note: This is part one of the series that I billed as the most personal and intimate posts I have ever made in blogosphere. Trigger warning.
Everyone has a sort of defining moment that forms and informs one's identity, outlook toward the world, and ultimately feeds into one's life passion. Personally I never quite thought of myself as having such a significant moment in life. Fortunately or unfortunately, I have not been a victim of a massive natural disaster, family misfortunes, or other "definable" and dramatic incident. Although in reality my life has been far more challenging and difficult than what I would often give myself a credit for surviving it, I was not quite able to think of a defining moment to brag about or be proud of.
My defining moment, however, took place in my early childhood -- sometime between age 3 and 5 (ca. 1978-1980). I still have vivid memories of that day, not sure if it was morning of afternoon, but it was not night time. It started out as an ordinary morning on a Sunday. My father was having a day off and did not go to work. My mother most likely did the normal in feeding me earlier. But for some reason on that day I had provoked a wrath of my mother more than I ordinarily would. I cannot remember exactly what led to the incident I shall describe here, but chances are, it most likely had to do with something like cleanliness and how I left something in a mess and did not clean up to her satisfaction (oft times -- both before and after this day -- she would order me to clean up after myself in, say, ten minutes, and she would indeed look at a clock, and after the ten minutes had passed, she would take a cursory look, and if something was unsatisfactory however minor that might have been, she would turn over boxes and knock things off shelves and then order me to clean everything up in another ten minutes). I guess I talked back at her or I simply did not obey her. She scolded me and went on a tirade over how bad I was and how she is ashamed of giving birth to a useless, worthless bastard, and so on ad infinitum et ad nauseum. Then she picked up a butcher knife about a foot long, the kind that looks like a Ginsu, and she declared that she would kill me because I became a dishonor and a liability to society.
She grabbed me and attempted to stab me, but I broke loose and did the most rational thing for any normal kid: I ran into the bedroom where my dad was still lounging around, enjoying his day off. I screamed for help, and hid behind his bed. Soon my mother caught up and she yelled at me to come out so she could murder me. My father was drinking beer and smoking cigarette while watching baseball on his bedside television. He did not say a thing, he glanced at the commotion for a second, and then his attention went immediately back to his beer and baseball. He did not even lift a finger to stop this madness.
I do not remember how this stopped. I was intact. One thing I remember was how my dad was reacting to this in a very unsympathetic tone, saying something along the line of bloodshed and troubles not worth pursuing for such a worthless scum that would amount to no good. It wasn't that my mother suddenly came to senses and started expressing remorse, either. She was still angry and acted as though what she was doing was not only right but was righteous, and that she was being overly merciful in giving me a second chance at life.
Years and decades later, I did not think this event affected me that much at all. After all I was a toddler in preschool and it was not like I was tormented by bad dreams or flashbacks because of this.
But in recent months I became increasingly aware of how my mind and emotion work under certain circumstances, in attempt at becoming a more effective advocate and organizer. Through the Occupy movement I have come across several incidents involving a heavy police presence. I have noted how a presence of a police or police-like (e.g. U.S. and National Guard soldiers, security guards, fare inspectors, park rangers, parking enforcement, etc.) character actually evokes an extremely negative, violent and heated emotion inside me, to a point of irrationality.
It has not always been like this. At one point (when I was in high school) I drew comfort in knowing that police is patrolling inner city and public transit. The difference, however, between then and now is significant and helps me understand this. Twenty years ago, I was in a private, college-prep high school in Seattle first time away from my parents or extended family. I was dead scared of "those drug dealers and gangsters" and (I honestly admit here) black people. I have heard enough of inner-city violence and drug-related crimes. When I was eight years old, I personally saw my aunt being attacked by a black mugger who tried to steal her gold necklace while we were waiting for a New York City subway train and I had never forgotten that day. But back then, I was clearly within the privileged class. I had never experienced poverty, hunger or systemic oppression. Fast-forward two decades, interceding years have seen a major tectonic shift in my life from upper-middle-class privilege to the invisible underclass. Experiences of poverty, long periods of homelessness (which included an incident of being raped by a drunk man who came out of a nearby bar after closing), being a person of color in The Whitest Major Metropolitan Region in America that is in denial about its racism, being estranged from my family of origin, abusive romantic relationship, and years of my involvement in activism and community organizing leadership within communities where my story is still considered a product of privileged background (in other words, things are far worse for some people), all put me away from the world where the police is one's friend and servant, to a place where the police is one's sworn enemy and principal agent of oppression.
Whenever I see or hear a report of a fellow Occupier being randomly beaten up by riot cops, my blood boiled. Whenever I hear a news of police brutality, prisoner abuse, rogue TSA agents, scandals by the U.S. armed forces abroad, or politicians whose endless pursuit seems to be churning out yet another new law to further oppress marginalized people and burden the poor to curry favor with their corporate special interests and campaign donors, I am inflamed by hatred and wrath like nothing else would.
