Jenna's Blog

I decided for my final project to do an audio recording of a spoken word piece I wrote. I chose to write in a frantic, and rushed style on purpose to portray my feelings of urgency and confusion. I struggle with Mental health and ADHD, so I also trying to have the sentence structure jerk around a little bit so you could get a glimpse of what it’s like from directly inside my thoughts. It is quite short but I felt like the longer the video was it kind of just dragged and went on and on. So I hope it is ok that I went with a short and sweet, spoken word, type poem.

 

Here is the link to my youtube video.

 

I agree with (Clare) the author, that it is extremely important to trouble the narrative norms that exist regarding disability, dis usually indicates being less than, broken, inadequate and intellectually inferior. It is easy to see how unfair and troubling it is when we trap people with disabilities into these definitions, and tell them that’s all that they are. When someone is paralyzed, mute, deaf, or blind it is easy to see their disability, and pity or treat them extra special.

My mom was sick with cancer for 9 years and she had numerous disabilities, partial hearing, lack of memory, lack of attention, severe physical pain, but it wasn’t until she had an obvious physical disability that people started treating her well. Long before she went blind she had difficulty talking and walking properly, and she did everything slowly and people used to look at her like she was crazy, stupid, and annoying. Fast forward 2.5 years and once she became legally blind and used a mobility cane she got all this sort of pity and attention and people finally starting treating her better. The problem is she didn’t want the pity, nor did she need it. This was a women who while legally blind would wander and stroll the aisles of Costco, when I was supposed to keep a close eye on her, bake cakes better than I ever could with full eye sight, and still dance a mean cha-cha.

People with disabilities want understanding and compassion, not pity and over excessive help. There were definitely things my mom would need help with, such as changing the channel with the remote, or using the stove, but there were a lot of areas where she could do things just as good, if not better than me.

On the flip side, unlike with physically obvious disabilities I have often seen people who struggle with non visible, mental, or learning disabilities, be ignored, made fun of or have there issues trivialized. Not only did my mom experience people judging her disabilities, without realizing they were serious, but I am lots of experience with that. If I had a dollar for every time someone says, “ just try harder, your so lazy, or you don’t look disabled” I would be so incredibly rich. There are plenty of disabilities that are non physical that are extremely difficult and assuming that those people have it easy is just as bad as when you underestimate physically disabled people. Because you are still holding that idea of dis over the non physically disabled person, by assuming they are less than, and not as intelligent, because to you they are just lazy, stupid, and not as good as you. When your brain fails you and doesn’t work the way it should either in the learning disability or mental health capacity it can be just as difficult to deal with as physical disability, but also in the same way, those that are disabled due to neurological means as also just as capable as any one else. People with bipolar, depression, ADHD, and FAS can be just as smart, and complete as an abled person. That is why this ability, dis=ability concept is so troubling and needs to be broken. It is implying that the dis-abled person is incomplete and lacking in something. When in reality just because they have extra hurdles to cross, doesn’t mean they re incomplete or less than in any way.

i.)Normal Narratives

What i am going to focus on mostly for the normal narratives is not necessarily focusing on people’s race as related to skin colour, but on the negative racializing of people’s bodies regardless of the colour of their skin. One of the main normal narratives I see regarding race is that whiteness is perceived as a ideal, and that if you are non white or have characteristics that are deemed non white you are treated as less than, and that your body and who you are is now open to criticism and judgment. Another normal narrative I see is that none whiteness, and the facial attributes of that, can and need to be fixed. There is a reason things like skin bleaching products and kits exist, and in certain areas, like Asia they are used commonly, and most all cosmetics and skin care have skin whitening agents. Because this idea of whiteness equalling superiority and acceptance many people spend lots of time and money to adhere to the normal standards of beauty which have definitely become racialized heavily. Asian women and men spend thousands of dollars to get white looking eyelids, Black Women and men spend tons of time and money using skin bleach products which can be expensive and also painful. I have noticed this trend my whole life, when something doesn’t fit our society’s definition of beauty we are pressured and encouraged to change it. Even in my own life I was always told, “your eyes are too small and Asian looking, have you thought about how to fix that, there’s tons of makeup tricks out there”. As of my eyes needed to be fixed and I needed to use tricks, because my eyes didn’t look white, therefore I had a problem. The real problem I see is that society’s definition of beauty has become synonymous with whiteness, yet we use a few common rebuttals to try and ignore this. The main common rebuttal I see is that people always say “well that can’t be true or else white people wouldn’t be obsessed with and glorify tanning.”

