Sometimes I just feel like I need to feel like I tell folks about this shit otherwise I just feel so helpless...

Vietnamese suspect beaten and tased while on the ground and unarmed. Caught on his roommate's cell phone.  And how many more happen without evidence?

What the independent experts asked by San Jose Mercury (article) have to say:

• Ho remains on the ground, moaning and crying, as he is repeatedly struck. He does not appear to offer significant resistance, suggesting the high level of force is not necessary.
• The officer most visible in the sequence stands for much of the time in a casual posture, at one point with his legs crossed.  He seems to show no concern that the situation is potentially dangerous - raising additional questions about why force was being used.
• The final baton strike appears to occur after the handcuff can be heard snapping onto Ho's wrists. "That's a felony."

But the additional issues that I think about... Ok sometimes police are racist.  People are like that.  That's sad.  But what I think is overall more problematic is the overall law enforcement system that we have right now.  Psychologic studies have repeatedly shown (Stanford Prison Experiment I, II) that it's normal human psychology to adapt into roles that are given to us, even if arbitrarily assigned.  In the Stanford Prison Experiment, randomly assigned participants were assigned as prison guards and after only a few days had largely sadistic tendencies.  These results were so extreme that the study was discontinued for ethical reasons.

So am I saying that these police officers are racist? Maybe. I don't know.  Am I saying that these police officers are bad people? Maybe. I don't know. Probably not.  However, I am absolutely certain all police officers, all humans that are given roles of "enforcer" "protector" "justice through force if necessary" will become corrupted.

Corunna School Board removes Diversity Club's bulletin board display on nine atheletes, politicians and educators who identify as LGBT (article).

Maureen Stanley, the president of the Corunna Board of Education, explains, "The display case may confuse other kids."  The School Board believes that this topic should be presented in a place where more information is available about "alternative lifestyles" such as a health education class.

That's true.  I remember very vividly when I was fourth grade I saw a bulletin board display featuring prominent black leaders and figures.  It was in the context of Black History month.  I was very confused.  Instead of recognizing the accomplishments of folks that faced adversity and were often forgotten, instead of being inspired, instead of realizing that it might be helpful for my black classmates to see role models that looked like them (since unfortunately we only reserve that for one month of the year), I went home thinking that being Black was the new cool thing that we all should strive to be and the being Black wasn't just different, but better.  It didn't matter that the other 15 bulletin boards had only white folks portrayed. I took my dad's shoe polish and covered my face.

During the course of this racial reassignment procedure, I inadvertently swallowed some shoe polish.  This was a detriment to my health as shoe polish is not for eating.  Too bad Ms. Stanley wasn't around back then.  She could have saved me a trip to the ER.

At what point does fusion food become outright laziness? Today for lunch I ate pav bhaji over mexican black beans because I didn't feel like making rice.

Just so y'all know... it tasted good.

It's hard to unpack a disagreement.  So many things are said so quickly.  So many responses are made off a snap second judgement of not only your partner's emotions but also your own.  Even afterwards, when I play over what's said, it's often still hard to figure out what I was feeling and why.

My girlfriend and I were on the way to a networking event: medical professionals, drinks, and our attempt to garner support for a recent policy proposal.

We started talking about identity.  I asked her how she preferred to identify.  We were a relatively new couple and probably the first time that she was really coming to realize that she might actually be attracted to women (something I often forgot as she handled it with such grace).  I guess at the time that I posed the question, I didn't think that it would matter to me how she answered.  Really, I was just curious about her thoughts.  It was my way of trying to figure out how she was feeling about it.

Through the course of our conversation, I shared how I believed my sexual orientation to be either bisexual or gay, but that I chose to identify as queer for political reasons.  I worried about enforcing a binary gender normative so I was reluctant to identify as bi.  On the other hand, gay seemed so constricting.  Even more importantly, I felt like queer was more inclusive.  More and more I've come to see the value and wisdom in coalition forming.  The LGBTTIQA alphabet soup had to stick together.  Who else could we count on for support?  One letter is just too lonely.

