My Story #BlackLivesMatter

The day someone told me I looked like my mother, I almost cried. For years, I've always heard that I looked like my father. And when I think about it, I can maybe see it.

My nose.

My height.

And when my dad had hair, we have the same hair line. 

We especially can't forget these baby cheeks!

But when people say I look like my father, I wonder if that's what they see or if it's my beautiful milk chocolate skin that relegates me as black.

And that's why I look like my father.

Black = black, right?

I wonder, did other biracial kids ever think about this? Did they wonder if people thought of them as charity cases when they were with their white parent? That my white parent wasn't mine? 

So often, I would have these thoughts, but have no one to talk to about it.

Being biracial puts you in a spot that you can't get out of. I'm not fully black, but I'm not fully white. I will never know the true experience of either side. On one side, I'm supposed to have privilege and the other is oppressed and lost. I have both and none. 

I can't say when I started to put myself to a lower status than my own mother because of the color of my skin. I do know it was around the time I started to notice people's gazes on us. At some point, I would try to hide my 'blackness' when I was with my mother. I would take care of how I would speak. I would do whatever I could to promote my German half over my black half. 

And is that weird. I don't see my white half as white. But German. I have never labelled myself as "half-caucasian/white", only "half-German". Bi-racial and bi-cultural, that is who I am, but growing up, I couldn't reconcile both sides. 

Believe it or not, when I was younger, before the stares and fumbling attempts at adulting, I took pride in the color of my skin. It was what set me apart from those around me. Goodness, I can remember looking up to my older brother and thinking he was so amazing. And that I could never surpass how cool he was. 

But I had something he didn't have and that was my milk chocolate-y skin color. It was also the one thing that I could see at any time that I wanted without a mirror and have a connection to my father. After all, being an Army brat isn't easy. Sure, you get to travel and meet new people and experience new cultures, but at what cost?

Did you know there was a point in my life that the first time I 'met' my father, I couldn't communicate with him? That I thought he was a stranger? It wasn't because I was a baby and just recently born. But because he was doing his duty for America and hadn't been around those first few years. I spoke German and he spoke English. I can't even imagine what that must've felt like for him to come back and not even be able to speak to his only daughter. 

I am proud of my father and proud of what he's given me. 

I am proud of who I am and the color of my skin. 

But growing up....I was ashamed. My milk chocolate skin was becoming a hindrance and I hated...I hated that I was shunning half of who I am because others thought of me as less. 

It took me years to learn how to accept myself again. 

You know...I wonder why I never spoke to my parents about how I felt? I mean, parents are supposed to fix it all, right? I'm like 99.99% certain my mother is magic and my dad would move heaven and Earth for my brother and me just to ensure our happiness. 

Yet...I said nothing.

I couldn't confide in my awesome older brother, either.

All of my thoughts and emotions, I kept them all to myself. I wonder if that's why I felt so numb when I was younger? Why it took forever to notice my depression and anxiety? 

I was so focused on being perfect and not a burden for my parents and brother, that I forgot about me. 

I can speculate that the reason I never said anything was because at home, skin color wasn't a defining piece. We were simply, mom, dad, older brother, and me. I know my family kept me sheltered. I was the baby of the family, after all. It was like an unspoken rule that we didn't let the outside world come between us. 

The first time I joined the race discussion was in college. Of course, I was confronted by racism every damn day. Just because I didn't know what words to use or how to express my experiences, doesn't negate what was happening around me, with me, inside of me. That first semester in Sociology is what gave me the first tools to express my own experiences. 

While kids younger than me were getting the 'sex talk', I was getting the 'race talk'...at least...the beginning notions of it.

Since then, I've been doing my own readings, joining discussions, and learning to come to an agreeable peace within myself.

But every time I think I found peace or made progress in someone getting it, I see another brother or sister taken away.

I hear that even when doing nothing, we are still targeted, deemed less.

Just the other day, amidst the protests and a day before George Floyd's funeral, I learn of something that leaves me disgusted with certain individuals that I know. Instead of speaking up, instead they hold their silence. 

Must be nice having the option to be silent, but I guess you can still breath. I guess you don't have to keep your hands up or worry that you'll be shot in your own home by the police. I guess someone says your name just fine.

To those who do speak up, thank you. Thank you so, so much. 

To those who want to do more, it's hard to find what you can do. Maybe you're limited financially or you're not the type to protest in front of the capitol. There's always something you can do. Spread the word, educate those around you, show your support when you can. (Twitter thread for #BLM resources)

For me...this is how I can contribute. Let me show you how racism has effected me. Let me tell my story.

#BlackLivesMatter

I am not ok.

Do you know what it's like to wake up in the middle of the night, terrified for your life? All you can hear is your heart racing alongside the sounds of someone breaking into your house. All you see are the lights flashing outside your window. 

Do you know what it's like to fear that your life will end at 3:32 in the morning and thinking it's the police? 

