An empty stage. One spotlight. An actor walks into the spotlight. Speaks.
Sometimes I wonder if what I affectionately call the "alphabet soup"--LGBTQIA+--was given to mankind because the power struggles between two sides of a binary needed to be disrupted. Patriarchy harms not only women, but also men, and humanity as a whole suffers. Feminism makes valid critiques but has also garnered criticism. It's time we stop thinking about the binary. It's time we look to the human and recognize when the person is first a human, and then a woman, man...
It's not wrong for a woman to love a man, if it makes them both better. It's not wrong to give up career for family, if that's what one believes is right. It's not wrong to pursue one's dreams, as long as no harm is done. But, cynics will say, does not everything come with a price? Does not sacrifice count as some kind of harm? But back to my stream of thought. It's not wrong for a man to love a man...
I'm an idealist. A humanist. I believe in what humans are capable of. I believe we can somehow make a way where it's not either/or, but both/and...
Lights fade.
Thursday, December 24, 2015
Playing, Writing, Playwriting
I played hard as a kid.
I liked to write, too.
In fact, I wrote a play when I was nine, and I forced my brother and childhood friends to partake in its performance. I took the story from a book called The Other Kitten, and renamed the play, To Think of Others First. We still have a home video of me actively directing a group of children, ages 2-8, moving props, making announcements, and just being a generally bossy presence "on stage."
What few opportunities I had growing up to do any kind of acting, I relished--once in grade school, once in seventh grade, and in speech class/auditions in 8th/9th grades. I was often shy in social situations, but as an actress I wasn't terrible. With coaching and confidence, I might have actually gotten into it.
It's hard to do that when you're homeschooled for much of your life, and when most stage parts are of characters who don't look like you.
This past semester, I got to work with a playwright through a seminar at Yale Law School. I got to write my own creative reflections and dramatic scenes, and I completed two short plays. My plays were read aloud, even as I participated in table reads of others' plays.
Near the end of the semester, some really difficult things happened at the Divinity School. I used playwriting as a means of processing and commenting on those things. The final product (a 10-page play, accompanied by a 9-page reflection) became my final assignment for the seminar.
My dad, after reading the play, said, "You write things like a hen lays eggs. I hope you continue writing always, no matter what kind of vocation you choose."
During Christmastime, friends send newsletters with pictures of their growing families. I have no such progress of which to boast, but I have given birth to creative work that reflects family history, social movements, and cultural realities. Our Creator has gifted us with the ability to perpetuate life, whether that is through procreation or through creative projects.
I liked to write, too.
In fact, I wrote a play when I was nine, and I forced my brother and childhood friends to partake in its performance. I took the story from a book called The Other Kitten, and renamed the play, To Think of Others First. We still have a home video of me actively directing a group of children, ages 2-8, moving props, making announcements, and just being a generally bossy presence "on stage."
What few opportunities I had growing up to do any kind of acting, I relished--once in grade school, once in seventh grade, and in speech class/auditions in 8th/9th grades. I was often shy in social situations, but as an actress I wasn't terrible. With coaching and confidence, I might have actually gotten into it.
It's hard to do that when you're homeschooled for much of your life, and when most stage parts are of characters who don't look like you.
This past semester, I got to work with a playwright through a seminar at Yale Law School. I got to write my own creative reflections and dramatic scenes, and I completed two short plays. My plays were read aloud, even as I participated in table reads of others' plays.
Near the end of the semester, some really difficult things happened at the Divinity School. I used playwriting as a means of processing and commenting on those things. The final product (a 10-page play, accompanied by a 9-page reflection) became my final assignment for the seminar.
My dad, after reading the play, said, "You write things like a hen lays eggs. I hope you continue writing always, no matter what kind of vocation you choose."
During Christmastime, friends send newsletters with pictures of their growing families. I have no such progress of which to boast, but I have given birth to creative work that reflects family history, social movements, and cultural realities. Our Creator has gifted us with the ability to perpetuate life, whether that is through procreation or through creative projects.
The Feminist Monologues: III
An empty stage. One spotlight. A woman steps into the spotlight, adjusts her glasses, speaks.
