out the rest of their lives in poverty under a repressive military regime. It is a fact that my life would be very different (and mostly likely worse) if I was not born in the U.S. I know because I have seen how many of my cousins’ and family’s life has played out in Vietnam. To be a citizen of any developed country is, in itself, a priceless opportunity.

Even so, I used to blame my parents for their shortcomings. Like many second generation children of immigrants, I thought their world view outdated. I thought mine more educated, more cultured, more adapted to society. I thought them ignorant. At the same time, I had a difficult time coping with what I perceived as my missed opportunities or my lack of resources. Our family is a working class one. As the education system would have it, I did not attend a particularly good, though not excessively bad, high school. During the first few years in college, I blamed my parents because I recognized – and perceptibly felt – the disparity between myself and others who had a more solid foundation in K-12 education.

22 years later, I no longer think so. My immersion in the study of humanities has helped me reconcile with and see the worth of my parents’ teachings: they have given me something that academics have certainly augmented, but that no amount of education could have so extensively initiated. That is – a love and empathy for the extraordinary mottled human experience. Looking back, I am not sure I can say how they had done so. Yet, I am also certain it originates from them – buoyed by their own, intimately human experiences. I am certain that their humble working class background, their belief in a kindness checked by self preservation (because, as my mom posits, how can you expect to maintain the good will to help others if you don’t protect and freaking bubble wrap your idealism in this overwhelmingly covetous world?), and their “simplistic” view on the non-differential valuation of human life, have not only led me to recognize my privilege, but also the social responsibility I should shoulder as its structurally selected beneficiary.

“I am a teacher, so I think that education is necessary to enlighten us about the world. But education does not make someone better; it makes that person more efficient. Anyone who wishes to foment evil will find an advantage in knowing about man’s obsessions, learning about his nature, studying sociology. The educated man – if his heart is flawed, if he seethes with hatred – will do more harm.”
– Innocent Rwililiza, from Life Laid Bare.

I say “structurally selected” because, in many ways, it was due only to the specific social, political, and economic policies in place during the 1980s that allowed my parents to eventually make their way onto U.S. soil. Ironically, these self-same structures are what often perpetuate violence and oppression against many people. I would argue that forces let Lee and Thu in, and forces that kept Haitians out, are two sides of the same coin. What excuse is there to not flip it in favor of the disadvantaged?

“But the poor person does not exist as an inescapable fact of destiny. His or her existence is not politically neutral, and it is not ethnically innocent. The poor are a by-product of the system in which we live and for which we are responsible. The are marginalized by our social and cultural world. They are the oppressed, exploited proletariat, robbed of the fruit of their labor and despoiled of their humanity. Hence the poverty of the poor is not a call to generous relief action, but a demand that we go and build a different social order.”
– Gustavo Gutierrez

Although the word “privilege” has been on the rise recently, in concurrence with the rise in advocacy for human rights, I think there is an important difference between owning up to one’s privilege or sympathizing with those who are derived of certain freedoms, and actually engaging in meaningful, pragmatic action to erase the systemic oppression responsible for preventing privileges from reaching people. In other words, understanding privilege is different from effectively spreading and redistributing privilege itself.

I won’t deny that it frustrates me to think of the vast inequity that exists in society – and how many individuals who possess the resources to act as potent agents of change remain passive. Yet, in no way do I adopt a “holier-than-thou” perspective; in no way would I “condemn” someone for not directly “acting” for change. It is my belief that everyone needs to pursue what he or she innately desires, loves, lives, and ticks for (as long as it doesn’t hurt others), because being happy with one’s self is often conditional for the outward generation of positive influence.

But, I guess, I do want to ask for more consideration and awareness. I want to direct attention to social injustice – its causes, its potential solutions, its very existence, and its raw reality. I want to solicit people to think about whether their sincere, individual passions align with advancing rights for the underprivileged and, if so, for them to utilize their drives to create a difference for someone, somewhere.

“There is in me a deep — shall I call it anger? — at social injustice more widely. Life has in many ways been gracious to me, but the level of profligate waste of the world’s resources, the profligate destruction of the world’s peoples, is justifiably a cause for anger. There is a question about where to put that anger, how to deal with it in ways that aren’t sentimental, saying, ‘Oh, I forgive so it’s alright.’” – Ralph Williams

I am an imperfect human being and, in the course of the next few years, I’m not certain where I’ll stand. My thinking is more akin to a haphazard creation process than anything else. Feelings and impressions may crystallize on the canvas of my mind – but only briefly, and only to be usurped or shifted by incoming sensations, thoughts, and perceptions. I’m scared of not being able to follow through with what I (currently) believe in. I’m scared of possibly succeeding and perhaps having to give up some essential part of myself in the process. I’m scared because, even though I finally have (tentative) goals, I don’t have a clearly outlined plan. In short, I’m scared (shitless). But I hope that whatever it is I do – whatever it is that we do – in the future, it will be imbued with a touch of humility.

Liminal

thank you

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When I was young, I used to admire intelligent people; as I grow older, I admire kind people.