the stories I have chosen to relate to mine are Manahil and Jaspreet’s. I identified a lot with Manahil’s feelings in her story, she felt the same as everyone else in her class as a kid, until someone pointed out to her that she was not what she thought she was, and it made her feel, stupid, ashamed and wrong. It also changed the way she saw the world, and I can really identify with that as a white person that does not look how a typical white person is supposed to look especially in comparison to my family, I saw the world quite differently than other people. Just like Manahil I had a time where someone felt the need to point out the fact to me that I didn’t quite fit and belong in the same box as them. In my own story it starts with a time in my life where someone decided to point out that I was different and didn’t fit into their definition of white. “Not only did I re-draw my drawing next recess, I also re-drew the picture of how I saw the world in my head,” this is the part in Manahil’s story where I really connected to her feeling of realizing the world isn’t always a warm and happy places that accepts us for who we are.

I found similarities in Jaspreet’s story to me as well, but mostly in the area of emotions. Jaspreet’s story was very raw, and full of anger, frustration, and uncertainty. She felt like she was being treated as less than a human, and Jaspreet’s feelings demonstrate the normal narrative that being non white, or considered non white by your appearance gives one a sense of feeling lesser than white people, and that you don’ fit in. In Jaspreet’s case her experience might have been more intense than anything I have experienced, but our feelings have been similar. Jaspreet’s story title says it all, “is colour more important than being a human being,” colour and appearing to be white is what is most important to most people in our society. I have felt that embarrassment Jaspreet felt when she was telling herself, “I don’t belong to this? I am resident! I am Canadian.” Maybe not to the same magnitude she has, but I have found myself many times justifying my looks, or telling people, “yes I’m Canadian, yes I am wholly white,” all because I feel the need to prove myself to people.

The one similarity and feeling that resonated in all three of our stories, was that fact that because we look differently we didn’t fit neatly in the white box. As a result of not fitting neatly into the white box all three of us had instances where we were racialized and had it pointed out to us that we clearly don’t fit and belong.

Part ii)

The story that I felt best disrupts my normal narrative is Brooklyn’s. In her story she talks about how she in a relationship with a coloured man, “sometimes forget we have different skin tones because I don’t care what a person looks like.” Brooklyn’s story struck me the most because I have honestly never met a person who is white that didn’t draw attention either to the fact that I look weird and not like a typical white person, or that compared to my fair skinned, light eyed, and light haired family, I look adopted and don’t fit with them. Her saying that she forgets that her and her boyfriend are of different skin tones directly disrupts my normal narrative that people always notice and draw negative attention to non whiteness, From her story I don’t get the feeling that she sees or treats her boyfriend as less, weird, or like not fitting in. I really wish there were more people that think like Brooklyn and have her attitude. She understands that her and her boyfriend are of different skin colours, she doesn’t ignore it, she acknowledges it, but doesn’t let it define their relationship or her opinions.

It is great that I can find someone who can disrupt my normal narratives on race, but the sad part is that Brooklyn was the only classmate I could find out of everyone, that isn’t an identified minority or non white that disrupted my normal narratives. Most of the stories I read were of white people having that first experience of seeing a clearly non white person for the first time. It is also equally important though to remember that it is not about identifying people with a clearly darker skin tone and trying to treat them with tolerance, but that when we build this tight construct of race is can be destructive. People who are of clearly darker skin tone feel crushed by societies assertion that white equals good, and also people who are white, yet perceived as non white, and also biracial people are also crushed because they feel like they have an entitlement and place in society because they are white, yet people who feel they exhibit the true white attributes will tell them they do not fit in. On the flip side a lot of time the people of darker skin tones will not always accept the half white, and white people that are racialized, because they feel it’s not fair because the white people have white privilege, yet they don’t get any advantages. Instead of all this mess I wish that we could realize that regardless of race people are racialized and it is sad, wrong, and painful, and that we need to do our best to not promote this idea of race being important and a way for people to divide others or gain power.