She said that she could see the wisdom in that.  At the same time, it didn't seem to fit for her personally.  Certainly, she recognized that transgendered folks deserved a voice.  She just didn't really feel like she had much in common with someone who was transgendered.  How could she truthfully claim that identity and unity if she didn't feel like they had any shared experiences?

At another point she talked about perhaps not choosing an identity at all.  Why should anyone have to chose a label?

I immediately became agitated. I tried not to get personal and even told myself I wasn't mad at her. I was mad at the way things were.  The system.  Our circumstances.  I reminded myself that identity is personal.  If she didn't feel like she had anything in common with a transgendered person, I couldn't tell her that was wrong and that she ought to.  I reminded myself that in an ideal world, not choosing an identity should be free of negative implications.

I argued with her about the convenience of allowing oneself to pass.  I said, "I'm not saying you're doing this, but sometimes I feel like some people chose to not pick a label because then they don't ever have to confront the issue.  They can just pass. And if people who can pass just keep on passing, we'll never be able to normalize this identity!"  We both played along and pretended that I wasn't attacking her personally.

From there it was this cascade of incompletely understood feelings compounded by misunderstood responses.  It was like when you turn down a ski slope that's just a bit beyond your skill.  You start off faster than you expect, but it's ok.  Around one third of the way down you're still surviving but you're only processing flashes of visual input.  All your responses are based on instinct.  Then it all finally catches up with you, some how you fall, and the next thing you know, you've tumbled to the bottom without any idea of how it all happened.

The next thing I remember clearly: hours after the car ride, sitting in my apartment with the lights out.  Still struggling, but now it wasn't just about identity anymore.  Race.  Class.  And it was no longer clear what the topic of discussion was.  The "ideal" conflict resolution model of 1) identify the issue 2) outline feelings 3) discuss and clarify needs 4) resolution seemed impossible to apply.  I don't think I could have even explained what I was feeling and why I was upset.  She said I was attacking her friends without knowing them just because they were white and not necessarily the most radical people.  She accused me of taking my anger about the system out on her. I knew that this was an unfair to projection, so I struggled to admit that she was right to both her and myself.

In my mind, I try to list all of the missteps and assumptions and miscommunications and vulnerabilities and anger and baggage (from individuals and the world) that came up during that conversation.  It's overwhelming.  And there was this moment, when I sat there in the dark, that I felt this intense despair.  Maybe it wasn't possible for me to date a white person after all.  I know it sounds dramatic but it almost felt like the tragedies of the world were pulling us apart.

However, at the same time, accompanying that was this vision of us fighting fiercely for our relationship.  We spend our whole lives doing work founded on the premise that humans have the capacity for empathy and change.  If we couldn't even figure out how to resolve all these issues with someone that we were deeply in love with, how could we continue hope for that in the world?  When it was framed that way, it seemed absurd to even consider giving up.

I struggled with what I knew I should do admit: that I was frustrated that she could pass; that I was jealous that the was society and often those around us treated her was so different than that was that I was treated; and most importantly, that I was unfairly, though however humanly, translating my issues with the world that we live in onto a more concrete target: her.

Finally we found the words that would finally be heard.  My mouth probably dropped open.  "I will never be other. It's like you want me to be."  Words that me me remorseful, "Give me a break! I only realized that I might even be queer a few months ago!"  And finally, words that physically made me cringe, "At what point do I lose the ability to laugh at jokes you make about white folks because it's just too sensitive an issue between us?"  And from my end, "Even though right now I might be safe, you don't think that I know that at any point world politics, societal beliefs could change and I'd land on the dangerous side of "other"? More than just fighting implicit issues, but like, hate crimes and murders."

Part of the GLMA conference's celebrations this year included marking the 30th anniversary of NALGAP, The National Association of Lesbian and Gay Addition Professionals.  Founded in 1979 by Dana Finnegan and Emily McNally, NALGAP was the first substance abuse organization sensitive to the needs of the LGBT community.  To this day, they are the only international organization dedicated to substance abuse in the LGBT population.

