Emotional Memory

*Trigger alert: This post contains racially offensive language.*

Recently I had a very precious moment when how I related to myself no longer made sense. This moment didn't surface from a crisis, like a sudden spring of distress that rushed from underneath some deep, subterranean layers of myself. Rather, it was a quick, simple shift, which occurred like a switch turned on in a dim room. I had seen the collection of my experiences in one way, and now, here, I see them differently. The "this" became "that," with a snap of my fingers, and the most terrifying part is that it maybe the "that" was always so.

Several months ago I re-started therapy as part of my deep healing process. I originally began talk-therapy during college, once I had left home, but let it go as I discovered a "Sisters of the Yam" support group and meditation "spiritual community of friends" after graduation. I insisted, when I began to forge this new relationship with my current therapist, that my goal was to remember. I claimed that I couldn't recall significant events in my early life, and the fragments that I was able to unearth were the same traumatic stories that spooled on repeat from my mental library. I asked, "what happened to everything else?" I was certain that the anger that I discovered last year was a mask for a heap of repressed feelings, clawing through my memory cells to escape into reality. My mission was to re-construct my life by infusing it with new meaning. What was I missing?

Last month our time to call back my inner-child had finally arrived. I brought a college scrapbook to session, and prepared to talk about my Life. We began speaking about my family's brief time in Billings, Montana, when I was about four. We left after a year and a half, unwilling to tolerate the racially hostile town longer than necessary. I related how my parents advocated for me when another little girl of color called me a "nigger," when explaining why she refused to sit next to me during story-time, and how my parents became a kind of peace activists in their own struggle against racism for our family, and the few other families of color that resided there in the late 80s. I conveyed these memories with a passionate pride that I usually reserve for topics other than my childhood.

As the hour went on I had traced through grade school my mother's fierce support as I wrangled against racial stereotypes, chauvinistic boys, and other mistreatment levied on young, queer girls of color, which validated my intuitive sense of fairness. I remembered my father's commitment to public service, embodied by over thirty years in the federal government, and love of history, which imbued my sense of collective responsibility and the intellectual necessity for context. Most powerfully, as I conveyed much of my early life, I shared how both of my parents, unlike so many, offered me freedom to define myself and my world. I was told "yes" most of the time, and was better off for it.

At the end, my therapist made three observations. The first was that I shared happier memories--ones that made me sit-up and smile as I remembered them, and from which revealed seeds of myself that I like the most. Happy memories were a balance to the difficult times about which I relived during past sessions. Nodding. The second observation was that I actually remembered a lot. I had, in fact, shared a number of specific events, despite my claim that I had spanning gaps in my memory. Interesting. The last observation was that although I didn't remember many details about what happened to me--I mostly remembered how I'd felt at the time. Whoa. 

Within an instant, I was a repressed, intellectual who put in years of work to harvest my emotions into a revealed, feeler-of-a-person who had always had a strong, emotional antenna, but simply didn't know it. Such things beg the near-overwhelming, existential question: Who is this person?

I'm sure that there is a lot more to dissect from our little exercise, which I have not even begun to truly understand. I can say, however, that it was a great lesson about the ways in which how I relate to myself really creates my past, present, and future. It reminds me that I must be less of a finite being with history--a story filled with static paragraphs and punctuation--and more like a continuation of selves shaped by quirky moments--a living musical score with a vast divine orchestra playing "I" and "me."

It's sobering reality to sit in, for now.

