An Open Letter From a Former Mind Reader

In the movie, A Knightʻs Tale, Heath Ledgerʻs character, William, announces that heʻll win the jousting tournament to prove his love for Jocelyn.

Jocelyn, however, is completely unimpressed. She has zero fucks to give. Williamʻs declaration, the same that every other knight in the tournament has made to her, is meaningless because it costs him nothing. Sheʻs like, "Fuck that-- you all win for your own glory, this ainʻt got shit to do with me. Iʻm supposed to be impressed and flattered? Fuck that." But more to the point, winning requires William to demonstrate no vulnerability, and perhaps thatʻs what sheʻs really craving. Some realness. Because when we show our vulnerability to others, we open the door to deeper connections.

Itʻs easy to do things for others that come easily to us. Itʻs easy to treat well those who treat us well. Itʻs easy to demonstrate our physical prowess if weʻre athletic or to sing in front of a crowd if weʻve an excellent voice. I have no problem walking around the beach in only my swimsuit even though I have a far, far, FAR from beach-perfect body. The beach is my safe space and I feel comfortable and confident. Showing you the parts of me that Iʻm already confident about requires little vulnerability. Those parts are easily visible no matter who you are. But ask me to wear revealing dress and put on makeup? Fuuuuuuck thaaaaat.

However, even if I trust you, revealing the uncomfortable bits of myself requires me to take a risk because thereʻs still the fear that though that thing didnʻt break you, this thing might. This thing might be too much or not enough. Too cerebral, too ugly, too real, too superficial, too heavy, too scary, too foolish.

So, this is the work Iʻve been doing. Showing up for myself, being me, leaving myself open to judgment or acceptance. Iʻm going to do my best to be transparent with you. Iʻm going to tell you how I feel, what I like, what I donʻt like. Iʻll try to tell you what I need and want and how you can help. Iʻll ask for your help if I need or want it. Iʻm going to do my best to care for myself and trust that youʻll let me know if I step on your toes. Iʻll probably rub up against your boundaries, but Iʻll trust your judgment. Youʻll say something or not. You can tell me no, for real, but I going ask. I will also possibly appear foolish, naive, or otherwise unattractive, and Iʻll feel super uncomfortable. Iʻll get over it. Garanz.

And I know that there are pieces of you that youʻre afraid to show the world or just your special person, but want to. Or wish you could. Maybe, like me, your tolerance for faking shit has dropped dramatically. You desire authenticity and genuine connection. You want to drop the pretense and be present with your flawed self.

Well, Iʻll be there for you. Yes, you, my (few) readers. Dear friends. You can tell me what you need and what you want. You can tell me how I can help and then ask for my help. I canʻt read your mind, you know, and Iʻm kind of tired of anticipating and fulfilling. Because the transaction where we actually communicate with each other about what matters to us, thatʻs where we build trust, empathy, and love. At least, the kind that Iʻm looking for in all my relationships.

And I know itʻs shame to care about stuff. Or at least to show that you care about stuff. Youʻre supposed to keep it inside, be cool, be stoic, suffer in silence, pretend youʻre not hurting or confused or even frustrated. Youʻre supposed to be sunshine and bubbles and cotton candy. Youʻre not supposed to tell people, "I hurt. I need you." Shelley and I were fucking going over this yesterday and the numerous ways this shows up in our lives and pisses us the fuck off.

From Brene Brownʻs The Gifts of Imperfection

 
Because for someone like me who suffers from general anxiety, I sometimes feel like Iʻm the only one who cares about anything. In my nearly 45 years, I know (and, I mean, I KNOW) Iʻm not. I know there are times when youʻre faking it, too. I know you donʻt want me (read: the world) to know youʻre upset, tired, anxious, scared, angry, sad. You want to keep things light. You want people to believe youʻre as easy-going as you seem. You no like complain. You donʻt want to make humbug.

But make humbug, okay? Kehau and Shani hear it from me alllllll the damn time. I make choke humbug for them and have been for years and years and years. They know they can make humbug for me, too. No have to be stoic all the time. Itʻs human to complain. I going let you know, okay? No have to worry that I no can handle or that I no like handle, which might be kind of worse, yeah? To think the people you love and love you choose not to embrace you.

Cuz if you know me at all, you know the kind of person I am. I challenge you right now to think of a time when Iʻve intentionally been a dick to you. When have I not rolled with the punches? When did I not gracefully accept what was? Hard for do, right? Iʻm pretty fucking flexible, forgiving, and accepting. This not bragging or delusion. This is observation. This is self-knowledge. People have called me a sucker for this, and itʻs taken me plenty years to reject that idea. I care because I care. I no can help if you take advantage of me.

Fair warning, though: I might not be as easy going as I once was. Iʻve been working on setting, observing, and maintaining boundaries.