I am a daughter.
A sister, too, but primarily a daughter. Since I was a child, I have felt responsible for my mother's happiness. When you are the firstborn daughter of immigrants, you have a special bond with your mother. You feel her pain, understand her sorrows, and you want to do all you can to make her life better. You take her side when it's your brother you hurts her.
I am a daughter.
A friend, too, but primarily a daughter. When friends of mine started coming of age and making their own decisions, I still cared way too much about my mother's opinion. I never went away to do my own thing without leaving half of my heart behind at home with my mother. I could never really leave, you see, without looking back.
I am a daughter.
A student, too, but primarily a daughter. I tended to do well in school and had fleeting aspirations of academic greatness. But I never applied to my dream school, never really "went for it." It was always more important to me that family come first. What would I be if I achieved my goals, but at the expense of family? Many things, but not the daughter I wanted to be.
I am a daughter.
A lover, too, but primarily a daughter. I have loved many men, and many men have loved me. But never to the point where I turned my back on my mother's feelings. I understand that my personal happiness is always tied in with how I fit into my family. Yes, I often do what I please. Yes, I say "no" to my mother as often as I say "yes."
But I always do so as a daughter. A daughter-friend, a daughter-woman, a daughter-feminist.
Lights fade.
I am a daughter.
A sister, too, but primarily a daughter. Since I was a child, I have felt responsible for my mother's happiness. When you are the firstborn daughter of immigrants, you have a special bond with your mother. You feel her pain, understand her sorrows, and you want to do all you can to make her life better. You take her side when it's your brother you hurts her.
I am a daughter.
A friend, too, but primarily a daughter. When friends of mine started coming of age and making their own decisions, I still cared way too much about my mother's opinion. I never went away to do my own thing without leaving half of my heart behind at home with my mother. I could never really leave, you see, without looking back.
I am a daughter.
A student, too, but primarily a daughter. I tended to do well in school and had fleeting aspirations of academic greatness. But I never applied to my dream school, never really "went for it." It was always more important to me that family come first. What would I be if I achieved my goals, but at the expense of family? Many things, but not the daughter I wanted to be.
I am a daughter.
A lover, too, but primarily a daughter. I have loved many men, and many men have loved me. But never to the point where I turned my back on my mother's feelings. I understand that my personal happiness is always tied in with how I fit into my family. Yes, I often do what I please. Yes, I say "no" to my mother as often as I say "yes."
But I always do so as a daughter. A daughter-friend, a daughter-woman, a daughter-feminist.
Lights fade.
The Feminist Monologues: II
An empty stage. One spotlight. A woman steps into the spotlight, unbuttons the top button of her shirt, speaks.
There are some women who call themselves feminists, who verbally subscribe to ideas that liberate women. But when it comes to relationships, they are still submissive and anxious to please the man.
There is nothing new under the sun, and history contains plenty of such cases. (I have been on a period-drama-watching binge. No doubt these examples are conflations of those storylines.)
The man has a past, a history with other women and men. She doesn't care. "What we have is valid," she says, knowing nothing of the past. The man goes on a trip and uses part of that trip to visit old flames. She's ok with it. But she pines away silently at home.
It's rare to be treated this well by a man, so anything he does warms her heart. Flowers, caresses, little romantic gestures. What she doesn't know is that he's been practicing on women for a long time. It comes as second nature.
Her other friends have all sorts of dirt on the man, but she never bothers to ask them. She doesn't want to know, because that would ruin things. It's nicer to think best of the man you're in love with, because your heart is infatuated and that's such a good feeling.
And so, in the end, the feminist becomes a hypocrite, still spouting out strong speech but succumbing in all other ways to the first man that treats her like she's worth the attention. It's not that she can do better--it's that he can. But only if she realizes it--and pushes him to be better.
Bad boys attract good girls, and that's been the story of mankind for ages.
Lights fade.
There are some women who call themselves feminists, who verbally subscribe to ideas that liberate women. But when it comes to relationships, they are still submissive and anxious to please the man.
There is nothing new under the sun, and history contains plenty of such cases. (I have been on a period-drama-watching binge. No doubt these examples are conflations of those storylines.)
