The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
8 — Wednesday, April 14, 2021
My own crown
Even more than before, the
pandemic has resulted in social
media being a creative outlet, a way
to pick up new talents or a place to
experiment in hobbies you have
never tried before. I tried to pick up
new techniques when styling my
type 4 coily hair, a thick hair texture
that consists of tight curls or spring-
like coils. Representation of hair
and hair products have increased
over the years, such as on Pinterest
where a color spectrum was added,
which included hair and skin, to
ease hair and fashion searches.
However, bigger loose curls known
as type 2 and 3 are represented more
than coily hair in the media, making
it hard for Black women to find
products to assist in their natural
hair journey. This issue is only the
tip of the iceberg of struggles within
the hair industry. Media has taught
Black women for years that to be
beautiful, you must straighten your
hair, get a perm or have looser curls.
There is miseducation around
type 4 hair: It cannot grow, it’s not
“good” hair and it’s nappy. Those
statements are not true and only
degrade and make it increasingly
difficult to be confident with one’s
natural hair, as natural hair is met
with judgement and otherwise
negative connotations. I remember
being in middle school and everyone
was obsessed with having the
straightest hair possible or getting
relaxers. If their fingers got stuck
once, it was considered nappy. There
was, and still is, an obsession with
having the straightest, shiniest hair
instead of embracing the magic
our hair encompasses. I never got a
relaxer, which at the time seemed
like a burden, but I am forever
grateful to my mom, who wanted
me to appreciate myself. Even other
Black girls would run their fingers
through another girl’s hair, an
infamous “don’t do.” The COVID-19
pandemic gave women with coily
hair an amazing opportunity to fully
express themselves by advertising
more styles and hair products on
social media, resulting in type 4
hair being regarded as beautiful.
However, regardless of if the media
loves my hair, I have taught myself
to love all of me without societal
validation. All curls are beautiful no
matter if one type is easier to style or
more desirable, because our crowns
are uniquely beautiful. After all,
they were made for us.
I had to learn to love my hair
regardless of whether it was long,
short, super curly or straight — a
lesson many young Black girls will
have to face as they continue on
their hair journey. As poet Alyestal
once spoke, “My skin absorbs the
sun’s rays and my hair defies gravity.
You can’t tell me I’m not magic.” Our
hair, no matter the texture, is magic.
The world may not give curly hair
the love it deserves, but it is not our
emotional burden to continuously
teach others not to touch our hair
or defend the realism of our locks.
Many of us can’t fully understand
how our hair reacts, but we must
lift each other up by not judging
others on how they decide to wear
their hair. History has taught us
to manipulate our hair, but it has
always been in our power to braid
it, lock it or even straighten it. May
we all cherish the power that comes
from the crowns on our heads no
matter our curl pattern. May we
cherish our curls as a way to show
self-love. When we aren’t able to
express ourselves through our
words, our hair often speaks for us,
whether it’s saying we just woke up,
that we haven’t touched it in way
too long or that we’ve put hours of
care into our hair as a commitment
to ourselves. It’s time we learn to
appreciate and love everything that
our hair is, type 4 or not. Never tell
another queen how to change her
crown, only how to uplift it.
Finding community and healing
Chairs and X-marks drawn
in chalk stood six feet apart.
Small,
battery-operated
tea
lights flickered in the dwindling
light. As I listened to the vigil’s
speakers discuss racism, violence
and healing, I felt overcome with
emotion. Unexpectedly — and
more than once — I grew misty-
eyed, not from the cold wind that
numbed my fingertips, but from
the strong sense of community
amidst
such
tragedy
—
a
community that seemed to say
“you are not alone.”
By vigil, I’m referring to the
event on March 27 hosted on
the steps of Angell Hall by the
University of Michigan’s United
Asian American Organizations,
a coalition of more than 23 Asian-
American student groups on
campus. The vigil provided the
U-M community with a way to
grieve the lives lost in Georgia
and simultaneously stand in
solidarity against anti-Asian hate.