So know this as well: if you tell me youʻre fine and youʻre not, no expect me to read between the lines. No tell me you all good if you not. No tell me you not carrying bags if you stay holding bags in both your hands. No make me guess. Cuz I will give whatever I can to you, my friend. I will support you however I can. Even if you push me away, you know Iʻll never leave you hanging. You know me. You gotta be one humongous fucking jerk for me to cut you out (and even then, maybe not? Not forever, anyway). No be shame, even, to say, "You know what? I changed my mind." Cuz I change my mind, too. Sometimes, what I thought was, maybe isnʻt anymore. But I wonʻt know that you need me unless YOU FUCKING SAY SO.

Trusting each other with our authentic selves doesnʻt mean we give in to each other or sacrifice ourselves. It does not mean we decline to each other. So, maybe I canʻt give you what you ask for and maybe you no like give me what I need. Thatʻs fine. When Jocelyn tells him to lose, William says nope. He no like. Losing isnʻt a small thing, either. At this point in the movie, Jocelyn doesnʻt understand that losing the tournament has far more consequences than just a bruised ego. But itʻs still his choice, and I canʻt imagine that she expected a different answer in the first place. This is one of my favorite scenes in the movie because I love that they were both brave (stupid?) enough to say what they meant at that moment even if it put them in conflict with each other.

At this point in my fucking life, Iʻd rather experience a little bit of conflict or disappointment for even a chance of meaningful connection with you than sacrifice all meaningful connection for a bunch of guessing games just so I can maintain this illusion of nonchalance. Itʻs so not the fucking business.

 

Art (Life?) is Inescapably Artifice

People love bite-sized pieces of things, donʻt they? Look at all the candy. Itʻs not that people necessarily want smaller bits of delicious chocolate, they just want greater convenience in the form of cleaner hands and the perfect mouthful.

We arenʻt like that, though, people.

I mean, some folks are, but I donʻt know a lot of them.

I think what lands up happening is we squish ourselves into bite-sized pieces that are more easily digestible by the greater public. Our coworkers, colleagues, family, and friends. The strangers we strike up a conversation with in line at the market. The mail carrier. The pizza delivery person.

We do this so that we can be kind and friendly. Make new friends and maintain acquaintances. We extend community this way. We do this also as protection.

But Iʻm curious about what real engagement looks like.

What if we agreed, you and me, that we wouldnʻt dumb it down. That when I ask you, "How are you today?" you gave me a sincere answer instead of some version of, "Iʻm fine." Saying anything other than "Iʻm fine" doesnʻt mean it has to be full of drama. Just full of you.

Itʻs hard to put yourself out there. To be vulnerable. To put yourself at someone elseʻs mercy, even if you trust that person. Weʻre afraid of being judged or rejected. Maybe weʻre afraid of confronting the very thing that haunts us or excites us.

And itʻs a big, scary proposition to trust someone else with our deepest desires, greatest fears, and even the simplest wishes. "I need me time," comes difficult for some. Heck, farting in front of someone can be scary (though not so much for me. Pooping my pants is by far the scarier scenario there).

Iʻm at a place in life where pretending is exhausting. Pretending to be fine, to not feel anything too deeply, to not be disappointed or pleased. Sometimes because Iʻm afraid, but usually because Iʻm following social norms.

Louis Ginsberg, in a letter to his poet son Allen, says "art is inescapably artifice." A poet himself, Louis seems to be excited by this idea because then writers can use the sentence and have "varied it and given it such flexibility that in their own unique way they seem free and yet communicate." If art is "arrangement," then writers are free to arrange. As a writer, Iʻm also excited by this.

However, the other side also intrigues me. Stay with me here as I break it down. If art imitates life, and life imitates art, and if art is artifice, then life is artifice. And that can be exciting as well. Because if, as Louis celebrates, "limitations in art provide opportunities for exciting adventures in expression," then we have that freedom of expression in our every day lives. We can be as creative as we choose to be, we can be as free as we choose to be, not just in art, but in all we do. 

Which also means we can be as deceptive as we choose to be in our interactions with one another. We can mislead, shame, and hurt others. We can fool ourselves and each other. We can render our interactions meaningless.

But what if it means we can also be liberated from the expectations of the reader, who in this case, is simply the other. What if it means that by acknowledging the condition-- that life is artifice and people are faking it-- we can transcend the condition? Subvert it? With vulnerability and sincerity.

And while being vulnerable can be scary, it can also be fun. No, for real! Greater vulnerability can mean greater engagement and deeper connections. It can mean more satisfying interactions. More joy. More pleasure. Because we can trust each other with our deepest desires. We can tell each other what we need. We donʻt have to hide who we are, at least not always (we all need a private life, donʻt we?).

When I used to work in the hearing impaired classroom, there was always food. We would slice a loaf of banana bread the short way, and then once down the middle the long way. Portion control, you know? If the slices were smaller, weʻd eat a smaller serving. It never worked. Weʻd always land up eating both sides of the slice and maybe even another half (because it was only half, after all).

Obviously, Iʻm trying to say bite-sized pieces donʻt always work out for me. Iʻm tired of starving myself. Iʻm greedy (no judgement!). Iʻm hungry. I want more than the perfect mouthful. Thereʻs no such thing as perfect. Lorde sings, "What the fuck are perfect places anyway?" 