The man has a past, a history with other women and men. She doesn't care. "What we have is valid," she says, knowing nothing of the past. The man goes on a trip and uses part of that trip to visit old flames. She's ok with it. But she pines away silently at home.
It's rare to be treated this well by a man, so anything he does warms her heart. Flowers, caresses, little romantic gestures. What she doesn't know is that he's been practicing on women for a long time. It comes as second nature.
Her other friends have all sorts of dirt on the man, but she never bothers to ask them. She doesn't want to know, because that would ruin things. It's nicer to think best of the man you're in love with, because your heart is infatuated and that's such a good feeling.
And so, in the end, the feminist becomes a hypocrite, still spouting out strong speech but succumbing in all other ways to the first man that treats her like she's worth the attention. It's not that she can do better--it's that he can. But only if she realizes it--and pushes him to be better.
Bad boys attract good girls, and that's been the story of mankind for ages.
Lights fade.
The Feminist Monologues: I
An empty stage. One spotlight. A woman steps into the spotlight, smoothes her graying hair, speaks.
There are some men who claim to be feminist--but treat their mothers with impatience and only minimum respect.
There are some men who claim to be feminist--but never think about giving up male privilege for the women in their family.
Sure, they respect women who are like them--rational, logical, and factual. After all, those are traditionally "male" qualities.
But God-forbid a woman is emotional, sensitive, and has no apparent "logic" to back up her intuition. That kind of behavior doesn't merit respect. That's being needy and weak.
Ironically, men like this often garner the respect, adoration, and friendship of women outside the home. Because many women still give too much credit to hypocrites who call themselves feminists.
Not that I know any such men personally, but so I have seen...
Lights fade.
There are some men who claim to be feminist--but treat their mothers with impatience and only minimum respect.
There are some men who claim to be feminist--but never think about giving up male privilege for the women in their family.
Sure, they respect women who are like them--rational, logical, and factual. After all, those are traditionally "male" qualities.
But God-forbid a woman is emotional, sensitive, and has no apparent "logic" to back up her intuition. That kind of behavior doesn't merit respect. That's being needy and weak.
Ironically, men like this often garner the respect, adoration, and friendship of women outside the home. Because many women still give too much credit to hypocrites who call themselves feminists.
Not that I know any such men personally, but so I have seen...
Lights fade.
Monday, November 30, 2015
Art and International Human Rights: Reflections on the Course
It's always interesting to think about one's personal development in relation to academic coursework.
This semester, I had the incredible opportunity to take a class at Yale Law School called "Art and International Human Rights."
The course description was as follows:
This seminar aims to explore the rich and complex intersections between art and artistic practices and international human rights. It is a central part of JUNCTURE: Explorations in Art and Human Rights, a new initiative sponsored by the Schell Center at Yale Law School. Unfolding over the 2015-2016 academic year, JUNCTURE will encompass collaborations with visiting artists, fellowships for Yale MFA students, public lectures, this seminar, publications, performances, an exhibition, and a symposium. In this seminar, as in the initiative, we welcome the participation of law students, art students, and graduate students from other disciplines.
We seek to articulate and discuss a series of questions about the relationship between art and international human rights. For example, what are the possibilities and limits of the documentary form? What are the possibilities and limits of art as an agent of social change? What ethics should govern the representation and reception of images of violence and atrocity? What are the relationships among aesthetics, politics, and justice? What institutional, political, and economic factors affect the conditions in which art and artists function? We will situate these discussions both in historical perspective and in the practices of contemporary artists and writers.
As the semester wraps up, we had to reflect on what we had learned in the course, and this is what I wrote:
In the beginning, there was art. Art was an agent of human rights, and art was human rights. Art reflected human rights from the beginning.
The Divinity School student in me could not help indulging in some poetic license, interweaving Scriptural text (see John 1:1-2) with our themes from this course—something that I have not done thus far. Walking a mile “down the hill” once a week for class, I was determined to leave religion out of the picture in order to fully immerse myself in different intellectual territory. I also learned to see images and hear words in a context outside of music and ritual, expanding my own artistic and professional training as a violinist and music therapist to engage with film, play, and visual material.