And no matter how you yell at yourself to fucking move, your body refuses and continues to lay tangled up in your sheets?

I do.

This morning, I feared for my life and there wasn't anything I could do about it.

When I first left for Korea in the summer of 2018, I thought that by the time I returned to America, life would be better for Blacks. I hoped I wouldn't be so terrified to live here. 

But life did not get better, it got worse.

I don't even know where to start, but I know where it ends. If it's not in the grave, it's in continued fear.

As you all know, I do my best to be honest on SaveOurToya. It's not easy putting this out for the whole world to see. But I do it anyways. And in my struggle to be honest, I confess that I am so terrified that I have to psych myself up to leave my apartment these days.

I don't know if someone will see me walking to the grocery store and see me as a threat. I am terrified to go on a walk. 

This is what my life has become. A constant cycle of terror and fear. 

I hate this. 

I hate it so, so much.

I hate that because of a terrible storm this morning, I thought I someone was trying to kill me. 

I am not ok, and I don't know when I'll ever feel safe living here.

#SaveOurToya

Good Days DO Exist

Because not all days are shit days or 'wtf' situations, this post is proof that I also have good days.

And today...is a really good day.

It's finally hitting me that I've lost over 50lbs since my heaviest weight.

That's right!

FIFTY.

This hasn't been the easiest of accomplishments, but it is the most disbelieving ones I've made. It even outranks that I got a Fulbright to Korea. My weight-loss journey has been a cacophony of ups and downs and corkscrew turns. It comes as no surprise that it's taken me a week to believe the numbers I see on my scale.

I still hope to see more pounds shed as time goes by as I strive to reach my goal weight. I have another 42lbs to go, and they will go.

I've made that promise to myself.

No matter where life takes me this year, I will finally be at my goal weight come summer time. I have and will continue to overcome my bad eating habits and lazy decision making.  I will get myself out of my apartment for my morning walks. I won't let myself down.

Because 50lbs lighter has me feeling good.

Real good.

#SaveOurToya

Feb 2019 Thoughts (See how far I've come in a year)
1) Starring Toya
2) 영어선생님이에요
3) To My Precious Sixth Graders
4) Saturdays

*deep breath*

Y'all...I almost threw hands at work.

That is how angry I was. 

In an effort to stop myself from spitting venom and throwing hands, I had to mentally pull myself away from a burning rage.

Not even a full day back from vacation and the bullshit was back. I had hoped and truly believed that the time I took back at home had refueled my patience after a ROUGH semester.

Apparently, I was wrong.

As you know, last semester wasn't just rough. It really pushed me to my limits. There were times I felt raw and exposed, seconds away from sobbing at my desk. The disgusting sludge that came with racism, the helplessness as an unwanted bystander, and the irritation that comes with ghosting all played their roles in breaking me down. 

In all honesty, there were times I contemplated breaking my contract and going back home while wiping away my tears and figuring out how to deal with my frustrations. 

My vacation home was as much to see my parents as it was to take a break from all of this. I wanted to put myself back into a positive mental space and prove to myself that these next six months were going to be my best months in Korea.

Little did I know that day 1 of being back at work, I barely stopped myself from snapping.

And not just verbally. 

--*--*--

Okay...so here's what happened.

I'm talking to my co-teacher about next semester. My schedule was changing a little bit and I was expressing my concern about (yet again) putting such vastly different English levels in the same classroom. Will things change? Probably not. But I tried.

Our conversation then switched to another topic. Now...my co-teacher's English isn't the best. She's, in fact, the science teacher. Typically, your co-teacher would be the Korean English teacher; however, my small school only has me as an English teacher. I've adjusted and have become quite adept in understanding low-level English. 

My co-teacher was struggling to explain a legal change that is happening in my province and was lacking the sufficient vocabulary to get her point across. However, we were getting through it. 

But...it was during this conversation that a certain somebody decided to be rude as fuck. This same individual who I know is racist and I've done my best to ignore their presence, needed my co-teacher's attention. 

Since I face the staff room doors, I noticed when they walked in, calling for my co-teacher. Her head was down, focused on her phone. As my co-teacher decided to keep talking to me, I focused back on our conversation. 

Had that been it, I would've forgotten the whole situation.

But that wasn't it.

No.

This same somebody called for my co-teacher again, well aware the two of us were having a conversation. 

My co-teacher still kept speaking to me. At this point, I'm actually irritated. Do they not see my co-teacher is talking to me? Do they not see that it's not an easy conversation we're having? 

Do. They. Not. See?

Had that been it, I would've forgotten the whole situation after the weekend.

But that wasn't it.

No.

This same somebody continued to call for my co-teacher, walked over to us and started tapping her fingers on the desk cubicle. 

If I had looked away from my co-teacher, I don't know what would have happened, but I'm pretty sure whatever image my school has of me as 'Toya teacher' was going to be shattered.

