An Epic Reading List for the #Resistance

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After Trump was elected last fall, I put out a call to my friends on Facebook to help me create a reading list for educating and empowering myself. Specifically, I asked for recommendations of fiction, non-fiction, and poetry that would help me work toward justice and equality–with a focus on racial justice, immigration, disability rights, economic justice, and/or anything regarding feminisms, collaboration/coalitions, organizing, LGBTQ stuff, etc.

What I got was better than I could’ve ever imagined. The comment thread grew and grew, with book recommendations ranging from racial justice to feminist/womanist theology to socially critical poetry.

So, without further adieu, please find below the (only slightly curated) recommendations from my awesome friends. Hope you find something here that moves and inspires you! Continue reading “An Epic Reading List for the #Resistance”

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The Story I Can’t Tell

There is a story I want to tell, but no matter how many times I try, I can’t get it right.

 

There is a writer. They go to Bhaktapur, Nepal. It’s October. A young girl approaches them as they enter the city. Says “hello.” Starts chatting. Asks if she can show the writer around to practice her English.

The writer is a white American. The young girl—a teenager, really, though she looks like she could be in middle school—is Newari, an ethnic minority in Nepal.

Let’s call the girl Matina. Let’s say she shows the writer around. There are buildings that are hundreds of years old. There are intricate wood carvings on the doors, in the eaves, above the windows, making windows themselves. This is what people come to Bhaktapur to see.

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Let’s say the writer takes her to a café, but mostly because the writer is hungry and hasn’t had coffee. Let’s say they watch Nepali music videos on the writer’s cell phone. Let’s say Matina loves Nepali singers, but her favorite band is One Direction.

What if even in that moment, the writer realizes the complexity of what’s happening? Wonders when Matina might make an ask. Wonders if her parents put her up to snagging tourists off the streets and showing them around, telling them things like how much she likes chemistry. Wonders about the economics that would lead a family to do a thing like that. Wonders if Matina will be able to finish school. Wonders how many other foreigners have taken her to this café.

Still, the writer goes along. Eventually, Matina invites them to her home. The writer meets Matina’s parents. Matina shows the writer her homework—pages and pages, reciting chemistry facts and asking if she got the answers right on her English test. Her mom asks the writer to buy the family groceries.

The writer has been ripped off before with a similar ask—once in Delhi and once in Kathmandu—but they buy the groceries anyway—rice, oil, milk. Matina’s mom invites them back to the house to drink Fanta, their one splurge. Matina cleans off a metal cup with cloudy water from an old 7Up bottle and pours the soda in.

Matina calls the writer “sister” and “friend.” The writer thinks it might all be an act but is tempted to think that Matina might be lonely, too. Maybe in that way, they’re the same. When asked about her best friend, Matina says she had one before, but not now.

It is tempting for the writer to think in terms of these well-worn narratives. Because it easy, and there are clean lines to follow. Lines that could make the writer feel more comfortable.

But they’re not comfortable. And when Matina takes them back to the bus stop, and tells the writer to come back to visit, and asks them to send her post cards, and makes sure they get on the right bus to Kathmandu, the writer can’t help but thinking. And thinking. And thinking.

 

Did I do the right thing? Did I just make things worse? Will she become a tour guide, nurse, or singer like she dreams? What if my life had been like this? Where would I be? Why do I get to go back to an air-conditioned hotel with wifi when her home has dirt floors and no running water? Why do I keep talking to strangers? How did her house still stand in the earthquake? Did she lose anyone she knew? How do I tell this story? Can I? Continue reading “The Story I Can’t Tell”

An Open Letter to My Friends Who Voted for Trump

For any of you who have read my fiction, you know I don’t like telling linear stories.

I’ve struggled with this while writing this blog, as I’ve felt compelled to break my travel narratives up into blog-sized bites. To make storylines that make sense. An arc across India and Asia.

But my timeline has been disrupted by events beyond my control. And besides, time never moves in a straight line anyway, and neither do my stories. There is always some piece of the past that makes itself known, some dream of the future.

I am writing this in a tea house in Myanmar. I will go to Vietnam soon.

I still have so many stories to tell you—from India, Korea, Nepal. Those will come, I promise.

But just not now.

Trump’s election and the ensuing fear and grief I (and my community) felt have derailed me. I’ve spent hours on social media, sharing together, raging together, trying to understand, to educate, to advocate while still loving all humanity. Still trying to bridge the divides among us.

I don’t always know how to do so while still speaking out against the violent oppression that is happening. I don’t know how to explain to you how the leaders Trump has drawn together to aid in his transition and potentially lead his administration scare me just as much—if not more—than Trump himself. Continue reading “An Open Letter to My Friends Who Voted for Trump”