You/Me

we draw lines, here and there

with our mind's eye, far and wide

your fingers feel warm

your hands are soft

but I don't notice these things

when we reach and touch

each other

continue into the surface, the seconds and the stars

as seamless as the universe

intended us to be

here and there

far and wide

this hand that you held

is the seed of other seeds

ones that ripened tens of years ago

yes, it may be that

my seed was never sown

into the earth, as intended

yet this once brittle seed of mine

survived wintertime

bracing and holding

lying still, here and there

patient passing, far and wide

a truth: I never understood

how to draw lines, of the real kind

jagged, sharp, thick

across to break, form negatives

collapse throbs, an echo through

when love must dry from the well

that we built with these bare hands

together

an end that was made

because this no-more

I could stand longer

scarcely more, than the other no-mores

a distant flickering light

you and me

here and there

far and wide

some days I wish for

solitude's escape

from the burden of the cold

as I inherit spring

remaining on the ground

a choice: should I loosen

to bear

piercing sun overhead? or

to receive

food from the watershed?

these cracks branched on my shell

are lines that belong, drawn

here and there, far and wide

now I see, you and me

continue in the wisdom

of choosing to exist

forever

The Gentlest Gentleman

The Gentlest Gentleman*

When I lift your hand to meet my lips

It’s a reflex to your smile

We stroll outside with our arms linked

You might feel my heart’s hospitality

Welcome home

No need for a knight in shining armor

Descendin’ from a high horse

Please have me, a boi with a dirty apron

Preparin’ your favorite side of comfort

When I ask permission to touch your face

It’s a desire to know you whole

We let our fingers saunter, sway in our breath

I might feel your spirit’s revival

Testify, amen

Leave behind the poor ol’ damsel

Her distress as stale as her rescue

Pick me, far afield, the shape of a dandy-lion

Spoilin’ this dry tale with a loud, lurid roar

Here are pretty words for the prettiest girl

When plain words just won’t do:

I want to be your gentlest gentleman

With my first rule of tenderness

There is no show, no passed time

Because of a secret, you should know

‘Course, I’m polite as I was raised

Respect curdles in my blood

But I’ve been hurt—heartbrok’n hard

And I just want a little kindness

So that with this gamble, I’ll deal the right card

*This title is from My Brightest Diamond’s song of the same name, on the album, A Thousand Shark’s Teeth. 

This poem is dedicated to a very special woman in my life--Alicia Virani.

New Beginnings

...and I am no longer afraid of the fall of my own footsteps.

A Letter to A Young Public Interest Lawyer

I wrote this letter at the request of an insanely creative law student friend of mine. Letters to a Young Public Interest Lawyer is an event inspired by a series published in a law review. I could not be in Boston but wrote this. Event organizers - thank you for your vision, which inspired me.

LETTER TO A YOUNG PUBLIC INTEREST LAWYER

From Richael Faithful – February 2, 2013

I never wanted to be a lawyer, and you shouldn’t assume that you want to be one either.

If your early years resembled mine, I long-struggled to define my own identity. I was a competitive athlete that didn’t want to grow up to become a basketball or soccer player; I was a political geek that didn’t want to eventually find myself on Capitol Hill; and I was an opinionated Black girl that most certainly didn’t want to become a lawyer.

I resisted the idea for a long time, even saying as much during my Administrative Law class introductions during my 2L year second semester...

Now, I’m a lawyer. And I am beginning to understand why. It is not my primary identity—rather it’s probably fourth, rivaling writer, healer, and organizer. Yet it’s there, and I’m happy that it is.

I attended law school after a disenchanting spell as a full-time organizer. I was trained through college by a great state-level organization but found professional organizing to be morally confusing, as my relationship changed with the work once my livelihood depended on it. I vaguely considered law school as a next step if I felt ambivalent at the end of my year-long contract. The idea of law school merely sounded less uncomfortable during my last year of college after I had thoroughly defined myself as an organizer. I wasn’t, after all, being relentlessly teased that I should become a lawyer because I was an opinionated Black girl.

Naturally, I took applying to law school very seriously. I prepared for the LSAT by reading every Agatha Christie Hercule Poirot novel ever published. (That’s over 40 books.) Poirot’s “little grey cells” got me paying attention to detail, and brushed up my “logical” thinking that apparently went somewhat unpolished when studying sociology.

Next, I applied to three law schools. Totally safe choice…I can’t remember the topic of my essay but it was probably as clever as my college admissions essay on my founding of my high school’s “Dead Philosopher’s Society.”