Black women in America know what happens when we show our anger at work. We get labelled as 'aggressive', 'illogical', 'ignorant', 'hostile', etc. Never are we 'justified' or 'in the right'. Nope. We have to learn to keep our anger leashed if we want to be taken seriously.

If I had looked away from my co-teacher, it would've started with a 'do you fucking mind?' to...

It is now the following Monday. 

I took the weekend to calm down. There were some flare ups, but I've processed it.

I don't know what I'll do when the BS happens again, but there is one thing that I do know after everything that has happened.

As of today, I only have 23 weekends left of my contract and I don't need this mess to hold me down. 

Let's see what havoc I can unleash between now and my goodbyes.

#SaveOurToya

Is it Racism?

UPDATED: 10/07/2019

Lately, I've been thinking about the privilege those in my school have. I can't say that I know their lives or what they've been through, but what I can say...they don't know what it's like to be African-American.

Korea is a pre-dominantly homogeneous society, surrounded by countries that are closer to their own characteristics. According to The Korea Times, a little over 3% of the population are foreigners back in 2016. Now, how much of that 3% are of non-Asian descent, or can't be considered 'passing'. As you can see, when you're not Asian, you stick out.

There's no hiding your foreignness.

And for the most part, I've been chill with it. Maybe because I'm a minority back home, or maybe because I'm a minority within my own minority. It's not often I come across half African-American and half German babies like myself. However, within America, we have started the discussion about the 'p' word.

Privilege.

Within American society, there are people who deny its existence. Their reasoning: I've never seen it.

And to no one's surprise, those who've never seen it are also the same ones who have it.

Being privileged in America is like having that famed hall pass. Here, let me explain.

Picture a regular school hallway. Add some lockers, school banners, questionable color schemes, everything that can come to mind when you think 'school hallway'. It's empty of course, as it's class time. Everyone is doing what they're supposed to, or attempting to, within their classrooms. Each classroom has their own rules and codes they have to adhere to, but they all follow the overall school rule of hall passes.

Hall passes allow you to be out of your classroom and walk through the empty hallways per the teacher's reasons. Those reasons can range from bathroom permissions or bringing something to the office. Maybe, it's to run a message to another teacher or go to the infirmary. The hall pass leaves you free from suspicion from the hall monitor that is roaming around the school ensuring order in the hallways.

After all, there are rules!

No one in the halls during class time.

Rules that can be bypassed with a hall pass.

Unless you have a hall pass.

And that's what it's like to have privilege. Someone in power bestows upon you this 'hall pass' at their discretion.

So, what does privilege look like in Korea?

In simpler terms, it looks like a successful Korean man who went to a SKY university, speaks Korean and (American) English who is rich. The way Korean culture has blossomed, has given a traditional importance to social hierarchy within language, both verbal and physical. It's been an interesting time learning the different levels of speaking formally and how to behave when drinking with coworkers.

These social norms have become such a part of my day to day, that I even reflect them when acting with other foreigners. Two hands when pouring them a drink, using casual polite speech when speaking Korean, bowing, etc.

That being said, recently I've been seeing behavior that leaves me...at a loss.

At first, I thought it was 'shyness'.

This person is new to the school and I'm clearly not Korean. It's common to come across many Koreans who are shy to interact with foreigners for a multitude of reasons. I'm not here to judge those reasons and do my best to understand them. I know what it's like to be surrounded by a multitude of cultures, skin colors, and languages. To judge someone not accustomed to such would be in bad taste.

Which is why I do my best to seem inviting. Kind smile, always a 'hello'- polite acknowledgement, really.

But after a couple of months with behavior turning from what appeared like 'shyness' to 'potential racism', I had to take a step back and look at my situation.

Am I quick to throw racism onto the situation? Is it my race that is causing them concern?

Well, I don't know.

So, then I tried to look at behavior. Always having their back to me, avoiding me, never responding to 'hello' in English or Korean, not eating lunch at the same time (anymore), and catching tale end furtive looks. I've seen polite friendliness change to instant disinterest when they realize they're talking to a foreigner.

That last one is what's stopping me from saying 'racism', but 'xenophobia'. I think this person has a dislike for 'foreign'.

So, why did I think racism, first?

Because that same person who gets to ignore me has had the freedom to be Korean in Korea, where they wouldn't be labeled as criminal simply because you were black. They don't know what it's like to be afraid of the police, that any stop could be your last stop. They didn't inherit the fear, anger, and distrust that I and all my brothers and sisters did.

My coworker has the privilege to act the way the do, not worried about how I would perceive it. To them, it may just seem they're giving an air of dislike, but to me...it's the attitude of a racist.

This person is not only xenophobic, but a racist.

This whole experience has soured my attitude a bit about teaching at my school. Being isolated is common in teaching abroad experiences, and some days it's harder than others. To counteract it, I've found my own ways to settle the feelings of segregation (and ain't that a smack in the face from the past).

And they were going well, until this latest mind-fuck.

#SaveOurToya