Post Category → Politics

I am with her.

I’m with her.

I’m with her. There’s the her in the slogan – the presidential candidate, the iconic political figure, the woman who was a few percentage points away from becoming the most powerful person in the world. But, I am also with her in another sense – in sharing the shame, sorrow, and will to endure as a woman. I’m with Hillary even if the election is over because this doesn’t end with her.

This morning I listened to her concession speech on my drive to work. I have since heard it once more, read the transcript, and re-lived it on video. It’s painful – each of her wide blue-eyed glares to hold back tears, every cracked note of her voice that is muffled by her resolve to continue speaking with clarity and calm.

The premise of a concession speech is to gracefully and peacefully transition power to the person who has won. Political concession speeches are also frequently big apologies – I’m sorry we didn’t win. I’m sorry this didn’t turn out the way we wanted. I’m sorry I couldn’t put all of your hard work to good use. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

I realized by the first “I’m sorry” that this concession speech was a fitting analogy for womanhood. She withstood a rival candidate who interrupted her more times she ever interrupted him, called her a “nasty woman,” and threatened to imprison her amid chants of “lock her up.” Unfortunately, these are not exaggerations – these examples are all on the public record. And yet, here we are with the woman having to stand up and say with incredible eloquence and strength that she’s sorry.

I thought a lot about my own experiences as she spoke – all the apologies I had to make for the weight on my body, the tone of my voice, the unnecessary “I’m sorry” statements I sometimes use to interject in a group conversation. Most of all, I thought of all the apologies I made to myself – sorry for the silence when someone catcalled, sorry for not speaking my mind in a room full of men, sorry for not doing enough to lift up my sister, my friends, or my partner.

The speech ended and so did this election. Elections are cyclical events that come and go – events that become fog in our collective historical memory. Politics is an on-going process that we live through every single day. The candidate is gone, but the cause is bigger than ever. I’m with her – I was with her when I voted, I was with her when she “lost” in our archaic election system, and I’ll continue to be her because it doesn’t end with her.

There is very little doubt in my mind that the glass of the hardest, thickest ceiling will be broken in my lifetime. Until then, this image of Hillary – adorned in her lavender collared suit, conceding to someone far less qualified than her – will be incised in my memory. I will think of her each time I lift up the work of another woman, say whatever the fuck is on my mind, and keep fighting, per Hillary, for what is right.

I’m with her now, tomorrow, and beyond.

I – we – are all victims of mass shootings in the United States of America.

This piece has been written over the span of two years, although I don’t necessarily count days, months, or years as significant markers of time anymore. This has been written between articles, with each turn of the media news cycle, and with each passing announcement that another mass shooting has taken place in the United States of America.

It began with Isla Vista, then carried over to Charleston, then to Umpqua. I have developed an almost-callous emotional routine with each shooting. I open up my Google News aggregator as I am drinking a cup of coffee. I read through the hot-take, mildly inaccurate live news developments. Refresh, refresh, refresh. I feel a sequential surge of emotions – first sadness, followed by anger, proceeded by helplessness. I feel compelled to write because it is the only sense of control I have over the situation. Quick fingers on the keyboard give way to emotional fatigue. I cannot continue writing. I stop.

And then a very fucked up, uncontrollable thought slithers into my mind: Maybe, I think. Maybe, I’ll finish my thoughts after the next mass shooting.

The next mass shooting. Can you blame me for anticipating such an event – an event as American and as inevitable as war, misappropriated taxes, and prolonged (natural) death? It is no longer a question of if it will happen, but when it will happen, how big it will be and if, this time, it will be me. I want to be so terribly wrong, but Umpqua turns into San Bernardino, then UCLA, and then, yesterday, Orlando. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

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The last three high profile mass shootings – the aforementioned San Bernardino, UCLA, and Orlando – have been particularly visceral experiences because I have deeply identified with the victims. I am the young California state employee attending a budget-conscious Christmas Party. I am the Vietnamese American woman who did not die amid the ravishes of the Vietnam War, but by a bullet on the land that was supposed to protect her. I am the girl at a raucous, queer dance party where I can flirt, and dance, and laugh in the safety of my community – supposedly.

