Sem1

Jennine Pono

English - Period 8

1/12/20

Who Are You

    Our most essential thing in our lives is something that is with us everyday and yet, we never think about it and at the same time we are always thinking about it. It’s the first thing we try to figure out about the people we meet and what we are constantly trying to improve. Everything you have done, from the first breath you took to your last spoken words is what composes this. As this isn’t a concept that we regularly fret around, it took me one whole semester of junior year english to realize the gravity it embodies. Throughout each piece of American literature we have dissected, there is one crucial theme that ties each book with a red string. Identity, “the distinguishing character or personality of an individual, the relation established by psychological identification” (Merriam-Webster). All our literature readings have emphasised the influence and power that identity manipulated in our lives through suppression, control, or recognition of identity.

No matter how successful you are, or how fulfilled you are in your life, your identity is crucial to your existence . In The Color Of Water by James McBride, he tells his autobiography of his biracial life of being white and black in 1960s America. Due to such circumstances, his single mother decided to raise her children by disregarding those parts of themselves. Even as she had done it with the best intentions, her children manifested this crisis that flourished even when their lives were set out. It corrupts the peace in their lives and in their house, “The question of race was like the power of the moon in my house” (94, McBride). Their existence orbited around it although it was shunned. It was a subject that tugged on their hearts and lured their bodies uncontrollably. With this gaping hole in their beings, James and his siblings couldn't help but feel a loss even being outstanding children, “I was on the ‘most likely to succeed’ list. Yet I myself had no idea who I was” (91, McBride). James had virtues providing him with fulfillment, and he still ached with the question to know who he was. James’s brother, Dennis, was the most praised child in his family for outstanding academic work, “the heights he has attained was trumpeted and crowded by Mommy” (71, McBride). Dennis puts on his best efforts to attain goals his mother would be proud of him for. However, he still yearned for a sense of connection to his race, “[Dennis] was one of the most active civil rights students” (71, McBride). This was an act that his mother wouldn’t approve of, “Had Mommy known what Dennis was really doing in school, she might have had a different opinion of him” (71, McBride). Dennis values his mother so much, he strived to reach such heights, yet he engaged in a movement that he knew his mother would detest. His desire to understand and associate with his background outweighed his love for his mother.  Through all their wins and triumphs, James and his siblings’ concealed race led them to an eagerness that outbattled their priorities. Who they are was the question that ultimately controlled their lives. Its significance is how it stayed prevalent even after having a direction. Despite their race being brought up, identity reigned their lives and pulled them to understand themselves before they could continue with their lives. 

The power of one’s possession over others has been determined by our appearance. Ta-Nehisi Coates delivers the truth of black lives in America to the readers in his book, Between The World and Me. America has determined the place and fate of lives by an individual's race. Coates reveals to us that the judgement people place amongst other is a natural thing as, “American believe in the reality of ‘race’ as a defined, indubitable feature of the natural world”, and that, “race is the child of racism” (7, Coates). Race is the child of racism and race is instinctive so the, “need to ascribe bone-deep features to people and humiliate, reduce, and destroy them” (7, Coates) is an organic judgement to this world. Such hurtful things are acted upon those who have been hunted down for their physicality, a part of individuality. Coates says that as a black person, it is their will in this country to be beaten down on, “destruction is merely the superlative from a dominion whose prerogatives include friskings, detainings, beatings, and humiliations. All this is common to black people” (9, Coates). How the world treats black people is built off of the history of white people claiming their bodies as tools for prosperity. Because they are black, they are mistreated and put at the bottom of our society’s hierarchy. Certain identities denounce one’s privilege in their life as who we are determines how the world treats us. 

In my own life, I have seen myself revolve around the influence identity has, especially because of my environment. Living in an area with little to no diversity, I found myself suffocated by the pristine, cookie cutter village. I came from Niles, where each house spilled with scents of home cooked dishes and kids ran around the neighborhood playing tag in their languages. Our local church was a mosaic of  different colors all gathered from different backgrounds, but sitting in comfort and harmony. My grandparents and parents spoke in their mother tongue, humming sincere prayers or full blown fast paced arguments, shooting words so harsh, there is no direct translation for it in english. My everyday life was filled with color and brilliancy. Slowly, I began to pick up on our history, the language my ancestors have spoken in hushed tones to soother their crying child. Each word spoken was a bond I sewed to my parents and to the soil from which they came. I was six-years-old and one day, it stopped. Clinging to my grandma’s dishwasher stained and garlic jeweled house dress I cried, “Why won't you speak anymore? Why won't you teach me?” She was quick to answer, “You’re an American going to an American school.” Snip. Gone were the vibrant days of crawling closer to the womb our family tree was birthed from. Knowing her experiences first coming to America and not being able to communicate properly, she was scared and didn’t want me to share the same experience. A fear had been developed from this neighbourhood, that when I go to learn in school, I’d be bashed on for sounding alien. Through growing up, I was still always and constantly exposed to our traditions and customs, I lost my ability to speak our history. The terror of my heritage being exposed has ripped me away from the heartbeat of our country. My identity was a hindrance to the education and social system of America in which I had to conform to hiding it.  

