I can't lie... I mean, really. I've never been any good at it. Pretty much anything you need to know is written on my face. I admire our professor... she listened to some rough writing we all produced in class yesterday with no emotion on her face whatsoever. I am accustomed to measuring the temperature a person gives off as well as what's underneath the eyes... but to most people, she shared no bias, no opinion in her facial expressions.
I, on the other hand, struggled not to react. I'm not going to be a total snot and say that there was no originality in that classroom... there were sentences here and there that certainly echoed some human truths in practically all the writings... In fact, if I'm totally honest, I'm sure I wrote similar stuff at some point... But, in any writing class I've ever taken, I've been a little... critical. I express that as positively as I can. Public school writing classes are never the place to teach people lessons with tough love. I've had the crap kicked out of my writing by private readers and other professors, so, I know when I've written something that needs some serious revision. In these classes, however, everyone wants to feel "safe." I guess that's important, too. They can get the crap kicked out of them in grad school, by editors, at publishing houses. In this place, we need to encourage one another to get to a point where we're ready to share, which comes before we can have that work torn apart.
I remember, before I could write all the words I actually knew, I used to ask my mother to write out dreams or thoughts for me in this ugly, yellow, thin, Mickey Mouse blank book. My energy has been devoted to writing before I knew what I was doing... in my letters, cards, poems, school essays, etc, I've always tried pushing the envelope, tried to create something moving or interesting. Some of these people have lived very much the same way... some of them just wanted something fun to do in between required credits.
I'm suddenly reminded of something that Keri Wormald said... she was one of the best directors for the stage I ever had the privilege to work with... She would tell us, "If you treat people like artists and geniuses, they will be..."
There's a great deal of reading involved alongside the writing. We have a number of interesting texts with which to work including I KNOW WHY THE CAGED BIRD SINGS by the irreplaceable Maya Angelou, Mystical Poems of Rumi by Jalal al Din Rumi, DREAMS FROM MY FATHER by Barack Obama, A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT by Norman McLean, and several other essays, stories, memoir excerpts. I'm excited to read and re-read some of these texts to remind myself of both great and not-so-great personal writings.
The idea behind this class is to write both about and through ourselves, I believe. While I definitely do plenty of that here in this blog, it will be useful and invaluable to have new stimulation. The professor will ask of us questions that I rarely find worthy to ask myself or that I simply would not have thought to consider on my own.
One of my favorite aspects of this class is the journal we've been asked to keep. Based on ARTISTS' JOURNALS AND SKETCHBOOKS by Lynne Perrella, we're supposed to write some reflection pieces on our readings, special reflections about our lives, and insert things that may matter such as photos of our families, postcards, etc. I've kept these sorts of journals before, but only for class. It's always amusing to look back on them... the only thing they all seem to have in common is my family and pictures of Marilyn Monroe.
I may or may not share some of what goes on in this class. People are entitled to their privacy as my classmates and I am very uncertain as to what sort of writing I'm going to produce myself. For today, however, I will share what I first wrote in last night's class when asked the question, Who are you?
I am the daughter of a daughter of yet another daughter who survived the horror of WWII. I do not come from a particularly popular group of war babies. My grandfather was not a Jew who escaped the hell of the camps nor was he a European hiding refugees in his basement. John R. Wagner met my grandmother, Tsuruko Okuma, in a place that very few people I meet have ever heard of... Okinawa. Most people ask, "That's in Japan, right?" and my heart sinks.
I am the daughter of a daughter ashamed of her ethnicity. While she largely accepted her heritage in adulthood (specifically after her second marriage), she struggled in groups of children influenced by leftover prejudices their parents passed down about Asians in America.
I am the daughter of a man who chose to be my father. His love for my mother, whose first husband left us when I was six months old, transcended the connection seemingly forged between a man and his creation. He led me to the discovery family inside and outside of my bloodlines in the truest and most spontaneous sense unfettered from any presumptuous obligations.