I have never been a perfect girl, and I will never be a perfect girl. As a child I loved to wear dresses, but I loved to wear them while running around in a muddy soccer field chasing after and tackling with the boys. I loved to wear my shiny white figure skate and twirl around on the ice, while insisting to play pond hockey in them with boys in their beat up black hockey skates until my ankles bled. I loved to sing songs and dance until my feet were numb from pirouettes, but I also loved to watch boxing movies and practice beating people up. I was close with my sisters and loved to dress up for Sundays, yet my father used to say I was the son he never had, totally voiding my actual brother like he was an unwanted item at the supermarket.

I have never been a perfect girl, and I will never be a perfect girl. I love to wear lace, bows, and heels, but I say “shit” way too often. I love to bake and look after my friends like a mom, yet I love dad jokes more than my own dad. I love to wear makeup and look fancy, but I also like to wear no makeup, over-sized plaid and hoodies, and rock a mean pair of sneakers. I love watching a sappy movie and crying like a baby, but I also like to watch war movies, the gorier the better. I love shopping, but I also love paint balling. I love gossiping about relationships and famous people with my mom, but I also love spending time with my dad talking about history and playing chess. I love to talk, and talk, and talk, but I can also think about absolutely nothing, and when someone asks me how I am and I say fine, I actually mean I am fine.

I have never been a perfect girl,and I will never be a perfect girl. Why is pink a girl’s colour? Why can only girls be talkative? Why can only boys be obsessed with contact sports? Why can’t boys cry? Why can’t girls like to get dirty? Why can’t a boy he a nanny? Why can’t a girl be prime minister? Why is it weird that boys are nurses? Why can’t girls love hockey, and boys love figure skating? Why does a guy have to be manly, or be gay? Why must I be a girly girl, or be butch?

I have never been a perfect girl, and I will never be a perfect girl. Because I will not be labelled and I will not be defined so simply. I am unique, I am girly, I am boyish, I am feminine, and I masculine, I am tough, and I am soft, I am strong, and I am gentle.

I have never been a perfect girl, and I will never be a perfect girl, and that’s OK!

note * I am not trying to make light of minorities, by complaining, or using racial slurs, I am merely trying to show pain I experienced growing up by having my body racialized for simply not looking the way people thought a white person should look.

Chink! Chink? Chink! I will never forget when I first heard this word. Was it a compliment, a person, a place? What was this mysterious word that had been spoken that left so much malice, hate, and disdain dripping from the tongue of the speaker? Why did everyone laugh when the word was spoken? What was so bad about this word? I was burning with curiosity to know why? Why?

I was 11 when he decided that because my eyes where smaller than everyone else I should be called an ugly racial slur. That because my eyes disappeared when I smiled and I didn’t look like all the other white kids, that this needed to be broadcast to the whole class. He waited till the teacher had stepped outside to talk to a student to began the assault of words. They fell on me like acid rain in the middle of an angry relentless storm. But unlike most storms there was no calm, just stares, snickering, and soft whispers of, chink, chink, chink. Still no one could tell me why I was being called this nasty word! Why was it such a bad thing? Why me?

I was 13 when my twin sister decided to call me an old familiar word in order to fit in. After all she wanted to fit in, and better me than her, right? So there it was the word, chink! Stuck to me like an unwanted house guest, or a gruesome cold. It was just a nickname, another way to say Jenna, a way to identify me ,right? Even the Korean boy in my class would greet me with an occasionally “hi chink” in the morning, surely that made it ok?