In one of my favorite projects this year, I took a poem I felt a strong connection to and performed it. Our Poet Laureate, Joy Harjo, wrote this beautifully earth bound poem that reminds me of my grandma's teachings. The whole message is to know who you are, everything from what dirt you walked upon to your mothers breath that she gave to you, “Remember your birth, how your mother struggled/to give you form and breath.” (Line 7, Harjo). She emphasizes the significance acknowledgement of everything that creates you by the repetition, “Remember…” The elements in life that construct you are indicative of how you will breathe on this earth. Your whole being depends on the understanding of yourself and how others view you. 

As we go on with our days, each action modify who we become. Your outcome is the way that others will view you and ultimately decide how to treat you. These books have demonstrated how the world treats us when our identities are in jeopardy and the suffrering burned into our bodies along with it. In our lives, our identity creates us but can also destroy or improve us depending on how we treat it and how the world looks at it. 

Slowdown Throwdown

This is a work inspired by Tracy K. Smith’s podcast: The Slowdown

                                                                                     Kahinumdum

Life is fleeting. People change and evolve, shaping ourselves into the mold created by hardships and success. Change is inevitable for life to prosper. My grandma made sure we understood that. She engraved it into my sister’s and mine hearts before she couldn’t. Having divorced parents, life is always so different and constantly morphing.

I have moved a total of thirteen times, counting both sides. I’ve lived with a total of 3 other families, hearing new experiences and leaving with some of my own. Memories were birthed in large open yards that bled into fresh pine forests but also in cramped townhouses infested with rats every winter. Marble kitchen counter tops were covered in home-cooked visayan food and so were dumpster dove dining tables, but they both held the same warm conversations booming with laughter. My grandma has had the freedom to roam around the town via the access of a free pace bus, asking, “what’s your problem?”, to everyone she meets, then telling them how to navigate their way, preaching the words spoken from last Sunday’s mass, and hugging strangers’ babies. There were also times when I’ve seen her cooped up in her room, legs dull and thin from not going anywhere, eyes blank towards the same Filipino telesarye (Filipino soap operas) that has been running for the past 6 hours, the scent of laundry, crushed garlic, and earth lingering on her hands and vestida. Her prayers at night have been silent but strong, her hand dashing across the pages of her prayer book writing a psalm for everyone on the earth, even those who have cursed her. Some nights they were passionate cries and preaches at night praying for the guidance down “the right path”. Large changes have occurred, from household to lifestyle that I often forget I face a small switch every week for the past 11 years of my life. 

No matter my circumstances, my mind always resonated with what’s going on around me but also how it started. My grandma, or my Lola, reminded me how life is transforming, she also made sure that we knew who we are from, where we are from, and what we are from, which reminded me of  Joy Harjo’s poem. “Remember the earth whose skin you are”, is a line that strongly captured my grandmothers message. She told me to connect back to the soil on which I came from and the soil my parents came from, even if you are on new land. To live as an American, but love as a Filipino. The earth is a place that holds our stories, our connections, and our life— she wanted us to be aware of that, even with the spontaneous course of a river that life sails on. Joy Harjo’s lines and stanzas are like my grandma is whispering in my ear from across the world, reiterating her values that she installed in me. Here is Remember by Joy Harjo:

Remember

Joy Harjo - 1951-

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star's stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is.
Remember the sun's birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother's, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life, also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin of this universe.
Remember you are all people and all people
are you.
Remember you are this universe and this
universe is you.
Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember language comes from this.
Remember the dance language is, that life is.
Remember.

In My Name

Jennine Angelica Cuaycong Pono

My name is the broken promise of two people who thought they were in love

My name is the constant reminder of what could’ve been

The testament that JENNIfer and NEstor did exist 

To the child, it was the proof there could be unity in division

It sounded like I could be Jennine and not just

JENNI half the week

and NE the other half

But I had another name whose home was an old woman

Her hands were strong, but her fingers were wrinkled

That name was sweetest on her lips 

who rose with the sun and slept when the moon was almost faded

cooking food and washing the dishes

Her hugs smelled like laundry detergent, crushed garlic, and earth

The name was Nenine 

It meant rough scoldings that melted into warm laughter 

to the child who drew on the walls

Nenine is the lavender lightheartedness that once sparked in a 6 year old

It was a bird who liked being caged because anywhere else

Nenine, sounded alien 

on the playground

in the classroom 

or simply near others in the neighborhood 

It had to be quiet, hushed, or put away.