And I knew that my application packet was complete with my college President’s recommendation letter, only that he was my college’s former President due to his irreverence for authority. I was an ideal law school candidate—obviously.

The ways in which I shrugged off the rat race known as law school admissions, I did take seriously my preparation for attending law school.

I knew that I would enter an elite institution and profession that offered a narrow and rigid education of “the law.” I understood that my presence and abilities would be subtly questioned by other students, faculty, and myself at times, in light that there would be few queer students of color. I realized that I would fight every day to stay grounded in my core values, which honored community, ancestry, and love, within a culture that promoted individual ambition, future success, and profit-making. Playing the role, and even becoming, a law student was not a naïve choice.

I sought advice from friends, and friends’ friends; I read all the critical race theorist books about being a law student of color that I could get my hands on; I reached out to female faculty of color for mentorship; and importantly, I asked whether I should attend law school every day for months. By the time I entered into American University Washington College of Law, I was beginning to entertain the possibility that I could become a lawyer.

Law school, as it turned out, ended up being a formative experience that conjures up positive feelings. It wasn’t terrible, at all. I found powerful role models in experienced attorneys and peers, stretched my intellectual capacity through independent work, learned how to build community under restrained conditions, and met remarkable people with whom, despite appearances, I share a great deal in common and since call close friends.

I’ve been a lawyer for a year and a half now. The verdict is that it fits me in a lot of ways. I am fortunate in that I have had the freedom to shape my practice through a post-graduate fellowship, which allows me to provide direct services, co-organize a statewide campaign, and prepare impact litigation. On one hand, this freedom is likely temporary because to embody all these levels of work in a single job is unusual, which speaks to the law profession’s limitations and value it places on public interest work. On the other hand, I’m consistently amazed by some public interest lawyers’ creativity to arrange their lives to do sustainable, necessary work. I hope to always count myself among this group of lawyers, in one way or another.

I decided to attend law school for a purpose. I rationalized law school because I believed that it would give me powerful access and tools for my Beloved Community, which radical people and marginalized communities deserve to share—a Rawlsian kind of analysis I suppose. I finally appreciate, as I take risks, seek new skills, and have new experiences as a young public interest lawyer, that I should be here, at least for a time. I don’t envision myself being a full-time lawyer forever (and will be challenged to find innovative ways to manage my debt and pursue my heart’s work interests). But the value of being able to engage with law, as a person with a formal legal education, and in my case, an active law license, is enormous to those with whom I’m struggling every day. 

Ultimately, I may be like you or I may not. You may have always had wanted to be an attorney or meticulously planned for law school or chose the attractive detour of working for a large firm until you pay off your law school debt. Nonetheless, I recommend a daily examination – a gentle ask – “why am I doing this?” Should an answer become lost on you – or unpleasantly arrive in your gut – I wish you the courage and conviction to re-make your practice, however you define it, even if you have to leave it behind. This choice is your lifeline and that of the “cause.”

Let me share one last recommendation because it has served me well. Carry with you a robust imagination and rooted spirituality. A robust imagination offers a vision for the present and future that allows you to see the edges of reality as you work toward transformation, and a rooted spirituality (distinct from religiosity) offers the grounded-ness necessary to have your heart blown-open and broken-apart day-in and day-out by your work. I am easily inspired with a stake in the ground and a beautiful view of the sky.

Thank you for reading my letter. I look forward to reading yours in the not-so-distant future. 

Life's Return

Every day we greet a lurid world,
Surrounded by zig-zag noises,
Pointed, jagged, and sharp,
In rare moments, tiny little gifts,
Sift into, and readily,
Cut through, a breath's pause,
These ambients melt into,
Smooth escape.

Awaiting me is a precious place,
Glowing with a secret silence,
Sharp as before, but called to be,
A sacred still,
Tiny chill, I peek close,
Against the standing air,
At my nose's tip--drip,
A damp smoke shower appears,
Into my ears, I imagine,
Burning ahead.