Then I thought of my "defining moment," the dots connected rather easily. For decades (since perhaps as early as my middle school years when I unsuccessfully tried to organize a progressive alternative student council to give students a choice other than a forced -- which I argued unconstitutional infringement of freedom of association -- membership in the school-established "student association" that did nothing other than what it was told by the school administration) my overarching passion has been to stand up and speak up for the marginalized, forgotten, and oppressed. I have always harbored a high degree of contempt for and suspicion of a
democratic system in which oppression and violence are given a veneer of legitimacy by the "fact" of a majority popular vote however small the turnout might be and however rigged the election was. I opposed and oppose what communists call the
"democratic centralism", which is nothing more than a bully platform to force the will of the 50.00001 percent over the 49.999999 percent regardless of its practical, ethical or moral implications. Although I have from time to time stood in solidarity with socialists, social democrats, anarchists, greens, and communists, at heart I quite do not buy into any of these entirely. I tend to be somewhat along the lines of
mutualists, libertarians, and
democratic socialists (not to be confused with social democrats, nor with democratic centralism).
Spiritually, as well, this "defining moment" was significant. Because of what happened that day, I have always been skeptical of anyone's claims to "legitimate authority." I never held that anyone ought to be respected, obeyed or venerated just because someone is an authority figure (or claims to be one), or even because someone is older than I am or has more education than I am, or whatever the reason. To me, such respect is only to be earned, and until proven otherwise I view any alleged authority figure with a deep suspicion. This of course plays pretty nicely with the cornerstone of feminist and liberation theologies, the "hermeneutics of suspicion," in relation to the Scriptures. According to the model of
Theological Worlds Inventory, my theological world is shaped around the idea of conflict and vindication -- which leads me to envision the Divine as a liberator, and salvation as an establishment of the "New Earth."
Not having the awareness of my spiritual temperament and deep-seated cosmology had a negative impact in my own spiritual walk as I emerged from a more literalist forms of Evangelical Christianity to a progressive Christianity, and ultimately abandoned the Christian faith altogether. As I look back, in both fundamentalist Baptist and Pentecostal-Charimatic expressions of Christianity, I was drawn largely to the ideas of spiritual warfare and salvation/spiritual growth as a process of victory, that of overcoming the power of darkness and becoming more than a conqueror in the name of the one who have already conquered not only this world but of death, sin and hell. When I began finding much of this type of Christian theology, and more importantly culture and practices, untenable, initially I was drawn to the beauty of rituals in liturgical churches and contemplative practices of the monastic traditions (I am indeed a Benedictine oblate still under a lifetime promise). However, after a few years I simply find all this seeming powerless and shallow to bring strengths to my challenging life. Gradually, I found myself becoming an atheist for all practical purposes, although I have always maintained some degree of involvement with various faith communities. In the meanwhile, I was increasingly becoming drawn to militant forms of revolutionary ideologies whether or not I actually agreed with how they were in reality implemented (and never mind their highly repressive, centralist and anti-authoritarian brands of socialism based on Bolshevism, Stalinism, and Maoism!). Whereas upbeat and militaristic praise-and-worship songs once filled my ears and ultimately my souls, military and propaganda music replaced, mostly of Chinese and North Korean ones, sometimes from the old Soviet Union (I could not tolerate the thoughts of the other kinds of militarism, such as the Nazi or imperial Japan).
Then I realized how, over a course of the past few years I had forgotten and lost touch with a big part of who I am. Spirituality and faith play a big part in my life and my narratives. Religion never could be divorced from my narratives or identity. Yet, I had unwittingly acculturated myself into the kind of Theological Worlds that I simply do not belong. In a discussion group I attended on the Theological Worlds Inventory, I had noticed that the more affluent and privileged persons are, they tend to populate the worlds 1 and 3 if they are generally drawn to a progressive or liberal form of faith (otherwise the world 4 would be typical for the conservatives and Evangelicals). The facilitator also noted that most people who occupy the world 2 (mine) usually come from a very difficult life and upbringing.
Suddenly I saw the underlying theme in my life. In my life, the emphasis has been on social justice, human rights advocacy, and anti-oppression works. I did never feel comfortable or ethically content with the charities -- that purport to "help" the disadvantaged on their own terms, in a very paternalistic and colonizing manner. I also never enjoyed a thought of living a life "like everybody else." In many ways, my life has been a journey from a comfortable and privileged -- yet unfree and existentially toxic -- childhood to a life that is defined by self-determination and creativity. They all connect together, and if there was a defining moment, that fateful day on which my docile and happy illusion about this sick and nonsensical world was rudely broken. There is a Korean and Japanese proverb: a soul of a three-year-old lives until a hundred. What is experienced in one's early, formative years has a lifelong impact.
So this is what defines me.
