abyss of humanity

yesterday, when I turned my phone on at 3pm, I saw a comment on one of my recent Instagram posts that said — “Black lives matter, the show must stop.” it was from a male tango friend that I hadn’t seen, or spoken to in a year — someone I enjoy dancing with, and only have positive feelings for.

I won’t lie. it bothered me so much I couldn’t focus on work the rest of the day, and I woke up today at 5 am thinking about it. this was the day that Instagram was doing a movement of “black out tuesday” as a show of solidarity — though for me, 13 hours ahead in Japan — it was already wednesday.

I didn’t even know about this black out tuesday. because I am never on social media. after years of trying and failing to post on social media consistently — I finally was lucky enough to find someone — who’s since become a friend and confidant — to help me share all of my work. so that I can just delete the apps, and focus on creation. I create work here in this website-house. and then, a few days later, she carries those images and text onto the crowded town square that is Instagram and Facebook. she was the one who told me about this movement.

so when I saw his comment, I felt totally shamed — for being inadvertently insensitive, for seeming to not care about black lives, for daring to post content — that, by contrast to the symbolism behind black squares, seemed totally tactless.

then I felt angry. for the insinuation that I didn’t care about black lives — that by not partaking in this social media activism, and by indirectly posting anything other than that — it meant I was thoughtless, complicit, guilty, and part of the problem. I felt agitated by the phrasing — “the show must stop.” — what I interpreted from those words are: BLM is the urgent reality you should care about. everything else — including your art — is just a show.

so then, finally, I felt anxious. is it true? was I part of the problem? am I being willfully ignorant, being privileged enough to be cloistered here in my big house in Japan, separated from current events by oceans and half of the earth? am I perpetrating racism by doing “nothing,” by being “silent,” by turning inwards, rather than taking a stance, being active in the protesting, calling representatives, having my voice heard?

so, what are the questions I’m asking myself?

if I have a voice, how do I best use it — in times of crisis?

what is the role of the contemplative artist — the one whose orientation is inwards — during this time?

how do I balance this inward facing focus — with my social, humanitarian responsibility?

I have a working answer to all of these questions.

in short, that there are many ways to have a voice, and many ways of using it. silence can speak many things. I don’t believe that there is ONE way to have an active stance, nor do I believe that an active stance is the ONLY way.

a side note:

on the darkness & ills of humanity, and the disillusionment of the American dream

I realized recently that I think I feel less disturbed than my friends around these issues, in part, because I spent three years in college studying the abyss of humanity — specifically, the mass genocides of World War II. I majored in creative writing, but I minored, specifically, in WWII history. history is news, too. news from 80 years ago. stories retold. that is not a very long time, given how long our species has existed.

and history repeats itself. WWII felt like a symbolism of humanity’s darkest abyss — the starkness of humanity’s technological advancement with the brutality of systematic murder. it was like a gaping wound — that we as a species are capable of such a thing. and I couldn’t stop looking at it.

people can kill each other. the government can kill its people. we can all kill ourselves. no civilization is exempt from this darkness, and just because we have “progressed” technologically or materially — does not mean we have progressed internally, as a collective body. we are all capable of murder. and suicide. and if we are all connected, then our murder is our suicide.

I feel similarly about COVID. yes, the world is sick. but the world has always been sick. society — our healthcare system, our governments, our ways of relating to each other — has always been sick. we just didn’t have to face it — as directly as we are now. it’s a chronic illness. but we are now dealing with the boils, and the fever.

and the American dream? my country, ‘tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing? I had to sing that song everyday in elementary school, and then stand up and do the pledge of allegiance to the American flag — “for liberty and justice for all.” but even as a child, I could barely tolerate it. even at seven, eight, nine years old, I felt angry about it. I wanted to roll my eyes. because I could feel the hypocrisy. I felt it in the discrimination and xenophobia that I experienced — growing up Asian in the American south — and I intuitively sensed the lie. I hated it. by thirteen or fourteen, when I moved school districts, and it was no longer absolutely required, I refused to sing the song. I refused to make the pledge.

so I am not disappointed by the idyllic image of America. because I never believed in it, in the first place.

i got so tired writing this post that i stopped. will continue answering these questions another day.

Kening ZhuJune 4, 2020