In the beginning, we met as strangers, walking and talking thoughtfully around select images in the Gallery. From there, we collected keywords and met visiting artists, with whom we worked to develop separate projects. Our classes have found us grappling with current issues, philosophical concepts, and debates that took on a nearly “moral” tone.
Interestingly, my keyword from our second class was morality. What about both art and human rights, I asked, make them “accountable” to a wider community? To whom are they accountable—what/who constitutes that community? Are there ever times when we must deal with competing “moralities” when making an artistic or legal decision? When we take religion out of the picture, who decides what “morality” means? To what authority does art appeal? Are the artist’s intentions sufficient, or must art “speak” for itself in broader ways? Is there a difference between “objective” and “emotional” truth? Perhaps, like religion, “morality” should be left out of the picture.
Thanks to the group work with Dipika, I have chosen instead to focus on the relationship between narrative and justice. I have written dramatic scenes dealing with my own family history of migration, interrogating concepts of identity in transnational contexts. I have watched interviews with asylum seekers, concluding upon the importance of psychological training in matters of trauma when conducting legal matters. And most recently, I researched and created a play about the Sanctuary Movement, which ties theological themes with social justice—and thus marries art with human rights in its own way.
Warm data. Empathy. Plasticity.
These are but a few of the words and themes that have stayed in my mind. As a former helping professional who has worked with survivors of trauma and patients facing death, I appreciated Chitra and Mariam’s emphasis on the humanness of data. As a musician, I have always taken for granted the power of the arts (my exposure has mostly been to music) to elicit empathy and emotion—and thus found it interesting to struggle (collectively, in class) with defining empathy in light of Levinas.
Ultimately, I am indebted to Dipika for showing me the importance of plasticity in playwriting and in life, because here is where the realm of ritual and liturgy (found in both music therapy and religion) intersect with the biggest question of all: what can art do for human rights?
Primarily, art tells a story. It is a narrative. Amalia reminded us that objects carry anecdotal history. An artistic work contains the process of its making (we were fortunate to hear and learn about this from our MFA students); the interpretation of a work adds another element to the narrative—art must have an audience to count as art; and most importantly, the story must continue/progress and be translated into action—whether direct or indirect—for art to truly impact the condition of humanity.
Thus, art is a relational activity. The fact that all art elicits some sort of reaction means that it is doing the work of raising awareness and encouraging discussion. (If I could recommend a book to be added to our syllabus, it would be John Dewey’s Art As Experience. Adding Dewey to the conversation might have added clarity to our evaluations on how exactly to engage with art—and I regret not thinking of this until now.) What we do with it becomes our responsibility, and the potential ways in which we can narrate justice through art are boundless.
Music therapy and religion have made me an astute student of ritual. Like play, ritual narrates by eliciting emotional responses—a certain form of empathy. It is my personal belief that visual art is most powerful when mixed with other artistic forms—movement, music, etc.—and that art should never be viewed in isolation from other human activity.
This semester, I had the incredible opportunity to take a class at Yale Law School called "Art and International Human Rights."
The course description was as follows:
This seminar aims to explore the rich and complex intersections between art and artistic practices and international human rights. It is a central part of JUNCTURE: Explorations in Art and Human Rights, a new initiative sponsored by the Schell Center at Yale Law School. Unfolding over the 2015-2016 academic year, JUNCTURE will encompass collaborations with visiting artists, fellowships for Yale MFA students, public lectures, this seminar, publications, performances, an exhibition, and a symposium. In this seminar, as in the initiative, we welcome the participation of law students, art students, and graduate students from other disciplines.
We seek to articulate and discuss a series of questions about the relationship between art and international human rights. For example, what are the possibilities and limits of the documentary form? What are the possibilities and limits of art as an agent of social change? What ethics should govern the representation and reception of images of violence and atrocity? What are the relationships among aesthetics, politics, and justice? What institutional, political, and economic factors affect the conditions in which art and artists function? We will situate these discussions both in historical perspective and in the practices of contemporary artists and writers.
