Discussing white supremacy at the dinner table

I will keep this intro brief. My intention for this post is to share resources for white and non-black folks who are interested in having conversations about dismantling white supremacy and anti-black racism. I will primarily be linking to black authors, with some exceptions as appropriate (e.g. people explaining how their experiences of class/race-based oppression doesn’t negate their complicity in/ability to benefit from anti-blackness).

Context (feel free to skip):

I flew home to San Jose on Monday and landed just as Bob McCulloch was beginning his nonsense. I realized I’ve been having a hard time navigating in-person conversations with family and 長輩 (zhǎng bèi, elders) about Ferguson, white supremacy, and anti-blackness.

I originally wrote this: “There are a ton of links circulating on Facebook right now. Information is available. Please do your part in actively seeking out media that has already been created, instead of putting the burden on people of color to explain it to you.” (n.b. In general, yes, if you want to be an ally, put in the work. I don’t think POC owe it to white folks to explain racism, and I don’t think black folks owe it to non-black folks to explain anti-blackness or how to dismantle whiteness. However, I have some time and have been doing some light reading lately, so here is a resource post.)

tl;dr It’s not black people’s responsibility to educate people on white supremacy. It’s hard to confront elders/family/ourselves about racism. I thought a study guide/cheat sheet might help.


  • anti-blackness/anti-black racism – racism specifically targeting black people, including within POC and inter-ethnic communities (see also: “Riding with Death: Defining Anti-Blackness” by Nicholas Brady)
  • microaggression — a brief exchange that dehumanizes a member of an oppressed group; intent is irrelevant. Think about a bunch of strangers, friends, classmates, etc. all flicking you in the same spot on your arm, several times a day. Each individual flick may not cause harm or hurt at first, but over time, you’ll develop a bruise in that spot, and each ensuing flick will bring out that same pain. (People also commonly use the example of Chinese water torture, but I have also seen people use that metaphor in a racist way, so … )
  • POC — people of color, non-white people (btw, people self-identifying as POC does not give you permission to use the expression “colored people”)
  • white supremacy – “White supremacy is a low-level assumption about characteristics that white people allegedly have which transforms inequality between them and everyone else into something natural. It often masks itself as fairness and goes unquestioned as a result.” (H/T Imara Jones, here)

Breaking down white privilege

Resources for non-black POC

  • Understand that there is a time and place for using the “people of color” umbrella. (Now is not one of them.) Yes, other communities of color experience racism and policing. That is not an invitation to co-opt the work and words of black authors, artists, and academics to apply them to our struggles. Erasing anti-black violence and anti-black racism is anti-blackness, and it is an act of violence.
  • Also. ALSO. You better not be responding to #BlackLivesMatter with #AllLivesMatter. Don’t do that.
  • APIs: “So why do I expend so much effort on lifting up the oppression of black people? Because anti-black racism is the fulcrum of white supremacy.” — Scot Nakagawa, “Blackness is the Fulcrum” (short article)
  • APIs: Soya Jung “The Racial Justice Movement Needs a Model Minority Mutiny” (medium-length article, some academic jargon, but fairly accessible)
  • Latinx: “Four Person-to-Person Things I Do to Address Anti-Blackness con Mi Gente” by CarmenLeah Ascencio (intro + listicle, strategies also relevant to other folks)

Other conversation starters

Responding to “Violence never solved anything!”

First of all, for those of you who are quoting MLK and calling for nonviolence (a popular choice is “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”), please keep in mind that just before his assassination (which the U.S. government wanted and helped along), MLK said “We have fought hard and long for integration, as I believe we should have, and I know that we will win. But I’ve come to believe we’re integrating into a burning house.” He also spoke specifically on riots during a speech on March 4, 1968:

I would be the first to say that I am still committed to militant, powerful, massive, nonviolence as the most potent weapon in grappling with the problem from a direct action point of view… But it is not enough for me to stand before you tonight and condemn riots. It would be morally irresponsible for me to do that without, at the same time, condemning the contingent, intolerable conditions that exist in our society. These conditions are the things that cause individuals to feel that they have no other alternative than to engage in violent rebellions to get attention. And I must say tonight that a riot is the language of the unheard.”

