Tag Archives: writing

Creative Writing- Finding Religion

I wrote this 4 years ago, and I’m considering writing a few stories with the same characters. I intended it to be loosely based on my sister and myself, although a few friends have commented that it is pretty much autobiography with the names changed. This isn’t a comment on religion, but just a story about kids being confused about the particulars of their religions and (a little bit) race.


Sarrah ran her hand over her head. She played her fingers over snarls and stubborn curls that stood up even though she had tried her best to make a good ponytail. She absentmindedly smoothed them down, which caused the shorter hairs that grew all over her head to stand up in a vague red halo.

“Which religion are you?” she asked her friend Elizabeth. They were sitting on one of the low blue benches outside of the cafeteria. Only the fifth and sixth graders were allowed to use the cafeteria because it was so small. Being able to eat inside the room with fans and gleaming linoleum instead of outside on benches and gravel felt like a badge of honor to most of the older students, and if the deigned to talk to younger students they mentioned the cafeteria as much as they could. Sarrah, who was in 3rd grade, wasn’t jealous. She liked the benches, liked being out in the sunlight and liked eating in the classroom when it rained. After eating, she took advantage on the benches by sprawling across them most of the time, taking up the space of three 3rd graders, laying stomach down with her knees bent and her feet lazily kicking in the air. Elizabeth wouldn’t sit with her when she did that, though, so this time Sarrah sat on the corner of the bench and wondered how little of the seat she could take up. A foot? How long was a foot? Six inches?

Sarrah twisted her head around to see if she could see her sister J’naea past the line of people that always ran across the inside of the doors. J’naea was tall and had skin the color of grocery store caramels and wild dense curly hair that was a mixture of brown and blond and red. She wore blue Chucks mostly every day. Sarrah didn’t see her.

“Religion?” Elizabeth was Chinese, from China but not, as she anxiously explained to Sarrah often, “Fresh off the Boat.” FOBs were backward, talked funny, said mean things in Chinese and made fun of you when you asked them to talk slower. “I speak Mandarin and my language and English,” Elizabeth had told Sarrah. “They say I don’t speak Chinese, but I do. They’re mean. Don’t talk to them.”

So Sarrah had planned to ask every Chinese person she met if they had come into America on a boat. Most students in her school were Asian, but most of them had been in her school for years. They weren’t fresh off a boat or a plane or however people got into different countries. Sarrah had no real opportunity to judge whether people were FOBs or not.

“I guess I follow the Buddha?” Elizabeth said, her voice, as always, scratchy and deep for a little girl. She fixed her light brown eyes on Sarrah. Sitting down they were the same height, even though for some strange reason Elizabeth was taller when they stood up. Elizabeth shrugged. Sarrah watched with envy as Elizabeth’s shiny black, stick straight hair moved prettily around her shoulders. Elizabeth’s hair went to her butt. Sarrah’s hair always grew to her shoulders and then stopped.

“Buddha?” Sarrah frowned in confusion. She was used to people saying “Catholic” or “Baptist” or “Presbyterian” While she didn’t really know what any of those things meant, she knew even less what it meant to be Buddhist. Was the Buddha the people the crazy Hari Krishnas worshipped? No, that was Krishna. Duh. And Krishna was…the God of Indian people as well as the crazy bald people in orange robes that walked around Berkeley? “Is Buddha the fat girl statue in the Chinese food restaurants?”

“Buddha is not a girl!” Elizabeth’s eyes were big and flat. Her nose, thin but round, flared. “Is your God a girl?”

“Probably not,” Sarrah admitted agreeably, used to Elizabeth’s easily dismissed anger. “He was a man once. But I don’t think he was ever a girl.”

“What are you? Baptist?” Elizabeth grabbed her foot and pulled it to her forehead. Elizabeth wanted to be a ballet dance and someone had told her ballet dancers needed to be able to touch their feet to their forehead. Elizabeth did this all the time, sometimes during class. Somehow she still had lots of friends, unlike Sarrah, who only had two or three at school besides Elizabeth. Some kids thought Sarrah was nice, but too weird. They smiled at her uncomfortably and talked to her sometimes, but not too many people wanted to be her friend.

“I don’t think so,” Sarrah answered.

“I think black people are Baptist.”

“My dad’s not anything,” Elizabeth said uncomfortably. She wasn’t sure if not having a religion was bad. But her dad didn’t go anywhere on Sunday, or any other day, except to work at the gas station. “And my mom is white.”