Angelica was the person I’ve wanted to be

angelic angel

selfless, saint, sterling

Pretty the way it is no matter who says it

I can find pride in my full name

Jennine Angelica Cuaycong Pono

It’s the verbal impersonation of who I am

Someone who lives and loves opposing things  

Harmony, Warmth, Discord

You Look Like...

To See The World Through Society

    Now This is a news source that is widely spread across the internet and social media, sharing many of the issues that roam our world like racism, pollution, inequality, and politics. They posted this video  which depicts a black father being pulled in by the cops as the cop claimed he was a sought after criminal by a warrant from Louisiana. The black father kept trying to resist the cop as his wife and children were watching his possible unreasonable arrest after just previously playing in their yard. As the police officer kept claiming the man by the wrong name, the man constantly defended himself by saying that he is not the name the officer was looking for nor was he ever a resident of Louisiana. His fear surged every time the cop pulled him away from his wife and kids and closer to the cop car. The cop gave up later and walked away as if nothing happened, no apology or acknowledgement that he was in the wrong. 

 I couldnt help but to be painfully reminded of my own personal experiences of the devastatingly common: racial profiling. I confess this with a heavy heart, I have always remembered this deep fear that would manifest on my chest and clutch my throat everytime authorities pass by as a child and even up until now. When driving in neighbourhoods, I always hold my breath passing the blaring red and blue flashing lights that to many may seem like a beacon of hope, but to me, a warning of danger. 

There is this vivid memory of when my dad was pulled over by the cops on our way to school because he was driving, “too close to the lines”. He sat there in his scrubs, straight out of last night’s twelve hour shift deeply apologizing to the officer who did no justice but prevented me from going from school an hour late and prolonged my dads chances of getting his well sought after sleep. Where we fit in society is determined by the way we look. In these situations, my father's darker skin and the man in the video’s dark skin and dreadlocks led authoritarians to believe they have power over us even when we are in the innocent.

The power of one’s possession over others has been determined by our appearance and the status that it has brought us. On top of the false claims, the officers walked away without regard of their wrong-doings. Society has determined that authorities play God in our lives based off the way we look.

In Ta-Nehisi Coates’ book, Between The World and Me, he discusses the death of an innocent black boy who was inappropriately shot to death by a white man. The inexcusable reasons for the life passing was that the white man felt, “fear for his life” (page 112). In truth, the boy only, “ play[ed] their music loud, to be American teenagers” (page 112). The white man’s ability to execute the young black boy comes from their statuses in society. The black boy’s life was just an expense to the white man “exercising his rights”. His body was claimed, as Coates says, which reverts back to colonial times where black people were used to produce resources for White people. He was treated insignificantly, as they did during slavery when, “they took from us and how they transfigured our very bodies into sugar, tobacco, cotton, and gold” (page 71). The White man has a higher place in this society because when Coates tried to stand up for his son, he was degraded by other white people. When Coates goes to see a movie with his son, a white woman pushes Samori and scolds him, b,among him. A white man then threatened to call the cops on Coates and it reminded Coates that in this world, his body is an object, manipulated by white people. 

Although Coates only spoke up for the justice his son deserved, he was instantly reprimanded by a white man who feels he, “rescued the damsel from the beast” (page 94). Coates’s situation is one where his child was mistreated and he had the right to appropriately correct the woman. The young boys murder was a large extreme for a little problem yet the man committed the act easily. When the white man murdered the boy, no condemning occurred as he took his leisure time after the crime, “drove his girlfriend to a hotel, had drinks, [and] ordered pizza” (page 112). In addition, he was only charged for the shots he fired after the young boy’s friends when they fled, “the killer was convicted not of the boy’s murder but of firing repeatedly as the boy’s friends tried to retreat” (page 112). In both situations, each man fought for the rights they believed the had, but one was injustice and the other was not. The white man slaughtered the young boy for reasons that his music was threatening. Coates restored justice for his son to a person who hurt him. However, in the end, Coates is in the wrong despite his objectives being good-willed in opposition to a death because of “threatening music”. Because the killer was white, his crime is easily dismissed in comparison to Coates’s rightful resistance to ill-treatment.

The Now This video and the event in Between The World and Me depict harmless acts of people where others who are privileged decided they had a right to decide their fate. The book has taught me that this disgusting self-proclaimed right is not only an ability used by law-enforcers, but everyone. From the video, I remembered facing this phenomenon of racial profiling that to me was always by authorities. But, the death in the book made me realize the extremities that this concept of racial profiling can drive people to do, even a regular citizen to murder a teen. Who has the right to claim who’s body is determined by how people see each other. Even if a black man stood up for his son, he has no right over a white man killing a boy for music, that’s his place. This book has made me see that in the real world, discrimination doesn’t chose whether it’s a police over a citizen or a woman over a little boy, everyone has.