Maneuvering through derailing tactics

  • Try calling in instead of calling out. It’s hard to know how to respond when someone you love says or does something hateful. First of all, it’s your choice if and how you want to respond, and you should do so in a way that makes you feel safe. (Note, that’s safe, not “not uncomfortable.”) Calling someone out treats them like they’re disposable; Ngọc Loan Trần discusses how to engage with someone who made a mistake and keep building.
  • “People of color are being oversensitive! We’re caving to political correctness!” This is tone policing. You shut that down. Tone policing is a tool used to maintain oppression. Read this: “The Revolution Will Not Be Polite: The Issue of Nice versus Good” on Social Justice League.
  • “But why doesn’t anyone talk about black-on-black crime?” First of all, that’s just wrong, the community is and has been talking about it. Also, most murders are intraracial (within racial groups). And also, that’s changing the subject from police violence and appropriate use of force.
  • “But not all white people are terrible!”/”I didn’t choose to be born white!” Pro-tip: If you feel the need to write a dissertation on “not all white allies,” not only are you derailing the conversation you are proving the point.
  • (And while we’re at it, can everyone stop sharing that quote from To Kill A Mockingbird that only children are crying? Quote a black person, not a white savior text, and not something that ignores the real pain and fear of adults.)
  • “Talking about race makes you the racist!” No. Race is a social construct, you say? So is having seven days in a week. A week is socially constructed and socially real, and it has tangible impacts on your life.

Other resources/articles:

Ways to Support Ferguson:

  • The Missourians Organizing for Reform and Empowerment (MORE) legal fund is collecting funds for protestors’ bail and legal fees. Police have been violating protestors’ first amendment rights, as well as setting punitively high bail (ave. $1,000). Donate to the legal fund here (URL is for a donation processing portal).
  • Operation Help or Hush has been providing food and shelter for protestors. Donate here.
  • The Ferguson Municipal Public Library is staying open as late as possible, since local schools are closed. (They were open from 9-4 on Tuesday.) Donate here. (They’re also accepting BitCoin … )

Other action steps:

  • Read Ta-Nehisi Coates’ “The Case for Reparations.” The subhead is a pretty good break down: “Two hundred fifty years of slavery. Ninety years of Jim Crow. Sixty years of separate but equal. Thirty-five years of racist housing policy. Until we reckon with our compounding moral debts, America will never be whole.”
  • Keep pushing for body cameras on all police officers (link to petition).
  • Dismantle the prison-industrial complex.

OK, so I was going to start a short list and then wake up early and finish, but now it’s 3:43 a.m. and I think I’ll just hit publish.

I want to acknowledge that this post assumes that people will be spending the next few days with family and parents specifically, which is definitely not financially/emotionally/physically possible and/or safe for everyone. I also want to recognize that the Thanksgiving holiday has its own genocidal legacy and is an ongoing site of the erasure of Native Americans and that folks may want to have those conversations as well/before/alongside.

I am open to comments to fix mistakes and/or add resources. I will most likely delete troll comments, or I will screencap them and blog about you later. Haven’t decided.

blog inertia + random list of thoughts

I have three different drafts of blog posts about different things, many of them heavy, and because I haven’t written a blog post for so long, I feel the need to write about everything, and to do it well, and instead I have spent large chunks of the last few days scowling and/or frowning at my laptop with WordPress open. So instead of a full blog post, here is a random list of thoughts:

  • I talked to my parents about Vincent Chin for the first time today, and until then I never realized they’d never brought him up before. I asked my dad if he was scared at the time, and he replied simply, “There were just some places we knew not to go.” He mentioned being on a business trip with a black co-worker in the South a while back, and he remembers that co-worker telling him how nervous he got when he got lost on the way to a presentation. “You just couldn’t be sure, so you knew not to go some places.”
  • We talked a lot about happiness and what that looks like, and values and work ethic and what it meant to grow up in the community we did. I asked my mother what lessons she hoped she imparted on her children, and she started to answer, then asked, “Isn’t this kind of cheating? Shouldn’t you know?” In a way, it does feel like cheating, as a writer — why bother with metaphors and signs and allegories and trying to figure out the subtext, I’ll just ask her.
  • The Poets for Ferguson cypher was amazing, and powerful, and so heavy. I talked to my friend Ami about it today, and we are both working our way through the hours we didn’t see live. I feel an absence, almost, now that it has wrapped up, and I realize how much I crave space that is centered on and exclusively for people of color.
  • I am grateful to have a friend I can Skype with for three hours about everything we are thinking and fears and feeling stuck and not being sure what lessons our parents wanted to teach us and what we should be doing next.
  • I am thinking a lot about inertia in general, and about living up to one of the poems I performed — one of its conclusions is that the road to progress is long, but that it’s important to keep moving. So often over this past month and a half (and in other stretches before), I have wondered how we are supposed to keep moving forward, and whether we will be able to. And I keep reminding myself to balance the need for self-care against the knowledge that my ability to turn away — and the instinct to do so — both of these are rooted in privilege.
  • Today was my mother’s birthday. Her 33-year-anniversary with my father is coming up soon. They went to get Thai food to celebrate. This morning on the phone, my mother misheard me say I would call her back and thought I’d said I’d be at the house at noon. “My heart jumped for a second,” she told me in disappointment.
  • I have been sitting on a post about “The Giving Tree” and motherhood, and I wanted to talk to my mom about it first. She said she doesn’t find it sad, just accurate. I texted my brother about it later, as he got ready to head to the Thai restaurant to surprise my mother.
    (does the boy come back? / As an old man he returns and sits on her stump / oh, happy book then!)
  • What is a sad story about motherhood, then? Is it a tree that keeps waiting, having given away all of its fruit to show how deeply and unconditionally she loves? Will she continue to wait, forever, unable to move past the spot of her last and most painful sacrifice? How can we ever begin to heal the wounds of boys who never return and trees who will always be kept waiting?

low-key lovers (accidental crosspost from fiction blog)

Oops, was trying to post on my fiction blog. Guess I’ll still leave this here.

We were low-key lovers, though less of a rarity in our high school than we would have been in others. She had done passionate and dramatic before, and I had, too, in my own way. For us, what mattered was the silences we could sit with, the easiness of not having any words pass between us. Some weekends we drove for hours, stopping to eat when we felt like it, or sticking to the road and stopping only for prepackaged snacks.

Most of the time we talked, thoughts about where we might end up next, or rehashing the banalities of the day, or sometimes coming up with hypotheticals and exploring possibilities that felt safe because we knew they would never come to pass. Sometimes we just listened to the radio, taking turns driving while the other person looked out the window.

Our parents didn’t suspect us, two nice girls with good grades and good track records, and solid groups of friends. They knew we shared a close bond, but that our lives didn’t revolve around one another. Nothing enough to make our families worry that we could be different, even though they knew they’d accept us no matter what. What else can you do? They’re still your child.

I had overheard that line from my mother in middle school and carried it with me for years, long before I realized how and why what she said was important to me, then later, how the sentiment still wasn’t quite enough. Not being disowned never really felt like a victory, though realizing its hollowness did.

Low-key lovers. She was the one who coined the phrase, as we rehashed the fallout of another dramatic breakup we’d witnessed in the quad that afternoon. We’d been sitting together on the low bench of a planter box, sharing a sandwich and people-watching. The girl in question was in my French class, usually fairly quiet. I was vaguely shocked to hear her yelling, and to hear her voice suddenly loud, rattling off curses in English.

We watched openly, same as everyone else. Later, after school, we drove around.

“We’re not like that, you know?”


“You and me, we’re, like, low-key. We’re low-key lovers.”

“Low-key. Yeah, I like that.” I smiled, turned the phrase over in my mind. Somehow with her it didn’t feel like a big deal, like some great identity shift or dramatic turning point in my life. I just had a friend I enjoyed being around, and sometimes — sometimes often, sometimes less so — we were lovers, but low-key.

She smiled back, turning  her head away from the road for a moment. I saw the tenderness of her smile extended to her eyes.

“I like it, too.” The smile stayed on her face as she turned back to the road. We kept on heading east.

roasted vegetables 

Goodbye, National Poetry Month! See you in another 333 days. This piece is from April 2.