But still I wanted my questions answered! Why was still word used to hurt me? What was so bad about being called chink? How could one little word cause so much pain? Why did one little word have so much power? For every time I would hear that ugly word attached to me like a label on an old ugly sweater no one wants, my parents would chime in. God made you different, because everyone can’t be the same. Just half hearted words meant to slap a temporary band-aid on the hurt that pulsated my soul. I still could not understand why my small little eyes just couldn’t be accepted. What was so bad, and why did no one take my pain seriously? You are too sensitive! Quit making a big deal out of it! They are just jealous! Am I crazy, am I imagining these things like a fog that comes out of no where and transports you to a magical place where time stands still and you lose sense of your self for a minute.

I was 16 when my class thought it was funny to pressure me and my Korean classmate to have our eyes measured to see whose eyes were bigger. I stood there and compared us both wearing glasses, both short, both with black hair and dark brown eyes, the only difference being the olive colour of his skin. Both awkward and ashamed, we were instantly bonded in that moment, we weren’t just white and Asian being humiliated in front of our peers. We were two humans being stripped of our dignity, robbed of our humanity and displayed like prize cattle up for show. No one said a word, not us, not the kids watching, not those in action, laughing and grabbing the rulers giddily measuring away. There were unaware of their ignorance, unaware of the the occasionally slapping of their rulers as they got carried away and smacked my forehead. The sting of my forehead, was almost worse than the sting of my pride, I was relegated to silence, to just accept this as normal.

I was encouraged to pose for pictures with a peace sign so kids could mock my disappearing eyes. Along with that my eyes disappeared my confidence, my identity. How can I fit in, how can I be normal, how can I be white if I am deemed as lesser than, not good enough to fit. Like a square peg in a round hole I spent my teenage years trying figure out who I was. Why wasn’t I accepted? I am not a minority, no I am white, yet why I am not white enough? What is so good about being white? How can I feel so bad about something I cannot change?

It’s only a joke Jenna, quit over reacting. Chink. Stop being such a baby. Chink. You’re white so I am not a racist. Chink. Still I stay silent, every time my body is attacked, I say silent! I am afraid! I am afraid not of your words, but of what is bottled up inside me, like a volcano. I am afraid of my anger, I am afraid of my pain, I am afraid of desire to scream at the top of my lungs.

To scream, my eyes are not an insult. My eyes are not offensive. The way I look is none of your business. The insult is your attitude. The offensive is your ignorance. But it is my business to not be silent anymore. I will stand up for those who aren’t smart enough, good enough, white enough, and I will never again let what I look like define who I am. I will never let who people say I am, be who I become.

I am strong , I am compassionate, and I am a defender of others because, he called me chink.

 