Throughout the vigil, thoughts
reeled in my head in a dizzying
fashion. I thought back to
my middle school years,
during
which
jokes
and absurd questions
accompanied
my
identity as the only
Asian
American
in
my
grade.
Simultaneously,
I struggled with
feeling inauthentic
as
an
Asian
American
during
those years. I ate
grilled cheese, ice cream
and french fries more often
than pancit, chicken adobo or
steamed stuffed buns. I carried
my mother’s East Asian eyes, but
I didn’t speak her native tongue,
which meant being separated
by what felt like a million miles
during
get-togethers
with
Filipino friends and family. When
I visited my mother’s hometown
in the Philippines, I was too
white and too American; yet, in
my own hometown, I was too
foreign and too Asian. At a young
age, I learned that being caught in
between two worlds usually meant
never being fully embraced by either
one.
Such
self-awareness,
if
you
could call it that, led me to wonder
what it meant to be a “hyphenated
American,” as University alum
Dim Mang said during the vigil.
Loosely attempting to assimilate
or adapt to situations — whether
in the Philippines or the U.S. — at
the expense of my mixed Asian-
American identity led to a disconnect
with who I was, generating conflict
between my own needs, feelings
and realities. I began to desire a
discernment of who I was within
the Asian-American community, a
community full of rich histories and
cultures I didn’t entirely understand
but was inexplicably linked to. In
high school, I started to read about
parts of Asian-American history no
teacher had ever taught me — such
as the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882
— in hopes of better understanding
where I belonged in my own country.
Then, in college, amidst rhetoric
of the “Chinese virus” and “Kung
Flu” from
government leaders, I witnessed the
consequences of letting such history
go ignored.
Standing in front of Angell Hall
amidst people who shared some
of these conflictions, I considered
how so much had changed since
my middle school days, and yet
nothing had changed. What was
unchecked violence in the form
of “othering” on the playground
had
manifested
into
targeted
violence rooted in hate and racism.
Then again, such violence has
always been there. Discriminatory
attitudes surrounding around Asian
Americans were real then and
remain real now.
All my life, I’ve struggled with
finding a sense of belonging. It took
time to find my place in the Asian-
American community, and my
heart pangs for the damage we have
been dealt. Each day, I read about
the torrent of racist violence and
feel grief for the Asians and Asian
Americans harmed — whether
physically, mentally or emotionally —
and left to cope with the devastation
of years of systemic racism and
other issues across the country.
The need for a vigil represents lives
that should never have been lost,
the lack of security and support
we feel in our communities and a
reality of violence and hatred we
shouldn’t have to bear witness to
and experience ourselves.
There is another message I
received from the vigil, however:
one of solidarity and healing.
The rise of targeted violence and
racism related to perceived
associations with COVID-19
drive home the importance
of promoting space and
healing. In so many
ways, we have been
living in tumultuous
times for over a year.
Our normal coping
mechanisms — loved
ones, hobbies, social
activities — have been
altered if not completely
stripped away, leaving us
with limited ways to cope
healthily through each day.
Throughout these challenges,
it’s difficult to find ways to
practice radical self-care, let alone
feel joy, peace and wholeness. But
it is damaging to not take care
of oneself, just as it is unfair to
individually shoulder the burden of
dealing with the consequences of
broader circumstances and social
structures.
The essentiality of anti-capitalist self-care
Growing up as a first-generation
Korean American in the Korean
church, I was taught to think of
others first: take care of the younger
ones in our community, be on
standby to help my parents whenever
needed, don’t start eating until the
eldest at the table takes the first
bite. In my family, love was often,
and almost always, sacrificial. And
while I am incredibly grateful for
my background and recognize the
character and values it has instilled
in me, I think it also gradually
conditioned
me
to
disregard
myself and my own needs. I quietly
taught myself I never needed to
be at the center. Seeking help was
unnecessary, self-indulgence was
never the answer and the extent of
my daily productivity was a measure
of my internal strength. I grew up
never allowing myself to be “that
person” who needed to take a day off
at work or gratify their whims, and
I remember thinking as a child that
the last thing I should even do was
ask my mom to buy me a candy bar
or some other trinket displayed on
the sides of the cashier line.