With a swallow of abandon,
I squint to view the obscure,
Sight unseen, further I lean,
Yet right there! bestowed at my feet,
Lives the most stoic rays of light,
Brilliant beams fiercely fight, to shine,
From me to the sky,
While I wildly wonder,
All of those curious questions "why?"
Remember, remember,
It says, as we seek, and,
As we pine,
Our home is always,
The beauty of sunshine.

I may arrive too soon, or,
I may arrive too late,
But there is love eternal,
Within my own fate,
Busy or blind, you are there,
Easy as the light,
And here to share.

Breath of Fire

In the last month I've embraced fire is my kindred element. Earlier in the fall, when I felt my heart on fire, it kept re-appearing in my life--a burning release ritual with my spiritual friends, re-painting my studio a rich "Earth Henna," a late night bonfire, my creation of an enso-fire tattoo design, and most recently, this piece of autonomic artwork representing my heart-stomach.

My current relationship toward fire is more than a metaphor, it is fueling a deep healing process. It is a passionate, simmering energy that is affording me intensity and patience. Importantly, it is the force that is allowing me to easily burn away many long-held patterns, cravings, people and ways of being that don't serve, don't resonate, and don't support this process.

There's a certain violence that comes with holding fire, with which I'm not incredibly comfortable. I am doing my best to let it travel freely. I am, though, more comfortable with the sight which its light offers. I'm seeing and observing new dimensions of the old, and being introduced to the newly discovered (but not "new" by any means). This is my poetic description of a very exciting yet extremely frightening day-to-day unfolding.

Engulfed in a devastating break-up from my partner of three years, and an overall difficult emotional year, I went on a three-day self-retreat at a beautiful, local park in Northern Virginia. There, I meditated and journaled on a cliff each morning, and hiked trails each afternoon. I had amazing friends check-in with me by phone at designated times to rely where I was, and to hear their feedback, and encouragement. At the end, I left more peaceful, but less grounded. I confronted some of my repressed pain of the past year, and fed elaborate delusions about where I was and the future, at the same time.

Weeks later I felt more grounded than before. I suffered the shattering of my mountain-top delusions almost immediately after I returned. I shed a lot of responsibilities that felt non-essential to create space for myself. I began to take my chronic stomach pain more seriously. I re-committed to regular acupuncture with wise, knowledgeable dear friend and counselor. I felt particularly fragile, tender-hearted, and self-assured.

Acupuncture opened the door to the truth that my gut pain was connected to earlier childhood fears, which manifested through my relationships with my mother and ex. I had never taken the "inner child" seriously before then. The first step was permitting this trauma to speak for itself through my body because my conscious mind had repressed feelings for so long that it no longer recognized pain as pain. More recently, acupuncture has brought to surface various aches and irritations that were my coping mechanisms -- comfort eating, intellectual escape, etc. Acupuncture, for some, is their main method for healing deep trauma; in my case, it is the practice that tells the truth for me so that I can continue the healing.

Around the same time my acupuncture practice was deepening, I read an important book that reinforced my acupuncture work, and spontaneous inner-child experience, called "When the Body Says No: Exploring the Stress-Disease Connection." I read a whole chapter about myself, in the class of Irritable Bowel Syndrome sufferers, who suppress anger and other feelings as addictive care-takers.

I understood this observation because whenever I had a hard relationship conversation with my former partner I had intense stomach pain, and frequented the bathroom. (Let me also add that much of our relationship was very healing in that I had been much, much more vulnerable and intimate with her than I ever thought possible in a relationship.)

Nonetheless, this book gifted me with a way to explain the connection between my emotional triggers and physiological response, of which my conventional medical doctors either didn't know or under-estimated.