I am the daughter of a middle class family, swept courageously out of "only child syndrome" at the age of nine when my mother gave birth to twin boys. My interest in them was limited. I was mostly grateful for the distraction they offered my parents during a time in my life when I was ready to "do it all on my own, thank you very much." Once they turned five, I met two incredibly different people, from one another as well as myself, who introduced me to a friendship and love unlike any other I will ever know.
I am one of the many daughters who broke beneath the weighty desire for a true sense of belonging to a group of people. I am not unique in my fight for individuality and self love in the face of one of humanity's deepest rejections. I read the books, talked to counselors, wrote pages and pages dedicated to my anger and fear. To this day, my father's absence has been the strongest presence in making me who I am... mostly by battling to become better than a "girl with Daddy-issues from a broken home."
So, instead, I am the daughter of a line of women who wanted something better.
My grandmother kissed the dead and living Goodbye and accepted my grandfather's insistent proposal to fly from home to give her children and grandchildren a large, loving multicultural tribe. My mother made her own mistakes, found a true friend and companion in my stepfather, and provided her child freedom, completely lacking vicarious expectations, to be whoever I wanted to be.
And I?
I have ceased to offer my injuries to people who can't make use of them the way I can. I studied the loves that have gone before me and waited for companionship beyond the tender and insecure early twenties. I have rocked the boat in pursuit of authenticity and justice whether or not my passengers have a life preserver (I won't let you fall). I have pondered and pounded my heart to grains that have slipped through the fine details of my decisions, my actions, my search for truth, my words. My words have haunted me, comforted me, illuminated my darkness... they are all I have to know myself at all.
I am Geneviève, daughter of Jessica, daughter of Tsuruko, daughter of Tsuru...
I am the daughter of a daughter ashamed of her ethnicity. While she largely accepted her heritage in adulthood (specifically after her second marriage), she struggled in groups of children influenced by leftover prejudices their parents passed down about Asians in America.
I am the daughter of a man who chose to be my father. His love for my mother, whose first husband left us when I was six months old, transcended the connection seemingly forged between a man and his creation. He led me to the discovery family inside and outside of my bloodlines in the truest and most spontaneous sense unfettered from any presumptuous obligations.
I am the daughter of a middle class family, swept courageously out of "only child syndrome" at the age of nine when my mother gave birth to twin boys. My interest in them was limited. I was mostly grateful for the distraction they offered my parents during a time in my life when I was ready to "do it all on my own, thank you very much." Once they turned five, I met two incredibly different people, from one another as well as myself, who introduced me to a friendship and love unlike any other I will ever know.
I am one of the many daughters who broke beneath the weighty desire for a true sense of belonging to a group of people. I am not unique in my fight for individuality and self love in the face of one of humanity's deepest rejections. I read the books, talked to counselors, wrote pages and pages dedicated to my anger and fear. To this day, my father's absence has been the strongest presence in making me who I am... mostly by battling to become better than a "girl with Daddy-issues from a broken home."
So, instead, I am the daughter of a line of women who wanted something better.
My grandmother kissed the dead and living Goodbye and accepted my grandfather's insistent proposal to fly from home to give her children and grandchildren a large, loving multicultural tribe. My mother made her own mistakes, found a true friend and companion in my stepfather, and provided her child freedom, completely lacking vicarious expectations, to be whoever I wanted to be.
And I?
I have ceased to offer my injuries to people who can't make use of them the way I can. I studied the loves that have gone before me and waited for companionship beyond the tender and insecure early twenties. I have rocked the boat in pursuit of authenticity and justice whether or not my passengers have a life preserver (I won't let you fall). I have pondered and pounded my heart to grains that have slipped through the fine details of my decisions, my actions, my search for truth, my words. My words have haunted me, comforted me, illuminated my darkness... they are all I have to know myself at all.
I am Geneviève, daughter of Jessica, daughter of Tsuruko, daughter of Tsuru...
Well, it's an in-class writing piece... I might not tweak it much more though... I like the roughness of it. Like I was caught off guard and answered the question the way I would have in that moment rather than this one, or in a new setting tomorrow.
We'll see how it goes.
We'll see how it goes.
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