Dream Journal 2

What I remember:

1) I'm observing this world that is organized like Purgatory. Each tier is like a school or job level. Everyone specializes in something, but they have no say in the matter. Their roles are assigned at birth. On the most surface level, I see kids in school. The deeper I go down through the levels, the older people get. I see that there are more people in the white collar worker section and less in the chef section. There's an aging ramen chef who's bored. He's the only one in the ramen section. Then a young girl enters to be his apprentice and he's ecstatic. I go deeper. The white collar worker section is getting more and more packed. There's so much competition. Then I get to a very low tier and all the white collar workers are about 60/70 years old. They're going nuts, boozing and doing drugs. Some are half naked and dancing. It's because they know that there's no escape. They keep on going through these levels, but there's no end to it all. They think, "What's the point of caring?"

2) There are hidden magic schools that have strange entrance rituals. One involves dragging the kids over railway tracks. They don't get hurt, but it's uncomfortable to watch.

3) My boyfriend's sister and brother-in-law are getting married on a boat. There are mermaids wearing pink and blue armor. The sister and her husband slip on mermaid suits after the ceremony and swim away. There are orcas that carry people on their backs and bring them to shore. I point them out to my boyfriend, but he shakes his head and tells me that orcas are shady Jersey Shore type characters. Then the orcas start talking like Tony Soprano.

Dream Journal 1

Sometimes I remember my dreams with an alarming amount of clarity. It certainly helps to write about them right after they happen. I've been told that I should share them, cause they can be entertaining. Anyway, hope you enjoy some of the weird things that go on in my head at night!

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I'm escaping a village in a marshy, wooded area. There are other people my age and some families who are also escaping. We're running towards the river where there are long rafts waiting for us. A person I know offers help getting across the mucky ground that's pocked with wide puddles. I smile and deny his help, moving like a ballerina with long legs. We clamber on the long log rafts. The crowding is so intense that a mother gets separated from her daughter, who looks to be about 9-years-old. Her left eyelid is malformed along with her left hand. The mother struggles to get to her daughter but can't fight through the crowd. The girl is crying but the mom yells that they'll find each other at river's end. The rafts speed down the rushing river. It's night and I keep worrying that we'll tip over.

We get to a city. The buildings are tall and spread apart, like downtown LA, only the exteriors are sandstone and Art Nouveau style. We're floating down the asphalt streets, still on our wooden rafts. I don't know why, but people start climbing out. A coworker of mine and my boyfriend get off. I follow suit.

We're running. I don't know why. We get to a Park Slope looking area and run into a sand colored brownstone that's also a NYSC, but the interior is like a run down motel. We go into a room filled with beds of all sizes. There's a queen, twin, even a daybed. The sheets and pillows are all gritty and mismatched. My boyfriend is suddenly a personal trainer and starts training my coworker. I shrug and go over to an elliptical, which somehow is in the same room as all the beds.

Then my coworker and boyfriend take me to the building's "yoga studio." We pass by really high tech looking washing machines. There's a woman furtively doing laundry and looking at me suspiciously, as if to say these machines are not for you. We get to the "studio." It's also rundown. My coworker says we need to get heavy sand for bombs, that the yoga blocks need to be ground down. She points to a giant pair of dumbbells and says these are the ones The Hulk uses. (In the dream, I take it so seriously, but now I'm laughing about how ridiculous my dreams can be.)

Next thing I know, we're in the desert. Some of the people from my raft are there. Their hair is matted and forming dreads, their skin is lightly dusted with dirt, and they're wearing a hodgepodge of leather and cloth scraps all stitched together. One of them is the mom who got separated from her daughter. She looks stunned. I see who she's staring at. It's her daughter as a young woman. She's with a bunch of other people. They look similar to the mother's group, but their skin tone is a muddy blue and their muscles bulge in random places. The mother reaches out to her daughter. She touches her daughter's temple. The daughter holds her mothers hand. I see that one of the daughter's fingers is bigger than the others and there's a long, thick yellow nail shaped like a hook.