It was a beautiful fall day in B.C, the sun was bright in the sky, and the trees were changing from a dull green to a radiant orange colour. I was doing what I always did, playing outside and walking around our small neighbourhood. Along the walking path I was playing a game of cowboys with my best friend Julia, which had become our Sunday afternoon ritual. We were imagining ourselves riding our horses into the sunset chasing I’m not sure what, cows, bad guys maybe? All of the sudden there was a weird noise that bellowed from the bushes. In B.C. Every walk in even the most ordinary of places was like stepping into a forest right out of a fairy tale, there were thickets and bushes everywhere even along the sides of the streets. I heard this strange noise and saw I don’t know maybe some kind of animal, I was still not paying quite enough attention. I can still hear Julia warning, “Jenna, don’t do that, what are you doing?” all the sudden Before I know it there is something that has jumped out of the bushes, I am clueless and edge closer to this cute fury animal of sorts.
All of a sudden I am in the middle of the street, and there is no cute little fury fairy tale animal in front of me, but a moose, a very big, very angry moose! I am snapped back into reality and furiously the moose starts to pound it’s hooves into the earth, and he throws his head down with his horns out and ready to turn me into a human shish kabob. I am frozen in panic, wait, weren’t moose cute and cuddly! Where’s Julia? Why is there a moose in town? “Run Jenna, run,” I yell to myself as I start running like a crazy person zig zagging down the street. I run faster than I thought was humanly possibly down the street. It was a pretty dead Sunday afternoon all the shops were closed, and not many people outside. However I am sure after I ran through the streets screaming like I was straight out of a horror movie it got a few people out of their lazy Sunday haze.
After what seems like an eternity I finally have ran all the way from one end of Julia’s street through town and to the other side of the street. Maybe I have finally lost that scary angry moose who is running after me like I am his dinner, oh wait! No, he’s still nipping at my heels. I run towards Julia’s house and see a person on the lawn, but my sight is blurry with the sweat that has made its way into my eyes. “Jenna,” screams a far off voice! “Julia,” I scream as I run into her entrance way. Julia slams the door and we can hear a few loud scratches at the door. “Julia, Jenna what are you doing,” yells Julia mom? “nothing,” we shout in unison! We both look at each other half scared to death, but half dying of laughter and starting giggling uncontrollably as I fall into a heap in her entrance way.
Before I know it is time for me to leave and I make my way home checking both ways for any moose that may be lurking in the now suspicious bushes. I get home and I tell my mom all about my adventures with the demon possess moose that chased me all the way around town trying to hunt me down for his moose dinner. “Jenna stop tell tales,” yells my twin. “There’s no moose here, or I would see them you liar,” teases my little brother. My mom comes to me and crouches down to my level and says in her ever gentle mom voice, “Jenna maybe you just imagined the moose when you were playing with Julia.” I give in realizing that no one will believe such a wild adventure and sigh,”maybe.”
The day comes, and goes, and it is a typical Monday morning; and I get ready for school as usual. My mom drops me and my siblings off at school, and she looks at me and says, “Jenna let’s have a good day at school, and not tell any tales ok..” I agree and run off to play with the kids before school starts. My mom goes to our one and only grocery store and starts browsing the aisles, but she stops once she notices several ladies in the store looking at her. At last, an older lady that our family and most of the town affectionately called Grandma Wood approaches my mom to start a conversation. “Is Jenna alright Dear,” she asks with concern? My mom stands there a little confused, then Grandma Wood continued. “I was sitting on my chair and looked out the window and I saw this big moose running after her, she looks so scared, so I said a little prayer and I hope she’s ok.
My mom never told me what She said back to Grandma Wood, or if anyone else asked her what was chasing me, or why I was running down main street screaming like a crazy person. Next thing I knew I got home from school and did what I always did, put my stuff away, got a snack, and sat at the table to do homework. “Jenna can I speak to you for a minute?” My mom had appeared in the kitchen, and she brought me into the hallway. “Jenna I am sorry I didn’t believe you about the moose, Grandma Wood told me you had quite the scare.” My mom hugged me gently and we both starting laughing.
Thus ended the adventure of how I almost became a moose’s dinner.

For most people home is a place of safety, security, and comfort. It is a warm
inviting place that welcomes you with open arms; but that is not how I feel.
Home is not home, home is darkness, like a cave where you don’t know what is lurking
beyond the corner. Safety? Danger! There is no way of knowing what the night will bring.
I walk on egg shells, slowly tip toeing teetering on ruin as my bare feet feel the pressure of the cracking ; barely mustering the strength to keep it together. I am a ball of nerves, bouncing feverishly, afraid to
wake the sleeping bear, for fear of my life, my sanity.
Home is not home, home is a prison and he is the jailer. Locking me up in a prison of my
own self doubt, filthy and defeated. Shame, guilty, and agony are my only cellmates, taunting me relentlessly.
I am imprisoned by the reality of my fate. I am forced, yet I feel responsible, powerless, yet I feel deserving of this hell.
The jailer, he is the real criminal! A conman who peddles deceit, torturing me with the realization that I am chained up and he is free.
He is free to use me, for I am not human. I am a sad, rotting corpse of a soul decaying with every fiber of my being in this dank dungeon of self hatred.
Home is not home, I have no home. I am a castaway stranded on an island. I see a desolate, dry, lifeless place, I am surrounded by
life, and vitality, but all I see is hopelessness and that my survival is paramount. All I feel is the hollow emptiness of my surroundings,
and the slow thunderous breaking of my heart.
Home is the fear and uncertainty of a dark cave, the despair of a prison, and the loneliness of an island. Home is not home, I have no home!