Each conversation with my parents – both survivors of war, witnesses of sanctioned violence – comes with a warning of simply being. Be careful at the movies, or walking with your girlfriend, or as you work. I take the time to reassure my parents that I’ll be fine, although my version of “fine” has become an exercise of cognitive dissonance – simultaneously trying to be aware of my surroundings, but not giving into the media narrative of who I should be fearful of.

I worry about you working in higher education, my sister once said to me, referring to the countless acts of gun-related violence on college campuses across the nation. I’ll joke that, ironically enough, university systems are typically devoid of clear processes and simple decision-making mechanisms save one glaring exception. Should a gun appear, there’s a precise order: you run, you hide, you fight.

I imagine some iteration of these conversations taking place in countless phone calls, cities, and languages across the nation. Be careful if you’re black or if you’re brown. Watch yourself if you work for the Navy or if you work for a school. You’re not safe if you have small children or if you’re a student. Always be aware of the emergency exits if you’re at the mall or at the movies. Be prepared for the next mass shooting if you live in the United States of America.

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A shooting eventually begets the media circus, which begets the social media circus. In a matter of days, I will hear the name of the shooter, the name of the victims, and then the name of every congressman I should call to do something I know they won’t do. The swell of hashtag condolences will crescendo and then fade into ideological clashes of who is responsible. We never come to the answer. Numbing and distraction sets in until the next group of people must run, hide, or fight. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Refresh, refresh, refresh.

The more we settle for this cycle – of caring more about our inanimate objects and settling for ethereal prayers – the more we become victims of ourselves. I am ready to break this cycle – to move beyond the motions of sadness, anger, disillusionment, and fear. This is where we begin so that we do not end up where we started.

I don’t want to write this piece anymore.

I am thinking that this is my kind of art.

For a class in which I am learning about literary depictions of war and violence, I have been watching clips from Iraqi American artist Wafaa Bilal’s interactive installation, Domestic Tension.  In 2007, after losing both his brother and father to war-related violence in Iraq and in response to the act of shooting missiles remotely, Bilal confined himself to a small space in a Chicago art gallery.  For a month, he lived in a room consisting of a bed, a computer, a table, a lamp, a plant, and a robotic paintball gun that internet users could control, aim and shoot at all hours of the day.  Over 60,000 people from 130 countries shot at him as he slept, worked, read, and maintained his space.  He was never warned of a single shot.

As the experiment transpired, daily video updates captured a fatigued, tense, and lonely Bilal.  He vomits from anxiety and develops abdominal pain.  He experiences bouts of depression.  He gains 15 pounds, eating uncontrollably to cope with his circumstances.  He sleeps erratically – sometimes going 48 hours without rest.

He tries to control his environment yet, no matter how often he cleans his space, the shrapnel left from the shattered paintballs cut his fingers and trails of yellow paint spread across the floor, leaving precarious puddles around his bed and computer.  The walls begin to degrade from impact and even the lone plant decorating his room is destroyed from multiple shots.  Self-portraits taped on a glass shield are particularly popular targets.

By Day 26, a curious thing happens: a few online followers have figured out that by continuously holding the gun to the far left, other users become incapable of aiming and shooting the gun at Bilal – a so-called “virtual human shield.”  Bilal chooses not to intervene, allowing for a natural evolution of events – the human shield versus the shooters – to unfold.  Later on Day 26, a woman stops by the studio housing Bilal’s installation to drop off new socks after noticing that he had wore a mismatched pair to bed.  On Day 27, a couple sends him a plant to replace the dead one.  Overwhelmed by the gesture, he tearfully embraces the plant, vowing, “I’m not going to let anyone shoot it.”

By Day 30, energetic to be nearing the end, Bilal begins to reflect on the process of being shot by remote users nearly every hour for 31 consecutive days while developing a fiercely loyal following of cyber humanitarians.  His reflections are about the human condition, yet they are also powerfully about art as well:

“That’s what art is supposed to do.  It’s supposed to inform.  It’s supposed to agitate.  And it’s supposed to be a part of life.  I have no resentment to the people who shot.  It’s an encounter; it’s not a didactic piece.  It’s an open narrative piece.  One we can all impose our own narrative on.”