“I know you’re mom is white, stupid, I see her before, all the time.” This time Elizabeth didn’t seem even temporarily angry, just amused. “What is she then? You go to church with her?”

“We go to the Salvation Army.”

“Then you’re a Salvation Army…” Elizabeth paused, her small, chubby mouth distorted in a grimace. “…person?”

“But mom says that’s not our religion, that’s why I can’t be a junior soldier,” Sarrah cut in. “She says that there’s no church for us that’s close enough to get to on the bus, in the morning. Especially since J’naea gets all angry in the morning and whines all the time and has to spend 50 thousand minutes doing her hair.”

“What does she do to it? It looks like a red bush.” Elizabeth and Sarrah spent a moment contemplating J’naea. What did she do for half an hour to get her hair big and curly and her lips red? Why did it take her another hour to pick out clothes that were just, when you got past the designs (like plaid or neon or sparkly) jeans, T-shirts, sweatshirts, and Chuck Taylors? Elizabeth’s older sister Sue braided her hair in two pigtails every morning and sometimes used colored hair ties at the ends, taking her all of 3 minutes. She wore school t-shirts to school everyday. Her pants were all dark denim and varied in nothing but length. But Sue was a 4th grader. Maybe something happened in 5th grade?

“It looks better than my hair,” Sarrah sighed, again trying to smooth down her frizzy pony tail.

“Yeah,” Elizabeth agreed. “You should put it straight.”

“I don’t know how. And Dad says my hair is beautiful and I shouldn’t want to harm it just to look like everyone else.” Sarrah could repeat her father’s speech about pride in black hair word for word, but since it was long and had no pauses she decided not to. He talked a lot about her being both races, and not struggling to be one or the other. “You don’t have to struggle to be black or white,” he’d say. He didn’t say anything about struggling to be Asian.

“Just brush it more,” Elizabeth advised. “My hair gets tangled and I brush it. Just brush it.”

“Hmm.” Sarrah was about to try to change the subject when J’naea walked by and said hello by grabbing Sarrah’s head with one hand and shaking it back and forth. Sarrah saw she was wearing the hoops the principal had told her were too large to wear at school. They were 14 carrot gold and went down to J’naea’s shoulder. Sarrah wanted them but knew she probably would be too self concious to ever wear them.

“J’naea,” Sarrah asked, letting her head be shaken, “What religion are we?”

“Episcopalian,” J’naea said, scrunching her face. It was her ‘What wrong with you Sarrah?’ face. Sometimes ‘What’s wrong with you’ meant ‘Are you okay.’ Sometimes it meant ‘Are you stupid?’ And sometimes it meant, “Are you crazy?” Sarrah judged that this time it was ‘Are you stupid?’

“What’s that?” Elizabeth asked before Sarrah could.

“It’s like Catholic, with priests with white collars,” J’naea explained loftily, “Except they can be women too. And there’s drinking wine and eating cookies in the middle. The wine is blood and the cookies are God’s body. And you have to say ‘Peace be with you’ in the middle of church. Don’t you remember?”

“You eat your god’s body?” Elizabeth let her mouth drop open, showing braces over bright white teeth. “You eat it? You drink blood?”

“It’s cookies and wine, it’s just also God’s blood and body.” J’naea said with a sigh that was meant to express how dumb Elizabeth was. “We show we care about him being killed with a cross so its okay to ask him for things.”

“We give Buddha oranges and burn good smelling incense and stuff like that,” Elizabeth said, again scrunching up her face and wrinkling her nose. She didn’t know much about her religion, because her parents didn’t make do anything towards it, but she doubted it was as strange as Sarrah’s.

“I don’t eat God’s blood, I mean drink God’s blood, or eat his body,” Sarrah was quick to say. “Never.”

“You have. You were baptized and you did,” J’naea said. “And if you say you haven’t, I’ll tell mom you don’t like God ’cause you think his blood and body are gross.”

Elizabeth and J’naea looked at Sarrah curiously, wondering which option she’d take. Recess was almost over. Some kids were drifted into clumps, mostly divided by sex, gossiping or playing trading card games. Some were getting in their last fix of kick ball or four square. The tether-ball pole was empty since a month ago, when someone had hit themselves in the face with the ball when they served.

“Fine,” Sarrah said, unsure of what she meant. Episcopalian was an important sounding religion. It was a long word and hard to say. It was almost as exotic as the Buddha-religion. “Fine, I’m a– what’s the word? How do you say it, I mean?”