Like smoking in the lesbian population, the fact that the LGBT population is at a greater risk for substance abuse was not a new fact for me.  In addition to all the risks that the general population faces for substance abuse and dependence, when it comes to the LGBT community you also throw in stigma, self-loathing, depression, isolation, a social scene that often revolves around drugs and alcohol, the not uncommon need for a catalyst to lower our own inhibitions, and the aforementioned advertisers (this time beer instead of philip-morris).

What I hadn't thought about was what would happen if a queer patient sought treatment: folks getting turned away because they're LGBT, folks too scared to come out and thus unable to address possibly a critical player in their abuse motivators, practitioners who don't understand the difficulties of being LGBT, folks not even being diagnosed in the first place because the pattern of abuse in LGBT folks can be different.

And the lack of data.  So much data unknown.  For example, it's been shown that alcohol use in teenagers (and thus theoretically alcohol abuse and dependence) can be reduced through school programs that focus on resisting peer pressure and the dangers of drug use and drunk driving.  But does that work for the queer teenager who drinks because s/he doesn't know how else to deal with coming to terms with being queer?

According to the National Center On Addiction and Substance Abuse, the rate for the general population is around 18%.  Statistics vary in their estimates of substance abuse/dependence in the LGBT community but the range seems to be something like 30-55%. I don't cite any studies because there are none worth citing.  They're all old.  They're all small. Nobody has looked.  Not even organizations that do annual surveys.  They can't bother to tack on another question.

Anyway, one of the highlights for me this conference was meeting the two women who started NALGAP, Emily and Dana.  And they're lesbians.  And they're together.  And they're old.

Undoubtedly, they've experienced more homophobia than I ever have and perhaps ever will.  And yet, there they are, still together, and still smiling. Even I'm surprised at how touched I am to see them together.  Why do I have tears in my eyes?

And then I realize how much anxiety I must have been squashing down for the past few years.  Gone are the years inside the protective bubble of college.  And while the prospect of full-fledged adulthood is exciting, it also brings colder realities.  Homophobia is no longer just hurtful, it carries real life consequences like residency applications, poor rotation evaluations, marriage, health insurance, and family planning.  With no way to really resolve these issues, I've just been pretending they aren't there.

Looking back, it occurs to me that previous to this moment, I didn't actually know any older lesbians.  Though I've believed them to exist, I had never even SEEN any in real life.  Once, I saw a couple in a movie, but it was a really sad story.  And now I'm suddenly faced with Dana and Emily and I realize that that it is possible. They have not only endured but also thrived, and the relief that comes along with finally knowing, and not just hoping and reassuring myself, that it is, in fact, possible to "make it", is overwhelming.

I realized today that I’ve skipped a step.  I write a blog about class, privilege, and race.  Like all folks, my experiences and life are an intersection of many identities.  One of those identities is of a person of color.  But I’m reminded that “person of color” is not an identity that all Asian folks identify with.  Today another Chinese person asked me, “Wait, are we considered people of color?”  So am I a person of color?

It made me pause. I had no idea where to begin.  And I realized mostly because I probably hadn’t sorted it all out in my head yet.

If we start at the beginning, the issue lies in what it means to be a “person of color.”  Logic would say that it would be anyone that is “non-white.”  If that’s the case, then, yes, we are folks of color.  But I think most people would probably take issue with that being a satisfactory answer.  Are Asians somehow different than other people in that category?  It’s not like we’re like Black folks.  We’re over-represented in academic institutions.  We are the model minority!

I lied. I didn’t start at the beginning.  Why does the term “person of color” exist anyway?  Why has the dichotomy of “White” and “non-White” been chosen?  Why not “Latino” and “Blacks, Whites, Asians, etc.”  The United States and its current power structure was founded by white, European culture.  That is the norm that was set from the beginning.  The point is, “people of color” is a political identity, held by the common experience of living outside the dominant group.

