Writing Workshop with CAMH (Session 6-The Last One)

 

Who am I, really? I ask because I’m curious. I ask because I really don’t know. Yes, I know what I value: community, softness, the courage to admit when I don’t know something, allowing myself to feel pleasure. In Sunday School at church, I was told that I asked too many questions. When I was young, I was taught to mock those who are different from me. I was taught to be careless with other people’s feelings. In looking back, while some adults taught me the value of love and careful attention, some adults taught me what not to do. Even now, some leaders I see are also teaching me how not to be a leader. So, as I ask myself what it means to be a Treaty Person here on Turtle Island, I take notes on what I’ve been taught, and settle on who I want to be. I may have lost decades of my life in addiction, a length of time that some people around me have used to earn their PhDs. Two decades for me, of relapse, hospital visits, friends I’ve lost, stints in rehab, sitting in therapy sessions. I ask, then, what do I have to show for it? That question used to depress me. I could’ve been this person, or that person, I used to say to myself.

But now, I know that I’m a Treaty Person. I have rights and responsibilities on Turtle Island. And I’m here for it all.

I’m on a road to be crystal-clear. Yesterday, the somatic workshop I’ve been in with other queer men for the past few weeks ended. We were all in our own journey of recovery from crystal meth use. I walked away from it with new connections, new friends as companions on this journey of being crystal-clear. I used to think that my lived experience was something to be ashamed of. Something to hide. Who would want an HIV+ person who is in recovery from being an intravenous drug user, to be part of an arts organization, let alone be its leader? We do, my colleagues said two weeks ago, as they appointed me their next Executive Director. We want to be with you in this journey as we make art for the community.

Prompt: How do you want to spend your time?

Tbh, I'm just looking at the side tattoos

Kent Komisawa

Writing Workshop with CAMH (Session 5)

 

Where is my sacred space? It is in the tender hug I get from my mom when she greets me in the morning as I make two cups of coffee: one for me, one for my husband. My sacred space is the park behind my house, where my nephew like to bring me to play soccer. My sacred space is the frustration I feel when I miss a phone call from my coworker, who’s probably asking for a copy of a note about something important to her. It is in the art that I see all around me. My sacred space is the curiosity I feel just as I log in at 1:59 PM on Thursdays to our writing workshop zoom link. I guess what I’m trying to say is that my breath-the inhale, exhale, the held air in between-is my sanctuary. It is here. Now. So, what is there left to do but to walk on this earth loving justice, comfortable with the huff and puff of stress, and sitting with the softness within. It is humble, uncelebrated, resilient, and generous with its joy.

I have a recurring dream, not of me flying in the air, but riding giant ocean waves. If I’ll fly anywhere, I hope it’s towards the sea, where my childhood was spent pulling fishing nets back to shore. Where I played with hermit crabs, marvelling at the difference in the shells they made into homes. Funny, because I have also come to Turtle Island, calling it my home now. If I’ll fly anywhere, I hope to do it as a Treaty Person, honoring the treaties I made with the Indigenous folks, fulfilling my obligations, and enjoying my rights as a Treaty Person. A steward who flies directly into what needs to be done.

AFTERParTy

I've been going to this workshop at the 519, which ended prematurely last week. I had such an amazing time. The two co-facilitators, M + M, put so much thought and care in dreaming up this unique collective. I met some amazing folks, one of whom I'll be meeting up at Our Hours Cafe on Church St later this week.

Each in the two sessions that we had, we ended by being randomly paired with another partner with whom we were supposed to slow dance with. In the first session, we slow danced to this song:

Then, in the second session a week after, we danced to this song:

Before we ended the workshops altogether for this iteration, we met up with each other for the last time. We first gathered at Church St Espresson, then walked over to one of M + M's friend's condo in the village. We sat around, sipped our drinks and had delicious treats. The facilitators asked for feedback, and we also just gabbed and chit chatted about our own sobriety journeys. They said that there will most likely be a new iteration of the workshop program this Sep.

It was such a beautiful space that they created and I hope to be back next time.

Me jerking off

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Sniffies hottie (part 2)

Always fun hanging out with my buddy. More of him here .

A Treaty Person's Praxis

 I don't want to fucking do this work. Like, who, in their right fucking mind, would want to fucking work for free? And it's not like work that lets you sit around soft fucking cushions all day.

Fuck no!

I get yelled at. Something goes wrong and I'm belittled for making the mistake. I get calls and messages late into the evening. I have to use my own money to buy outreach materials.

Yet, why do I stay? Why do I continue the work? Why am I working for 3 community orgs that asks so much out of me?

The same question was posed to Ocean Vuong in an interview that I recently listened to.

His answer was, "I'm all in because my life has already been bought wholesale by my Mother."

He wagers everything because, the least he can do at a dinner table where every delicacy, every piece of succulent fruit, every slice of sumptuous bread that has been paid for him, was to enjoy it all. Partake. Participate.

It's the moral thing to do.

I wished that the Philippines had a functional free democracy. I wished that Filipino mothers had plenty of work opportunities at home so that they wouldn't be separated from their children.

Mothers separated from their children.

Children separated from their mothers.

Not for mere hours. Not for days. But for years.