Feed me.

And if youʻre interested, the Louis Ginsberg quote comes from one of my favorite books, Family Business: Selected Letters Between a Father and Son, which contains correspondence between the two men. These letters reveal a beautiful relationship between a father and son who donʻt always agree with each other. The love and respect, though, are evident. You donʻt need to have read a poem by either Ginsberg or have a general interest in poetry to enjoy the book (but neither hurts). Hereʻs a photo of my copy, which Iʻd be more than happy to lend out.

Why I Love My Job, Reason Number 987.35

My lessons for some of my students has been about perspective-- that a story can change depending on whoʻs telling it (go check out Storyline Onlineʻs A Tale of Two Beasts and Snappsy the Alligator). That two people who experience the same event can have very different versions of that event. After a semi-lengthy discussion, one of my students (who usually isnʻt very active in our conversations) asked me, "But arenʻt they [the two characters] in the same book?"

The question excited me, and I said as much. I love questions like that. I encourage them. I will stop an entire lesson to explore them. That question has nothing obviously to do with the story itself. Itʻs not a question youʻd find on a follow-up, pre-made worksheet (or maybe Iʻve just never seen one worded like that?). This was a question that came from her curiosity.

We are often taught that stories, especially the ones we read for school, are one thing. We learn early on that there are right answers and wrong ones. That teachers expect certain responses from us. We learn that right answers are rewarded and wrong ones are dismissed, and maybe we donʻt always know why theyʻre wrong. Why weʻre wrong. We learn quickly to keep quiet unless weʻre fairly confident we have the right answer. The one the teacher is waiting for.

It didnʻt make sense to my student. Her idea-- what sheʻd been taught a story is and isnʻt-- didnʻt jive with what we were discussing. How can it be that two characters within the same story have differing versions of what took place? Isnʻt there some sort of agreement you enter into as characters in a story, as the author of a book, as a reader of that book? And yet now, because she was curious, her ideas challenged, we could explore and expand their definitions of what stories can be. And all because she was brave enough to ask this simple question.

Iʻm pleased she trusted in the safety of our classroom to explore her curiosity. She trusted me to take her seriously. She trusted her classmates to give her space.

It excited me even more that she opened a door all by herself. A door that leads to another idea of what a story can be. And maybe she wonʻt walk through it for another few years when sheʻs in high school or a few more, when sheʻs in college. Maybe it wonʻt even be a book that prompts her to take that step, but an interaction with another character in the march of her own story.

Iʻm excited by the possibility that she can make space for new ideas. Or at least be aware that she can make space for them. And maybe one (is "many" too much to hope for?) of those new ideas will be transformative.

My Mantra (or A Conversation Between Brain and Heart)

My focus for January is this: don't diminish your light so that others might shine brighter.

I was walking last night and talking out loud to myself and realized that wearing a mask is a brilliant way to disguise one's madness. I guess you can still see it in the eyes, but I wear a cap.

I was also telling Merf that I didn't know what my third goal was (I've talked about lists of 3 before, haven't I?). I'm adding meditation back into the rotation, as well as daily squats (look out, quads and hamstrings!). But what the heck else was I going to do?

On my walk, I started repeating that mantra to myself:

Don't diminish your light, Kanani, so that others might shine brighter. 

I don't like hurting people. No, it's not even that. I don't see the need to hurt people, and I want to ease suffering when I can. But I've been doing that at the expense of self for a long time.

So. 

Don't diminish your light, Kanani, so that others might shine brighter.

Do not be dissuaded by the loud voices in the room. Often, they don't even realize how loud they are. Like me, they want to be happy. They want to ease their own suffering.

Put it another way. 

Shine bright, Kanani, because your light is singular.

In our local culture, humility is valued. You like people call you haʻahaʻa. And in our increasingly dichotomous world, if you not haʻahaʻa, then you haʻakoi.

So part of shining bright is letting go of judgment. Our daily language is full of judgy words. Selfish. Should. Better. Selfless. Take a moment today and just listen to people talking. About anything. Words are powerful.

I can be bright without being haʻakoi. I can be bright without diminishing your light. Itʻs not either/or. Life is way more nuanced than that. More complex.

Shine bright, Kanani, because your light is singular.

The fear, of course, is that my light is so bright that it invites criticism. "Too bright, Kanani! Tone it down!" or "Wow, laulau, who you tink you?" And criticism in itself is not the problem. Itʻs the vulnerability of putting out for the whole world to see my authentic self.

Shining bright is brave. Being vulnerable is brave. Keeping that "sweet wound" ever open is brave. Opening myself up to the world, accepting the good and not so good and everything in between-- thatʻs brave.

I can be brave. I can shine bright. 

And I can still help ease suffering. I can still be haʻahaʻa (See? Even thatʻs a judgment). Your light is not diminished. Matter of fact, we going make the world brighter together.