“Episcopalian,” J’naea said. She lost interest in the conversation, her eyes going to a group of sixth grade girls pretending to ignore sixth grade boys. “There’s Sophie. Bye, babies!”

Elizabeth’s nose stayed wrinkled. “Episcopalian?”

“Yeah, that,” Sarrah shrugged and looked at Elizabeth as J’naea wandered away.

The bell rang a few minutes later and Sarrah and Elizabeth walked into class, careful not to be the first or last ones in the door.


Guest Post: Survival Story: Overcoming a Lifetime of Sexual Assult

This is a piece by a good friend of mine. This may be triggering, but it is a good and powerful read. Find more of her writing at her blog.
            Last year

Last year I was so depressed I would wake up, go to work and go to bed immediately upon returning home. Last year I was so depressed people would talk about future dates

“When is your birthday?”

“November” *but it doesn’t matter because I’ll be dead*

Last year I was so depressed I hoped if I starved myself, lay in bed enough, didn’t make an effort enough, I could die. I researched. I collected pills. I read the online forums. I tied knots.

I barely survived.

The first time I was rapped I was 3. The last time I was raped I was 23. The “accountability” process failed and my community couldn’t support or hold me. Some men did not know what to do with a crazy survivor and cut me out of their organizing spaces.  Not enough people had my back or held me when I sobbed through the night.

It happened to me and it could happen to you. The questions are, are we willing to stop this repeating story and never let it happen again? Or are we going to be silent and complacent as more survivors’ die and more rapists live well.


One of the first things I remember is my father’s hand gliding up my back under my shirt and grasping my neck. He would do this to pretend I was a puppet because I was too shy to entertain his guests in any other way. I was too shy and I felt sick. I was a little girl sitting on the edge of a rough-made desk, kicking my legs off the side and he smelled of midnight summer BBQ. His hands were on my back and I was three. I was three. I was three and ready wary of life.

I think it happened first around the puppet time. We lived in a Cabin in Alaska. I was three and my mother shipped off to work in the Bering Sea. I was three and it was summer. I was learning to run and it was summer. I was picking blueberries and learning to swim and playing Robin Hood and 40(?) area woods and avoiding bears. I was three and I was already broken.


I hurt myself. I have had sex with the wrong people, people who hurt me. I don’t really remember how I survived. I only know that I am still here

When I was about 16 the United States started talking about cutting as if it was a new thing. Friends started talking about their attempts. People talked about suicide as it if is a rare feeling, as if you ever get over the feeling, as if once you walk that edge you ever really always want to live.

I have no idea what if feels like to truly want to live all the time. I have been playing with death for as long as I can remember. I have been hurting myself for as ling as I can remember. This is what childhood sexual assault can do to a person, it is a lifetime of trying to convince yourself you are not worthless. Of trying to convinve yourself another day is worth the pain.

But like anyone that survives, that doesn’t take the temptation into death, I learned to hide, I learned to be a straight A student. I learned to be mean and make biting comments that made me the really funny quite one.  The smart one they came to for homework help but didn’t really like wasn’t really fun to be around. The one no one could figure out and was probably a serial killer. “It is always the quite ones.” They joked, and side eyed me. And walked away quickly, leaving me to my books.


When I was in college I was part of survivor circles and I participated in their accountability processes. I attended trainings. I volunteered for local safe houses and community support groups. I admitted we had a problem, I never admitted that I personally shared in the struggle with the people I supported.

The first time I made my rape public was deranging occupy. Suffice it to say, I was stalked, raped, stalked, threatened and threated by my perpetrator until I was forced to leave Seattle and the state. He made it known to me and my community that he wanted to kill my partner and me. He was willing to go through with these threats.

He pulled knives on two of my friends, threatened his entire support community and committed a crime, which would get him locked up again for close to a year. When I have told my story to health care professionals the only nurse that understood was an outpatient mental health nurse in East Oakland. I just had to say, facing serious prison time, friend of the family, and part of the same community and she nodded,

“It is complicated, we all share community with people who fuck up.”

After I found relative safely in Oakland I continued to engager myself. I plotted my death. I went to the psych ward. 51/50. I went to their groups. I didn’t speak for several years, for several years of my life. All the women I love have gone through a rape experience. I supported them when I would not support myself. I couldn’t admit to myself that that there was a problem or care about myself in any meaningful way.