There's a scream. We all look to the distance and see a flock of beige T-Rex running toward us and roaring. We start running. All of a sudden, I'm looking at everything from a birds-eye-view. I see red and blue people (a metaphor for Republicans and Democrats?) scurrying across the desert terrain like beetles. Then there's a crimson and mustard colored T-Rex holding a bow and arrow. He's fighting the beige T-Rex with exploding arrows. He's the human's protector I guess?

There's another scene I remember, I just don't know when it happened in the sequence of visions:

I'm a pterodactyl-human (I know, awesome, right?), but I'm wearing some kind of cape that helps me fly better? I land on a rooftop where there's a party being held in my honor. Everyone is in black tie formal dress. A guy in a tux hands me this large, off-white plastic tag. Supposedly it controls my cape? Then a guy who looks like Elijah Wood tries to steal it. He's wearing a suit with a burgundy sweater vest. I chase after him. We fight over the tag and drop it down the balcony. I don't want to risk jumping down, because I don't think I can fly without the tag thing that controls my cape. He says he's willing to jump to the lower balcony and then down the the ground level where the tag is. I start crying and say, "Aren't you afraid of dying?" He says it's worth it to fly. He jumps, ricochets off the side of the lower balcony, and falls to the ground with a loud crack. I'm crying even harder now, but also know I have to try to get the tag. I say I can't do it. Someone (don't know who) says that I have to try. I pull my wings tight and jump. Don't remember if I landed safely or not.

Building More Traction for #WeNeedDiverseCreators

This is a long overdue personal post about #WeNeedDiverseCreators and its relation to projects like Helen Wan’s novel “The Partner Track” and Beyond Press’ “Elements” anthology. I’ve always believed that more women of color should be folded into the mainstream American narrative, but for the longest time, felt hopeless about it. Many women of color and other marginalized folks will understand why, but for those who need context, read the next three paragraphs.

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For six years, I’d worked consecutively at Marvel and DC Comics and learned quickly that, similar to other publishing and entertainment industries, most editors wouldn’t take a chance on someone without a proven track record (webcomics and zines didn’t count). It was a Catch-22 that was further complicated by fierce competition and scarce talent spots. So how were women of color ever going to get in? I complained to my friends, but was worried about speaking on record about my ideals and why they were important.

Part of that anxiety was rooted in the fact that PR departments for both DC and Marvel implied that expressing our personal opinions had the potential to misrepresent the company. I didn’t want to jeopardize my job or future prospects even remotely. Then DC moved its publishing operations to Burbank and I left the company to stay in New York.

I’m happy with the job I have now, but it’s taken me a while to simply blog about why #WeNeedDiverseCreators. Balancing a full-time job, life, finances, and self-care leaves little room for my more personal writing, but I don’t want to make excuses for myself anymore. I admire the creators of color who have always been outspoken and unapologetic advocates; people like my friend Wendy Xu, who’s been telling me for years to just put stuff out there and not worry about whether it’s “good” or not. Well, I finally feel confident and unafraid enough to add my voice, regardless of whether it’s a little late in the game.

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Cover of "The Partner Track" by Helen Wan

Helen Wan’s The Partner Track is about Ingrid Yung, a Chinese-American lawyer who endures and battles racism and sexism at a prestigious law firm in New York City. Some of it was based on Helen’s personal experiences as a corporate attorney. Even though I gave up my interest in law when I got to college, I still had an exhilarating experience reading her book. Simply seeing through the eyes of a character, who, in an alternate universe, could have been myself, was not only validating, but exciting. It’s the same thrill I got while seeing the new Ghostbusters movie.

It’s not enough for the main character to be a strong Asian American woman, though. No one but Helen could have written The Partner Track, because, like it or not, living through something is going to give you more insight into that experience. You can conduct research and interviews, even hire sensitivity readers, but a method-acting approach to writing will still be colored by your own life. And that’s OK. That’s why #WeNeedDiverseCreators, because a large pool of perspectives can more powerfully enable the empathy that’s essential to diminishing the hate and misrepresentation in this world.