So when the term “self-care”
resurfaced in popular media several
years ago, I naturally scoffed and
brushed it aside as just a trend for
the privileged — those who could
afford to splurge on Lush bath
bombs, essential oil diffusers or
ten-step skincare routines. In my
mind, self-care was just another
way for rich people to make excuses
for themselves, and to be honest, I
regarded it as an activity only white
people participated in because I had
only seen it as such. But especially
after
attending
the
teach-in
hosted by United Asian American
Organizations (UAAO) for Asian
American and Pacific Islander
Heritage Month on March 31 about
burnout and anti-capitalist self-
care, I have come to understand that
self-care is not for the privileged but,
in fact, for all — and it is especially
for the marginalized, for those who
cannot afford to think twice about
their self-preservation.
As
explained
in
UAAO’s
presentation,
though
self-care
has been commodified into a ten-
million dollar industry by U.S.
capitalism, the origins of self-care
actually stem from anti-capitalist
roots in the Black Power movement
of the 1960s and 70s. The Black
Panther Party championed this idea
during the Civil Rights Movement,
with legendary leaders Angela
Davis and Ericka Huggins utilizing
mindfulness techniques like yoga
and meditation while in prison. For
these organizers, often Black queer
women, the idea of maintaining
their health and preserving their
existence was not only a means
of survival but an act of political
warfare.
Self-care
quickly
became
community care, a term illustrated
by Deanna Zandt that describes
larger methods of maintaining
the health and safety of one’s
community
and
collectively
resisting the oppressive nature
of our capitalist society. In 1972,
the Black Community Survival
Conference held in Oakland, Ca.
provided resources about the Party’s
free community-service programs,
such as healthcare clinics, local
transportation and free breakfast
programs that became a means of
survival and support against the
harassment and violence inflicted
upon Black people by the police and
federal government. In a white-
dominated, capitalist society where
leaders, institutions and systems
failed to protect and fulfill their
needs, active self-care translated
to caring for one’s community in a
way that would ultimately lead to
structural change.
While I used to roll my eyes at the
phrase “self-care” and only throw
the term around lightly, I realized
the weight of what true self-care
for me meant when I could no
longer afford to dismiss it— when I
physically could not breathe under
the immeasurable distress caused
by the reality of our society. When I
heard about the Atlanta shootings on
March 16, I needed to stop whatever
I was working on and do something,
anything, that would offer me some
semblance of solace and healing.
That night, my roommates and I had
a long discussion about the news
and talked for several hours. All of
us were at a loss of words and still
processing what had happened, and
I think we all knew we needed to
simply be together in that space.
In
the
days
following
the
shooting, as more news sources
started revealing the names of
the victims and social media
exploded with threads of who and
what was responsible and which
organizations to support, the weight
of what had happened continued to
steadily creep into my being. I had
an online interview for a summer
internship scheduled two days
after the event, and I remember
the coordinator reaching out to the
applicants the morning of March 17
to give us the option to reschedule
in case we were not in the right
headspace for an interview. While I
genuinely appreciated the email and
recognized that it would be helpful
for many, I told her I was fine. I
could handle it, I thought to myself.
There was no need for the hassle of
altering this other person’s schedule
for my own convenience.
The night of, I reserved a study
space on campus to get some work
done and practice for my interview
a few hours before its scheduled
time. After I had rehearsed a few
times with a little over an hour or
so left until my time slot, one of my
friends texted me about a vigil held
by Red Canary Song, a grassroots
organization of Asian and migrant
sex workers based in New York
City. I decided to join the livestream
for as long as I could before my
interview. In the vigil, activists,
students and massage workers
spoke
against
the
anti-Asian
violence that had occurred and the
larger intersectional issues that the
incident was borne from. In the last
segment I saw, Yuh-line Niou from
the New York State Assembly wept
as she spoke about her mothers,
sisters and aunties that could have
filled those names.