I gained more insight into my emotional trigger through a book that I finished on Christmas Day, called "Shadows on the Path" by Abdi Assadi, a hella-grounded ex-junkie, body worker and therapist based in NYC. I was always moved by his recorded workshops, many of which I listened to while on my mini-retreat, including a very memorable "dying practice" exercise. His book culminates his warnings against gurus, and observations from studying a wide range of spiritual/emotional practices, from martial arts to shamanism. A helpful passage:

"Robert Bly wrote my favorite book on the topic [of human shadows] called A Little Book On The Human Shadow. In it he pictures the shadow as a big, invisible bag that we each drag behind us. As children, we unconsciously put the parts of ourselves our parents didn't like into that bag. Due to our desperaate want and need of our parents' love an disapproval we felt compelled to disown and bury the parts of ourselves that might threaten that love...

By the time we reach adulthood, our bag is overflowing with suppressed material such as anger, wildness, greed, rudeness, silliness, spontaneity, selfishness or sexuality. Any part that is not acknowledged or that we are shamed by gets dumped in. This unconscious act of hiding our socially unaccepted pieces can lead to a huge loss of vitality. Repressing an aspect of oursevles takes energy on two levels: it takes effort to keep the material repressed and the repression denies us access to the natural viality contained in that part of oursevles.

What's inside that bag is as much who we are as the 'nice' or socially accepted aspects. It's like somebody teaching us to be ashamed of our left arm, so we always keep it out of sight under our clothes. We act as if we have only one arm, which in itself takes energy, and at the same time we end up using only one half of our upper body strength." pp. 48 - 49.

The page goes on to discuss the shadow of anger. I'm beginning to uncover that although I am very loving parents, there was a long stretch of time where they were consumed by their own addictions and demons, so that I had to take on responsibility for my emotional well-being and that of my brother. I did this while living a  dissociative life where I was barely surviving at home, but thriving at school, on sports teams, etc. I developed a deep fear of abandonment, and the coping mechanism of care-taking.

The compulsive care-taking denies my own vulnerability with family, friends, and notably partners. If I'm taking care of someone else, I'm distanced from my own emotional and psychic needs. As Abdi shares, this pattern is the ultimate ego-trip. My long-time investment into the fiction that I'm needed is all about me in an undermining sense.

I've been able to stay on the care-taking wheel because I've told myself that true vulnerability, in which those around me can witness and be a part of all of the mess, and beauty that is "Richael" is really too much to ask any person to hold. (Only recently have I begun letting close friends in the same way that I've at least mimicked with partners.) The way to help myself isn't to just identifying and undoing the pattern--the cure is self-love. As I learn to love my shadow, I anticipate that the rest will undo with little effort.

Of course, this deepening is supported by a lot of smaller practices like daily meditation, regular yoga, an audio diary, poetry-writing/art-making, reiki, whole foods and naturopathy, and new adventures with friends. I have a few healing partners whom I playing critical roles in my practice in vulnerability & accountability. I am also seeking out other supports as they make sense to do.

For example, I am doing zero-balancing as a complement to acupuncture, to facilitate some of the deep-healing body work that I need, along with therapeutic massage to help with the pains that surface, as my old coping mechanisms go away. I am also planning to see a shaman later in January for a soul retrieval, to uncover sacral and solar plexus charka damage from past lives, which are contributing to my stomach pain, and which I uncovered through reiki, zero-balancing, and acupuncture.

I hope to be intentional about the practices and people that I'm inviting in, not seeing anyone that I could see because I need "healing." I'm also taking my time because this is literally a life-long process.

So I'm entering 2013 with a dramatic shift in how I am experiencing and moving through the world. Interestingly a lot of close friends and new friends are making similar choices, and thriving; others are struggling to find a way forward.

Integration is my theme for the New Year, the Age of Aquarius. I know that many of you are on the same healing path, which we are doing for our loved ones past and present, and really, all beings.

Many blessings, stay encouraged, and please let me know if I can support your journey.

Cheers,
R.

PS - Some of y'all know that the Breath of Fire is a kundalini yoga breathing technique. It's my favorite yoga practice and I find it extremely challenging to do properly.