In the light of Black Lives Matter, I think diverse creators are more important than ever. Because reading is essentially listening, and that’s something that the majority of this country (e.g. Trump supporters) has blatantly rejected for far too long. Listening to a story is the first step to understanding it, and understanding leads to empathy, openness, and kindness. It’s something marginalized people have to fight for, through marches, through angry tweets, through yelling in the streets. That may sound counterintuitive, but when you demand to be treated equally by the willfully deaf, it’s the only option.

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Helen was featured in the Washington Post back in 2014.

The importance of speaking out about the need for diverse creators was magnified when I took a novel writing class with Helen Wan at the Asian American Writer’s Workshop. I found her journey through publishing provoking, yet simultaneously illuminating and unsurprising. She told us about people who advised her (prior to finally finding the book's agent and publisher) to change Ingrid’s race so the novel would be more marketable, implying that an Asian American protagonist wouldn’t be able to turn a profit. Racism is alive and well in America, folks, but many of us already knew that.

Helen also let us in on a little secret. Those Amazon reviews? They help measure the success of a book and the subsequent bankability of an author. If we want to sway publishers into opening their doors to more diverse writers, we have to go beyond buying diverse books, we have to rate them also. I never expected a marketplace review to accomplish much. I’d always thought that reviews needed to come from The New York Times or The New Yorker to be considered worthwhile. But like Helen’s character, Ingrid, we women of color may not have a lot of friends in high places, but we have the numbers and we have community.

I always go back to the Audre Lorde speech that was quoted ubiquitously in my Barnard classes: “The Master's Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master's House.” And while Amazon couldn't be more representative of "The Master" in that it's a corporate behemoth, our reviews, our words are our own tools and that's something they can't take away. That's something we can use to carve out our own space. Ingrid Yung goes through a moment like this in The Partner Track: “I was never going to win as long as I continued to play by other people’s rules. Instead, more of us needed to get into the business of making them up for ourselves.” And that’s exactly what indie publishers like Beyond Press accomplished for their creators and readership.

Cover art for Beyond Press' "Elements Anthology" by Chrystin Garland.

Beyond Press’ Elements anthology Kickstarter has already exceeded its goal of $30K by almost $15K, and, as of today, still has five days to go (back it now to unlock the $45K stretch goal reward!). The indie publisher had built up steam from their first self-titled anthology, which editor Sfé R. Monster got traction for from their Twitter community. In a 2015 interview with Steve Morris of Comicsalliance Sfé said, “The anthology was actually inspired by an idle tweet I made back in 2013. I was joking that I wanted to be part of a comic anthology with a queer sci-fi/fantasy focus and that somebody should make that. That off-the-cuff comment got a lot of positive response, and a lot of people whose work I respect and admire said they’d like to be involved.”

Their current Kickstarter’s success is proof that there is strength in community and that we don’t have to play by the rules of big publishers who won’t give our work a second glance. Taneka Stotts, co-founder of Beyond Press, said as much in an interview with Black Comics Month earlier this year: “I feel there is a stigma that has existed in comics for a long time that has left all people of color feeling unwelcome within the community. However, we have now changed that by literally not caring, entering all spaces (regardless of welcome) and enjoying ourselves. We are carving out our own spaces where we can share our stories, and speak in our own unedited voices.”

The Kickstarter I was recently a part of depends on the values that Stotts and Monster champion. My short story is being featured in “Hidden Youth”, an anthology by indie publisher Crossed Genres. “Hidden Youth” will be a collection of speculative historical fiction about marginalized teens and children. The Kickstarter got successfully funded, but it was nerve wracking right to the very last minute. I reached out to everyone I knew, their mothers, and their mother’s friends. I was embarrassed to ask for help, but friends everywhere told me that this was how it was done and that it was OK to call upon your community for support. This was part of using my own tools to take down the master’s house.

"Mooncakes." Art by Wendy Xu. Writing by Suzanne Walker.

Another key tool for playing by our own rules is Patreon. Wendy Xu told me about it a few years ago and now, nearly every indie comics creator I know has one. (Go support her Patreon, by the way, especially if you like witch stories!) This is probably already old news to many, but it bears a reiteration, especially for people like me, people who rarely use social media. For the longest time, I was out of touch. Sure, I backed a few Kickstarters and used the pre-populated tweet about backing them, but I wasn’t using my own voice enough. And I wasn’t keyed into Twitter enough. As you can tell, I’m more of a long-form kind of gal.