As the semester wraps up, we had to reflect on what we had learned in the course, and this is what I wrote:
In the beginning, there was art. Art was an agent of human rights, and art was human rights. Art reflected human rights from the beginning.
The Divinity School student in me could not help indulging in some poetic license, interweaving Scriptural text (see John 1:1-2) with our themes from this course—something that I have not done thus far. Walking a mile “down the hill” once a week for class, I was determined to leave religion out of the picture in order to fully immerse myself in different intellectual territory. I also learned to see images and hear words in a context outside of music and ritual, expanding my own artistic and professional training as a violinist and music therapist to engage with film, play, and visual material.
In the beginning, we met as strangers, walking and talking thoughtfully around select images in the Gallery. From there, we collected keywords and met visiting artists, with whom we worked to develop separate projects. Our classes have found us grappling with current issues, philosophical concepts, and debates that took on a nearly “moral” tone.
Interestingly, my keyword from our second class was morality. What about both art and human rights, I asked, make them “accountable” to a wider community? To whom are they accountable—what/who constitutes that community? Are there ever times when we must deal with competing “moralities” when making an artistic or legal decision? When we take religion out of the picture, who decides what “morality” means? To what authority does art appeal? Are the artist’s intentions sufficient, or must art “speak” for itself in broader ways? Is there a difference between “objective” and “emotional” truth? Perhaps, like religion, “morality” should be left out of the picture.
Thanks to the group work with Dipika, I have chosen instead to focus on the relationship between narrative and justice. I have written dramatic scenes dealing with my own family history of migration, interrogating concepts of identity in transnational contexts. I have watched interviews with asylum seekers, concluding upon the importance of psychological training in matters of trauma when conducting legal matters. And most recently, I researched and created a play about the Sanctuary Movement, which ties theological themes with social justice—and thus marries art with human rights in its own way.
Warm data. Empathy. Plasticity.
These are but a few of the words and themes that have stayed in my mind. As a former helping professional who has worked with survivors of trauma and patients facing death, I appreciated Chitra and Mariam’s emphasis on the humanness of data. As a musician, I have always taken for granted the power of the arts (my exposure has mostly been to music) to elicit empathy and emotion—and thus found it interesting to struggle (collectively, in class) with defining empathy in light of Levinas.
Ultimately, I am indebted to Dipika for showing me the importance of plasticity in playwriting and in life, because here is where the realm of ritual and liturgy (found in both music therapy and religion) intersect with the biggest question of all: what can art do for human rights?
Primarily, art tells a story. It is a narrative. Amalia reminded us that objects carry anecdotal history. An artistic work contains the process of its making (we were fortunate to hear and learn about this from our MFA students); the interpretation of a work adds another element to the narrative—art must have an audience to count as art; and most importantly, the story must continue/progress and be translated into action—whether direct or indirect—for art to truly impact the condition of humanity.
Thus, art is a relational activity. The fact that all art elicits some sort of reaction means that it is doing the work of raising awareness and encouraging discussion. (If I could recommend a book to be added to our syllabus, it would be John Dewey’s Art As Experience. Adding Dewey to the conversation might have added clarity to our evaluations on how exactly to engage with art—and I regret not thinking of this until now.) What we do with it becomes our responsibility, and the potential ways in which we can narrate justice through art are boundless.
Music therapy and religion have made me an astute student of ritual. Like play, ritual narrates by eliciting emotional responses—a certain form of empathy. It is my personal belief that visual art is most powerful when mixed with other artistic forms—movement, music, etc.—and that art should never be viewed in isolation from other human activity.
Saturday, November 21, 2015
Ritual and American Culture: A Reflection on YDS
Write one page discussing
to what extent ritual fulfills a vital social function.
Why
do we care so much about rituals?
Sometimes, we don’t realize how much we care until ritual is taken away
from us—or until we sense a need for which there is no ritual—and that only
ritual can fill. Thus, the way we
care about rituals cuts two ways. Rituals serve us, and when we don’t have
them, we feel their absence. Sometimes,
in our efforts to maintain a ritual for ritual’s sake, we end up serving the
ritual. Either way, ritual not
only expresses, but also organizes human emotions and values in tangible—but
not literal—ways. Herein lies the
social function of rituals.