The struggle never ends, and once you are raped the effects are with you for a lifetime. The night after I wrote this I felt a sense of closure and healing. I just moved back to Seattle after two years away and my rapist’s sister pulled me aside at a community education discussion to let me know her brother had been spotted a local La Raza café near where I stay.

I was suddenly backed to the day after, scared, angry and needing to run away. Lucky people in his community still take my needs seriously.  They are looking after me in a way I never thought possible. But still he pushes his limits, still he wants me dead. It has been four years and still I live in fear of him, it has been 23 years and still I live in fear of my dad.

Life Before Death

I still believe change.  I believe we can stop rape and everything that goes along with it.  But I no longer know the path. I no longer feel hope pulsing inside. I no longer trust my closest comrades not to betray me at worst times in the most dangerous ways.

I believe in a world where little girls are not afraid to go home and little boys are not afraid to walk of their houses without worried about a cop having a bad day and shooting them.  Today I want to live in world I can organize without dealing with sexist men and rapists in my affinity groups.

The question is am I a silly dreamer or are we going to working together for a revolution that shifts the dynamics of the world enough that my story would become just another part of a shameful colonial history?

How strong do we need to be to seek redemption? I believe in global but not always personal change. I do not care what a pedophiles life story is. I don’t care if they had a hard time in middle school. They made a choice and that needs to be made clear. They worst thing for me about the current trend toward “community accountably” is the language about “holding the perpetrater” or being even softer “the person to caused harm.” During my very public process some actually asked me to stop using the term prep because it caused them stigma. Really? I thought it was the choice he made to rape someone that caused him stigma, not my language.

That being said I do thing sometimes it is good to take history of abuse, war trauma etc. into account when dealing with people who rape. But I will personally refuse to be in a serous conversation about rape with someone who forgets even for a second that you always, always have the choice not to rape someone and a rapist has always decided to take violent action and violate a person. No defense, no excuses. If you are truly seeking redemption, you have to admit your wrongs without any sugar coating or “I didn’t hear her” or “but she wanted it before” or anything other such pitiful excuse.

This is a call to arms. Rapists, are you willing to seek redemption? Survivors are our willing to speak out? Community, are you willing to listen and truly act? If so, lets build together toward the world of all our dreams.

Mania and Other “Fun” Stories

Quite a few years ago, I strolled into my psychiatrist’s office smiling brightly. I made small talk with everyone in the office, and got quite a few of them smiling too. Someone said loudly that I was a ray of sunshine, and I laughed and smiled and said “of course” cockily. The receptionist was a bit confused- usually I was shy and sometimes weepy- but pretty quickly I got her smiling too.

My psychiatrist watched me interact with others for a few moments before he called me into his office. When I sat down, explaining that I was having a good week, he told me that I was possibly having a hypomanic episode and asked me if I had incidents like this before. I was confused. I wasn’t bipolar. I had depression interrupted a few weeks a year by a period where I was productive and happy and normal. And I’d seen mania before- not only were several members of my family bipolar, I’d received inpatient care quite a few times. Half the people in the hospital with me had been so manic that instead of walking they practically flew. I was nothing like that. I slept a little less, I ate less, I was more chatty, the world seemed pretty simple and suddenly everyone loved me. I wasn’t going 400 miles a minute. I wasn’t staying up all night. I wasn’t having sudden leaps of logic- or not logic- and I wasn’t behaving super impulsively.

The doctor explained bipolar 2 to me, and asked me about times in my life when I’d been what other people considered functional. He suggested something I found mega depressing: the “productive” or “normal”  times in my life were actually periods of hypomania. Apparently alternating between being a hermit and being mega-social is a little bit of a red flag. I was also fidgeting and talking faster- something I just thought happened in conjunction with being happy. I was put on a mood stabilizer, and while I didn’t suddenly become sane, I actually did pretty well until my insurance was cut off and I had to find other care.

Starting over with new doctors is always interesting. I have, over the years, been diagnosed with quite a few things. And typically, doctors look at that Bipolar 2 diagnosis, shake their heads, and start over. Then, after a few months of crying and moodiness, when suddenly I’m bouncing off the walls, looking straight at them, being bothered by nothing and proclaiming that I’m just generally awesome, they quietly add Bipolar 2 to my chart. If I’m having a particularly fun time they might add a question mark after the 2.

I woke up today a bit hyper. I say “Woke up” but I don’t think I actually went to sleep. The world seems fun and happy and chill, and strangely enough that makes me nervous. Every time I think I might be manic I know that a bad depression can follow.But…I also know that I’m not really motivated to tell my doctor when I’m manic. Getting help for feeling bad makes sense, but getting help for feeling good is counter intuitive, isn’t it?