A lot of my friends aren’t very “plugged in.” Perhaps it’s because we were born on the cusp of the Millennial generation. We lived our childhood without computers and smartphones. But that may just be another excuse. I now more deeply understand that whether you are a marginalized person or an “ally,” if you want to change the world for the better, you have to go beyond buying a book or supporting a Kickstarter, you have to join in on the conversation.

But enough self-deprecation. What I’m trying to say is, while social media can be exhausting, while hearing about the news can bring up anger and pain, and while taking the time to write an Amazon review can feel like a burden on top of all the other life shit we have to deal with, it’s worth it. Change is work. I have to remind myself of that constantly.

My hero, may she rest in power, Grace Lee Boggs, said that “we are the leaders we’ve been looking for” and it’s so easy to lose sight of that. To be sure, everyone is entitled to take time for self care, but only we can put in the hours. To help diverse creators get more of their work out there, we need to be a part of the news that matters to us. These are not new ideas or insights. Much like the power of a single Amazon review, this is another voice that will help amplify the chorus and hopefully inspire others to do the same.

Goodbye, My Dear

"Goodbye, My Dear." That's what Sarah Matthews would always say when we bid farewell, whether it was in person, over the phone, or Skype.

Every second of every day, people are born and buried. So it seems trite to over-aggrandize the death of one particular person. At least, that's what Sarah might have said about her own death...because she never made a big deal about herself. She made herself small, because she had this huge idea of who she wanted to become. 

If she were given a few more years, I know she would've grown into that ideal or, at least, something close to her satisfaction. She would have been able to look in the mirror and finally love herself completely. Deep down, I think she knew how smart, artistic, warm, generous, and beautiful she was. But like most of us, she had her demons. And she hid them from the world. 

Sometimes she'd feel safe enough around me to be vulnerable. To release some of the pain by opening up. Those are moments I'll cherish until my own heart gives out.

Sarah was the kind of girl who would've talked circles around Jacques Derrida and Roland Barthes (both of whom she adored). When I first met her at Barnard, I thought she was one of the coolest people I'd ever met. She still is.

With dyed black hair, gorgeous tattoos, and a silver hoop pierced right through the center of her bottom lip, she looked like a badass Angelina Jolie. She changed her look over the years, but she never stopped loving hardcore punk and black metal. Up until a few months ago, she even tried to get me to go to shows at St. Vitus.

Sarah left Barnard for a bit so she could learn how to heal people as an EMT. When she came back she thought about majoring in Biology. She truly was the kind of person who excelled at anything she set her mind to. The bureaucracy of undergrad wasn't really suited for her. She was in and out of school a lot. Even so, she eventually got her Bachelors in Architecture.

Only a few months ago, she was finally getting out of school and moving back to Brooklyn. Leaving her roach-infested studio on the Upper West Side, she was excited to start a new chapter in her life. And then, silence. Silence that I simply mistook as her being busy.

Acute Pancreatitis was the culprit. It came on suddenly. There are only two causes: gallstones and heavy alcohol consumption. She had no gallstones. Like I said, she hid her demons. She made sure they were mute to all except herself. Bearing the brunt of that pain alone is something I hope no one will ever do again.

There was a chance to save her. It required a quadruple amputation. When she was finally well enough for surgery, she made the decision to do it. She was about to accept life as a quadruple amputee and STILL pursue architecture. Who amongst us is brave enough to do that? Yet, despite all her determination, the pancreas did further damage. Poor nutrition and an auto-immune disorder certainly didn't help. Infection, pneumonia, and more complexities I won't get into.

Acute Pancreatitis is a terrible disease, but Silence is worse. I wish more people had gotten to know Sarah. I also wish for anyone hiding their pain to come out a little. You don't have to suffer alone, because revealing it can mean your own survival.

And if by some chance you're feeling all right, check in on a friend. The one who has been silent for a while.

I love you, Sarah.

Goodbye, My Dear.