This is what's happening to Filipinos. I wished it wasn't like this, but it's our reality.

And, so, the work is cut out for us. I do community work so that, eventually, the Philippines can thrive, not just for those close to Empire, but for everyone.

How can I make sure I'm not profiting from the misfortune of other people. How can I not turn it into kink? Am I happy that there's a Healing Lodge that hires me? Why does a Healing Lodge even have to exist? Why the fuck is this colonizer apparatus imprisoning Indigenous women at an alarming rate? Like, where does it come off? Who the fuck does it think it is, with its impositions of alien power, control, and forms of punishment? How do I make sure I'm not replicating the same structures in my life?

As a Treaty Person, my job is to be steward. To act in such a way that, as a future ancestor, I build a world where young ones can thrive into future generations.

It's hard, but in a world where life for everyone is difficult enough, annoyance and irritation is a luxury that we can't afford. Aggression, belittling, mistrust, and all the other creative ways we mistreat each other are just too goddam expensive.

Just take it easy on each other, folks.

Be kind.

Writing Workshop with CAMH (Session 4)

Below are the prompts and my responses for the writing workshop at CAMH. I'll have the second-to-last class today in about half an hour. 

To have my heart be so full that I start leaking out of my eyes. To look back and see how much I put myself through, where I used crystal meth almost every day. To feel the crash as the drugs emptied out of my veins. If only they would give out doctorates for lived-experience, would people take me seriously now? I want to speak about art, finance, capitalism, the immense size of the universe, the poetry of nebulas. Will I be taken seriously? Then, I remember, little Jose, or, wawit, as his family calls him. Loved. Beloved. Someone who is just trying to do his best in this world, with the time that he has. Just to be kind and helpful. So, as my heart grows so full that I start leaking out of my eyes, I smile, amused at the road I stand on.

What is addiction, to me, but a way to numb myself out of joy. Why do I draw a boundary between myself and joy? Do I feel unworthy? Who or what system told me that I am unworthy to dance?

An eventful Saturday

Yesterday, my parents and I attended a birthday party for my aunt's birthday held at Mandarin Chinese buffet restaurant. There were a lot of family from my mom's side who attended, and it was quite nice catching up with everyone. My two siblings and their families were there as well. We sat next to two women whom I recognized but don't really know very well. My mom said that both of the women were our neighbours in Baguio, Philippines. One of them is around my mom's age, while the other was a bit younger. The whole time, all four of them with my dad were just catching up.

After the birthday lunch ended, and the three of us were in the car, I casually asked my mom if both aunties were a couple. To my delight, my mom said yet. I shrieked. I told my parents that finding elders that one can relate to is something that straight kids take for granted. I told them that it's difficult for queer kids to find elders who are like them. I couldn't stop smiling the whole car ride.

I'm happy to say that both my aunts will be coming to the big birthday party that we are organizing for the both of them (they have birthdays in Novembers 2 days apart). We're hoping to have around 100 guests. Fun!

It happened

I'm happy to say that I am now the new Executive Director for the Filipinx arts non-profit charity that I volunteer for. First order of business was to respond to many emails from orgs and individuals who have messaged us to explore collaboration and partnership. As well, I've also sent a few emails to some Filipinx non-profits requesting meetings with their EDs, just as a way for me to introduce myself to the community. I've known them quite well from my community work, but never as an ED of an org. We submitted my first grant that I helped write for the Toronto Arts Council, asking for funding for an arts workshop that'll lead up to an exhibit/winter Filipinx arts festival in mid-December. I've also been reading a lot on possible grants that we can apply for. We have a lot of program/partnership ideas and I've just been trying to identify which grants we could apply for them. It's yet to be determined if I'll be able to sustain working full time at my employment and also putting in hours for the arts organization. I'm deeply loyal and committed to the Healing Lodge and I thoroughly enjoy my work with them. I'm hoping that I can balance my commitments. I worked hard for this. I've carefully been curating my life, adding, subtracting, replacing. This is what I want.

Maybe it's impossible to fall off the wagon
Maybe I AM the wagon

Writing Workshop with CAMH (Session 3)

 Here's the prompt for last week's workshop and below it is what I wrote in response.

Up on the second floor of my house, tucked away in the chilly, dark crawlspace is a plastic box. In it is where I’ve kept things that I’ve collected over the years. Sentimental things that I could not make myself throw away. Sometimes, early in my addiction, after another period of relapse, as I would be crashing, feeling low, in despair for having, once again fell out of the wagon, I would open my box of treasures and go through the items. To hold the ceramic, brown smooth coffee cup that my best friends gave to me for my birthday in high school. My first ever birthday gift from them. To read through a hard copy of the short story I wrote in my final OAC class in high school, where I wrote about a young queer filipinx person, navigating between his chosen and biological families, deeply loving both. To read through the messages friends and family have written on the birthday cards that they’ve given me over the years. “You’re stronger than you think,” one of my best friends wrote on my birthday card. This was given a day after my birthday party I did not show up for, having disappeared for a few days to get high. This box reminded me of my good ness. It also held on to me, asking me never to give up on myself. Urging me to ask, “what if it’s impossible to fall off the wagon? What if I AM the wagon?”

My scene from hisfirsthugecock.com

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