At
Yale Divinity School, liturgy abounds in the multitude of chapel services that
occur every week. Being an
ecumenical seminary, liturgy is as experimental as it is all-encompassing. Interestingly, the abundance of liturgy
has seemingly led to a scarcity of ritual. What I mean by this is that there are few actual
“traditions” that students can expect from year to year, and that has left the
community feeling angry and frustrated.
In my role as one of the Community Life Coordinators at YDS, I have listened
to students complain about not feeling like they know their role in the
community—and not feeling safe enough to interact productively with
administration and faculty. The Executive
Committee, on which I serve, is largely constituted by students in their third
year who still have not gotten over the fact that one of their favorite rituals,
“Saints and Sinners,” was banned—and not replaced by something similar or better—by
the administration two years ago.
Initially, I was shocked at how great the
resentment was over such a “minor” matter. But over time, I came to see ritual
as a marker of sincerity—whether actual or performed—and to understand its
absence as inviting unorganized emotions.
A ritual, no matter how serious or frivolous, is something to be looked
forward to, something that grounds individuals in a sense of community. At Yale Divinity School, rituals such
as Convocation, Advent Party, and Commencement still exist, but Saints and
Sinners, the yearly ritual of “fun,” has gone and left a gaping hole in the
heart of the community.
Even as old rituals are eliminated by
those in power who may not appreciate their value in a social group, so do new
rituals arise to meet new needs.
For the incoming class at YDS who know nothing of Saints and Sinners, the
absence of ritual becomes an opportunity to create new traditions and a source
of agency in establishing new roles and ideology in a community. Over the last two weeks, the Divinity
School was rocked by the events happening “downtown” in Yale College. Several of our students—mostly women of
color—attended the March of Resilience, Teach-In, and other related events on
the main Yale campus. Their
involvement sparked intense conversation at the Divinity School, and
eventually, our Dean held a “listening session” in which students of color
could speak candidly about their experiences. Among many other things, out of this very intense meeting
came a recognition that the Divinity School needed to do something to minister
to Yale Undergrads. Several students got together to plan a very last-minute
Service of Solidarity, to which undergrads would be invited.
The Service of Solidarity drew a larger
crowd than normally attends our weekly chapel services. I saw students, faculty, and staff who
came to show their support for what this service meant. Showing up was a marker of sincerity;
whether it was real or performed (or a mixture of both) did not matter as much
as the act of coming. Ultimately,
it didn’t matter whether or not many undergrads were there. The point of it all was solidarity, and
that required, first and foremost, a Divinity presence.
On a personal level, I felt compelled to
help plan the Service of Solidarity, both as a woman of color and as Community
Life Coordinator. My Community
Life Committee helped provide refreshments for the Service, and I took time out
of my schedule to sing with the Gospel Choir for the Service. It wasn’t enough that I emotionally and
verbally supported my friends who were on the forefront of planning—I also felt
that I had to physically show up and do something.
After the Service of Solidarity, one of
the main leaders of the event posted on Facebook, saying that for the first
time since she arrived at Yale Divinity School, she felt a sense of purpose and
that she had a place in the community.
The ritual she planned and partook in both signaled and solidified her
role. She promised that she would
make a better effort to attend chapel services regularly. Now that ritual had served to give her
a sense of identity, she was making an effort to serve the ritual.
My analysis of the Service of Solidarity would seem to suggest that, even in an overtly religious setting like Yale Divinity School, ritual fulfills a function that is first social and then spiritual. Granted, this statement could be easily contested if one reads a false dichotomy between the social and the spiritual. But for the purposes of this short piece, suffice it to say that the emotional component of ritual is something that calls for its existence and enactment—and might be taken for granted until it is neglected.
My analysis of the Service of Solidarity would seem to suggest that, even in an overtly religious setting like Yale Divinity School, ritual fulfills a function that is first social and then spiritual. Granted, this statement could be easily contested if one reads a false dichotomy between the social and the spiritual. But for the purposes of this short piece, suffice it to say that the emotional component of ritual is something that calls for its existence and enactment—and might be taken for granted until it is neglected.
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