at the chopping block
slicing brussels sprouts
i think about how roasting vegetables brings out their sweetness
and then about the high heat needed to forge steel

the crucible makes us sweeter, stronger,
more alive

always searching for that next line of poetry,
i think of myself
and what fires i have passed through

and i don’t regret them, of course,
but i remind myself not to glamorize them, either
the pain was real,
fresh and sharp like the nick in my thumb from the paring knife
full of heat, like the skin at the top of my knuckle
holding the memory of a recent burn

burns renew themselves this way
heat seeking heat like a body returning home to itself
when you run your hands under hot water, you remember
the hurt sprung forth from your own carelessness

a dear friend once wrote
do not destroy yourself for poetry
a much needed reminder
that being broken may lead us to art

but there is no need for us to seek out the breaking
(there is enough, always
coming our way)
it is enough for us to seek the sweetness
and to carry that taste, on the tip of our tongue
savoring this memory
for the heat that we know will come

do not destroy yourself for poetry from “the poet you need to be” by narinda heng

hipster zechariah (poem)


the prophets are long gone
our fathers, too
no one remembers where

when our culture met this untimely demise
with sufjan crooning in our ears
we could hardly hear the sounds
of our patriarchs
singing their death rattles

just another percussive hum
indexed to my vocoder
and i on a loop
repeating the sins of someone else’s father

staggering under the weight of
this heartbreak, my life’s work

all of the examples above
of white men gazing at their navels in the sky
— except adam, who has none
where does he gather his family’s lint?
memories are a burden, too

only steeped in irony
blanched like greens, sincerely,
can we bear another cycle
nothing lives forever but
life as art as life as art as art as art

and i on a loop
repeating the sins

and i on a loop
and i on a loop

perfect things

Pasta cooked just shy of al dente, then tossed in a bright, creamy sauce with sliced mushrooms. A well-paced novel unfolding over the course of several days, its characters dancing around me like newly found friends.

Watching the sunlight melt slowly into the grass as we lounge on a picnic blanket for an entire afternoon. The curve of your collarbone, the way it draws my lips down the length of your neck.

Perfect things, all of them, but none quite so perfect in life as they are in your absence. Memories recollected now, played back through my mind as I imagine your return and our creation of new perfect things.

10-minute poem: green parrot and decaf Irish breakfast tea

household items
standing solitary around the table
placed there as we walked by
on the way to other places

now, in the cold
my fingertips tapping icily at my keyboard
i stare them down
hoping for inspiration

they are transient things
scattered starkly on a large white table
i could write this as a still life
imbue each item with meaning
or tell its true story

the bird is a whistle
a gift from a friend when she returned from the Philippines
it sounds a clear, high note
the sharp beak and carefully painted eyes are my favorite details
the shape and the colors both are comforting
it is cute,
in the way of tchotchkes and mementos
given in friendship
draped with ancillary stories

the tea is not filled with love
nor is it filled with caffeine
i brought it home after a rough grocery trip experience
during which i realized,
standing in front of an aisle of tea
that i was far too tired to be making these choices

finally i chose a box of assorted bedtime teas
and the familiar green Twinings box for the mornings
syd asked me later why i bought decaf
because everything was too hard that day
that’s why

syd’s right
this tea is gross and sad

the imaginary stories
the bird was a gift from an ex
i tried to throw it away once
but retrieved it in tears from the trash

the decaf tea
was a promise to myself
to take better care of my body
to cut out my vices
in hopes of bartering for a better night’s sleep

but both are just reminders
of all the things i have trouble forgetting
so i leave them on the table, untouched
i don’t have the heart to stow them away
nor the strength to reach out and touch them

the walrus and the lighthouse keeper

“my heart hurt like a million leagues of ocean pressing up”
- Bushra Rehman, Corona

said the lighthouse keeper to the walrus:
your skin is slicker than mine
the waves roll over you like caresses,
bathing you in salt and brine,
but never breaching through
seeping into pores

when I swim the ocean she changes me
pulls the liquid in me out through my skin
we call it osmosis, with our scientists’ tongues
our cells seek balance
and they send forth an offering of water
desperately seeking salinity

the ocean changes me, walrus
though she is vast
leagues and leagues stretching beyond
my fragile skinbag of bones
yet I seek to offer this tiny drink of water
to become a part, a piece

I want to become the ocean

do you know, my dear tusked friend
at night when you doze upon the rock
I lay awake on my boat bed
hard as the planks of my shorebound ship

dreaming of the days when she tossed me in her arms
when I rode her waves to their crescendos
enveloped, caressed, held
as she rocked me into slumber

keeping vigil at my table
or stalking the deck of my tower
my beam of light beckoning her other ships away
to shore

I know I am betraying her
calling other men to land, to stand on firm ground

and my heart aches inside its cage
yearning toward open water
I am a traitor
I have betrayed my lover

but some nights,
dear walrus,
on some of these nights alone
as she beats herself against my home

I feel her running down my face
and taste her salt on my lips
and remember
the ocean lives within me
I will never be alone



I seem to have taken to only posting before poetry shows now, since I know that organizers and event pages will be linking to my blog. I haven’t been writing a ton recently, but I do have a few poems up at well-adjusted queer kids. Also, you can see Syd’s comics, which are excellent.