And while racial minorities, women, and LGBT folks have made impressive gains since that time, the fact of the matter is, most of that power still lies in the hands of straight, white men.  They are still the norm.  They are still the default.

I think that where Asian folks sometimes struggle is that our story is different from other folks of color.  Our land was not stolen.  Our ancestors were not enslaved (though we do have a history of being exploited for labor).  We don’t share a border with the modern day United States.  And our experiences of being non-White in this country are different.  We’re not stereotyped as violent.  We’re considered the model minority and over-represented in academic institutions.  The mainstream understanding of Asians is that we’re successful.  To put it bluntly, people don’t know if Asians are people of color because “Hey, we’re doing so well, we might as well be White!”

I know this to be true: people naturally look out for their own.  Whether through overt racism or simply having a higher level of comfort, the phenomenon of nepotism is hardly questionable.  We might be over represented in medicine, but we’re underrepresented in almost every other place.

Overall, white America still sees us as “other.”  How many times have you heard “Where are you from?... Well, where are you REALLY from?” Or how about the replacement of all the Asian guys in the movie “21” with mostly white actors? Or how, earlier THIS year, a politician proposing that Asian folks all adopt American names that are “easier to handle” for voting and paperwork? And the number of times that I’ve watched older, Asian folks get talked at like they’re mentally deficient because they have an accent?  And Lisa, a past coworker of mine who has a bachelor’s degree in hospitality from an American institution but still makes less than $1,000 a paycheck in an area whose cost of living is one of the highest in the country.  Management says that her Vietnamese accent is too strong, but our French, white, male, straight Director of Food and Beverage has an accent so thick that I have to ask him to repeat himself several times a day? Or the fact that even compared to black folks, a benchmark that people use to mark discrimination in this country, we’re underrepresented in politics and even in academic leadership where we’re supposed to be the most successful! [Committee of 100's 2009 report: full, key results, someone telling you the point.]

What would happen if a terrorist cell in Asia bombed somewhere in the States?  Would hate crimes rise based on simple physical characteristics?  We’re on the safe side of “other” right now, but I don’t think it’s necessarily permanent.  Even among liberal folks who are supposed to be better at this race stuff, why I hear so much about boycotting Chinese goods due to human rights violations but nothing about the myriad of other countries that do so as well?

I will make another accusation.  I’ve noticed a trend: it’s the Asian folks who were born in America and are highly educated (the “model minority”) that question our belonging to the “people of color” political identity.  “Yes, we are culturally different, but we are not oppressed.”  So let’s look at the “model minority” stereotype for a hot second.  Where did that phrase come from? It was coined in the 1960s during the civil rights movement through anecdotal research (I know, a contradiction in terms).  It was used by the government then (and currently, in my opinion) to fracture folks of color and to argue that racism should not be a barrier to success.  In other words, this idea of all Asians being the “model minority” is this weird, political, inaccurate myth that’s been completely fabricated. [even wikipedia agrees. or here. or here.]

And it’s been to our detriment in so many ways.

The one that upsets me most is that we buy into it.  In the midst of our personal successes, we, members of the “model minority,” those of us who are fortunate enough to have made it to medical school, have forgotten and been shielded from others in our community. We’re in our own little bubble and have left unrecognized the folks that are not ourselves and not our family members.  But we could have been them and they could have been our blood.

Who will look out for the folks that comprise these statistics if we don’t?  Does the fact that a visible portion of our population has been successful mean that we’re institutional equals?  Because I don’t believe that my congressman sees it that way.  I don’t think he imagines folks that look like my family when he pictures his constituents.

Real racism against Asian folks exists.  It manifests itself differently than for other communities of color, but it exists.  And sometimes I worry that not only has the mainstream decided that this is not the case, but also that we believe it as well.