And then I started bawling.
There I was, uncontrollably shaking
and sobbing in that empty room, ten
minutes before my interview. I can’t
remember many times in my life
that I have felt this level of emotion
and grief — it completely seized me.
I took a few deep breaths and slowly
proceeded with the interview, and
I was fortunately able to carry an
honest and genuine conversation
with the interviewer, a fellow Asian
woman who told me she had been
grieving as well. After I got home
that night, I quickly went to my
room and wrote down everything I
could remember from how I had felt
during the vigil and past several days.
I listed the names of the victims,
which I will not share here as not
all families have consented for these
names to be publicly circulated. I
wrote about the wave of grief and
sorrow I had felt, thinking about
the unimaginable pain endured by
the victims’ families every waking
second. I wrote about the genuine
fear I felt for my own mother and
other Asian women in my life — how
these victims could be my middle-
aged neighbor, my family friend who
has recently become a parent, even
the three-year-old girl I babysat last
summer.
I am not saying that I should
have rescheduled my interview
or that there was, or is, always a
correct route to making one choice
or the other. But what I am saying
is that grief is real and self-care
is absolutely essential. Through
having
conversations
with
my
roommates, journaling my feelings
and prioritizing my mental health
in the days and weeks following,
self-care was more than merely
a beneficial leisure activity — it
became
something
that
was
demanded from my body and mind.
And I have since understood that
the discipline of preserving myself
and my well-being is something
that I, as an Asian woman, need to
actively and consciously practice —
if not solely for my well-being, then
for the sake of resisting the white-
dominated patriarchy that we live
in.
On March 26, UAAO held a vigil
— in person and via livestream —
for the victims of this anti-Asian
violence, and I played a small role
in helping organize it. On the steps
of Angell Hall, we shared a moment
of silence to honor the victims and
had numerous student organizers
and
other
activists
from
the
community speak about issues such
as the destigmatization of sex work
and the need for global solidarity.
We lit over two hundred candles,
listened to several resonant poems
of Carlina Duan’s and closed out the
night with a poignant performance
of Bob Dylan’s “Blowin’ in the
Wind” by two students. At our
final debriefing meeting after the
event, our check-in question was
to simply share about how the vigil
was for us and how we were feeling
in its aftermath. I watched as, one by
one, every person in the room spoke
about how planning and attending
the vigil had brought them a sense of
peace and healing, almost catharsis.
In light of the rise of anti-Asian
hate crimes this past year and the
devastation of the eight lives taken in
Atlanta, I, and countless others, have
grieved. We have taken the time to
drop what we were doing, take care
of ourselves and simply, breathe.
And in that same breath, we have
checked in on our loved ones and
processed through our emotions as
a collective, deciding how to move
forward and organizing community-
based efforts to counteract this
violence and its predacious systems.
And it is in these moments that
I realize that true self-care and
community care often go hand in
hand, necessitating one another out
of shared love and solidarity. When
an entire community is confronted
with an enormity of grief and faces
even the daily manifestations of our
oppressive society, we recognize
that we must try to take care of
ourselves, as an individual and
inherently as a community.
In a typical week, self-care for
me looks like intentionally setting
aside time to maintain my mental
health, whether I feel like I need it
at the moment or not. It looks like
journaling, reading a poem (or two)
before bed or simply making myself
a cup of tea to start my morning. It
looks like prioritizing the time to
cook healthy meals for myself and
making sure I get adequate sleep.
It looks like being honest with my
emotions and communicating with
others my boundaries and capacity,
in the words of Zandt, saying “yes”
or “no” when I really mean it. And
it looks like recognizing that even,
and especially, in the day-to-day, we
must choose to preserve ourselves
for our own sake and for others’.
“Our existence is resistance,” as is
famously said, and I believe this to
be true.
SIMONE ROBERTS
MiC Columnist
YOON KIM
MiC Columnist
ELIZABETH SCHRINER
MiC Columnist
Design by Sarah Chung
Design by Ahmad Kady
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