If I could be a little manic forever, I’d sign up in under 1.4 seconds. Things are not complex when I’m like this. People are not scary because, not only do I not care what they think, but if I do want them to like me I can easily get them to, at least in that surface way that most people like people they barely know. I crack jokes to strangers when I’m like this, and they laugh. I babble (which is pretty typical of me) but instead of being confused and talking over me, people just listen. When one of the main problems in my life is being social, being like this forever seems like it would be heaven.

I wonder what other people think about Mania. I know it’s not always fun. I’ve had one or two mixed states, which is another thing that makes doctors think I may have full blown bipolar. I would pay money to never experience that again. I feel really bad for people who go through that often.

So yeah, I don’t really know what other people feel about their mood swings. The only other people I’ve talked to about it either don’t acknowledge that they’re bipolar or were undiagnosed for so long they don’t take their meds because they think it’s unnatural to need more than 3 hours sleep a night.

Another Hard Night, Can’t get help

Edit: I think I’m past the danger zone at the moment, so I just want to let anyone who reads this in the future know that I’m okay. I think I’ll leave it up, though, because it has some thoughts in it I should probably look at more deeply.

I think I have been headed towards recovery, but  if you want to use a metaphor, and hey, why not, I am now in a valley so far down I can’t even remember what the sun looked like. All the things I want to be seem impossible, and instead of being traits I’m proud of or goals I want to be, they feel like sharp objects I’m constantly stepping on. I’m supposed to be smart, but I feel stupid. I’m supposed to be nice, but I’m mean. I’m supposed to have a future, but I feel pretty sure that’s not true. People tell me I’m talented, but that’s only because they don’t know how piss-poor at art I really am.

I don’t know what to do right now. I don’t know if I can make it through the night. I don’t think I can.

My emotions have always taken control of me. They have always felt like physical pain. Hurting myself physically actually hurts less. And it let’s me disassociate. Problem is, I always have to come back, and then I see whatever I did to myself.

When I was a teen, and a cutter, I got told all the time I was looking for attention. Whenever I tried to ask for help, it was assumed that all I wanted was people to look at me and pay attention to me. I can understand some of the reason people thought that. I was agoraphobic, thought every one hated me, and only went outside probably twice a month. A lot of my problems back then came from cabin fever and barely interacting with other humans. And I’ve never had a stable environment. I’m afraid to have children, because I don’t know if I can give them the things I never had, the things I needed. Set rules, for instance, instead of just punishing them when I get mad. A system of chores. A meal time. The feeling that their mom isn’t going to change from loving them one moment to beating the crap out of them the next. The hospitals, when I was a teen, had structure. They had people who talked to me as if I were normal. I felt safe I understood the rules of the people there. I struggled to interact with others, but still, I did much better in the hospital than outside of it. One reason is that part of my condition is an unreasonable and unpredictable reaction to stress. I, the real world, I basically am in fight-or-flight half of everyday. Hospitals are boring, horrible, but mostly not stressful places. My doctors understood, but nurses constantly made comments about me faking, being fine, not having problems, and just wanting attention.

And so, it is really hard for me to ask for help now. I get old I don’t want to get better. I get told I just want attention. One time I was told that I was since I’m resistant to a lot of medicines I probably never will get better. There have been so many times I’ve asked for help and the responses have been so hard for me. One was three months ago. I told a nurse I didn’t pick up my prescription for ativan because, as I’d told my doctor, I really didn’t want to take it. My father was a drug addict. I don’t mess with addictive as-needed substances. The nurses response: “Well, if you don’t want to take your meds, what do you want me to do then?”

Continue reading Another Hard Night, Can’t get help

I want to set something on Fire

Today I want to:

1. burn something

2. cut off all my hair

3. recreate Much Ado About Nothing with my old stuffed animals

4. yell (at someone)

5. scream (just in general)

6. throw red paint everywhere in my room before my boyfriend gets home

7. recreate Much Ado About Nothing with my old stuffed animals

8. see how much it would hurt to drop my copy of the complete works of William Shakespeare on my foot

9. Memorize Gondola no Uta in Japanese because right now all I can remember is the first and fifth word and Iiiiinochi mmhmmmhm, hm hm hm o-otomeeeeee-eeeee doesn’t sound that great

10. do something productive- (as yet unidentified)