They say that when you meet a patient, 90% of the diagnosis can be found in the interview.  Sometimes telltale details in the patient's history can almost certainly point to a specific diagnosis.  In the case of aortic dissection, the classic marker is abdominal pain that is so sudden and so intense that the patient's memory of when it first started is like a freeze frame recount.

I remember that feeling the first weekend that I met my girlfriend.

We were at a conference.  I had just recently come to recognize the "white folks" rule.  Additionally, I was still pretty certain that I wouldn't ever be able to date a white person again.  At least not any time soon.  However, I wasn't so disillusioned that I believed that I couldn't even befriend white folks.  Besides, I was curious about her.  Classmates had described her to me as a liberal who believed that disengaging from the system and removing the liberal view point from the discussion, would only make things worse.  It was our responsibilty to stay involved; thus, her heavy involvement in the AMA.  I was skeptical.  I knew plenty of people who said they were liberal but didn't do much more than vote Democratic.

We were on an escalator in a hotel way to fancy for anyone's good.  We were standing on the escalator up from the conference rooms to the lobby level.  I stood staggered with my left foot resting on a stair higher than my right and I was turned, slightly facing her.  She was standing towards my right.  I made a general comment about "white folks." Looking back, I was probably testing her.  There was a moment.  Then she looked at me and responded.  Smart.  Calm. Un-offended.  The carpet behind the escalator had a diamond pattern.

It's hard to know what to write sometimes.  I think that there are so many ideas floating around and things that I want to say that it feels overwhelming to try to record such a jumbled disorganization of thoughts.

The first meeting happened about a month ago and actually didn't have any readings attached to it.  We hoped to make it a relaxed, friendly environment so veggies and dip, some beer, some wine.  I was a full-blown young adult.  The agenda:

>- welcome and brief intro to the train of thought inspiring the reading group
>- 5 min writing and sharing:
----> why we joined the group?
----> what we hope to get out of it?
----> what are our feelings about joining the group?
>- establish ground rules together
>- brief overview of the readings and the authors (their POV, identity)
>- 5 min writing and sharing:
----> what is identity?
----> why do folks claim identities? the purpose of identities?
----> what are my identities?
----> how do i think other people see my identity?
>- first set of readings introduced in more details (white privilege set)

I was moved.  Everyone involved was really brave about being honest about themselves: their thoughts, their fears and apprehensions, their feelings.  People really put themselves out there.  But what made such an impression on me was how moved folks were to be part of the group.  People shared that they were honored to be a part of the group, that they were proud to be engaging in this sort of discourse, that this was something that they regarded to be important in their own lives.

I was taken aback.  People seemed so affect by just being part of this exploration.  Maybe it's because I just kind of got used to this sort of discourse around me.  The program I was a part of after I graduated had "political education" sessions every month and retreats every six months that delved into these issues.  My good friends from college regularly send out articles and thoughts on these topics over email to share and discuss.  In most of my own social circles, we frequently talk about these sorts of things.  Most often, they're not even in formal discussions, just casual conversation.  So unconsciously I began to lose touch with how often most folks actually get the chance to talk about these things.

I think that it's the first time that I've truly understood what it means when white folks tell me that "they've just never had the opportunity or gotten to think about these sorts of things before."  I think previous to this experience I've understood that this is the case, but only in a rational sense.  And despite the slow progress that I've made over several intense discussions with close, white folks around me that I trust; internally, some part of me still didn't really understand what that meant.  Part of me believed that it was still, active, willful ignorance.

And I think part of me still believes that.  I think folks of privilege (a group in which I belong) can always be doing more to educate themselves about their own privilege and the consequences of that.  Furthermore, as humans, we can always be doing more to understand the lives of those around us and the systems that are at play.  But on the other hand, these folks seemed to be so moved; they seemed to be so touched; they seemed to think this was so important.  They almost seemed grateful to have had the opportunity to engage in this.  So how could it be that they were actively using their privilege to avoid in engaging in these issues as vehemently as I often allow myself to imagine they do?