Speaking of Syd, they also linked me to this article about blaming the revision process on Modernists, which I just skimmed. It is actually helping with my pre-show nerves. (As I’ve mentioned, thinking about performing makes me freak out.)

I’ve been meaning to write a post about metadata and poetry (i.e. that tagging poetry on social media allows poets to create an additional layer of meaning, relating that to poets who translate their own texts, but also all writing is a translation of personal experience, and also all reading is filtered through subjective experience, can you see how this would be a long blog post and also how this parenthetical kind of works like a tag?), but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.

In the interim, here’s an excerpt from the article by Craig Fehrman:

What first got Sullivan thinking about revision was encountering a version of Ernest Hemingway she’d never seen before. While a first-year PhD student at Harvard, Sullivan visited the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and its Hemingway collection. She marveled at the famous author’s archive—his letters, his family scrapbooks, even his bullfighting materials. But one thing in particular stood out to her: the typescript of his novel “The Sun Also Rises.” It showed Hemingway changing his book dramatically from one version to the next. Monologues vanished, entire plot points disappeared, and, in the end, he arrived at the terse, mysterious novel that became part of the American literary canon. “The Hemingway style that’s so familiar to us wasn’t in the first draft,” Sullivan says. “It was a product of revision.”

Hemingway’s method reminded Sullivan of the way T.S. Eliot had trimmed down “The Waste Land” from pages and pages of manuscript to the final, elliptical 434-line poem. She realized that these authors shared a profound commitment to the power of revision, and that this commitment was itself worth studying. While plenty of literary scholars had examined the way individual authors edited their own works, they rarely compared their findings between authors, or from one period to the next. By making these comparisons, Sullivan identified the Modernists as the first to practice our contemporary form of revision. She also learned how revision contributed to their distinct literary technique. “We often assume that style comes out of nowhere,” she says. “But style is produced in revision, and revision is not something writers do naturally.”

tl;dr: Revision is unnatural to writers, but it’s how they produce style.

How this relates: I’ve been revising the piece “23” (read: thinking about this poem and wanting to change it) for quite some time, and I finally cut a bunch out and am going to read a much shorter poem tonight. It still doesn’t feel done, but art is a process.

untitled poem

I’m performing at UCLA for the first time tomorrow. I started writing poetry just after graduating. (More specifically, I wrote and performed one piece once in the summer of 2008, then didn’t do any other poetry things for almost two years. And then I wrote some more poems.) It’ll also be the first time I’ve gotten to attend a TN on Tour. I love the idea that we can bring the specific community magic of Tuesday Night Project into college campuses, and obviously, there is so much symbolism because it’ll be at UCLA, and I used to go to there. We also have a sweet lineup. Are you around tomorrow night? You should swing by Sunset Village.

Thanks to the Asian Pacific Coalition for inviting us. The theme, loosely, is “sisterhood.” The only piece I’ve chosen to read so far is one I wrote during National Poetry Month for a friend from the Daily Bruin.

Edit: I was about to hit publish, and I just remembered that I performed “native tongue” during the workshop I facilitated during the ITASA West Coast Conference in April. Still. Symbolism.

yes, your body betrayed you
tucked secrets within itself

secrets hidden like plastic eggs
nestled across a once-pristine landscape
secrets growing silently
fed on flesh and blood 

and the lawn is trampled now
the hunting doctors having reached with gloved hands
into each corner and quiet dark place
searching out every last prize 

will this metaphor hold?
i think it has been two days now
tomorrow will you rise again
your body wrapped in white

will you shake off all the shadows
clothe yourself in newness
laugh with voice of golden honey
gently brush your hand against my cheek
tell me i was silly to worry
that you knew all along this was just a test
your eyes, holding sadness overcome,
will remember you had felt forsaken 

but even your scars
will have faded
will be white and new
jagged holes filled in
the covered gaps a metaphor nested in metaphor
of a tomb filled, sealed, emptied, sealed over again