milk chocolate

by Gordon Parks

I don't think he understands how difficult it is for me to fit in a group of Westerners, regardless whether they are nice or not, whom I've associated with some bigger than life system that has rejected me for being Asian, and still consider them as friends despite them not being able to truly empathize with my situation. But someone's gotta give. At this point in time, I don't think I am ready to fully open myself back up again to the Western community. On an individual level, maybe yes. But I am allergic to expectations. It's not like I can suddenly go back to being the same bubbly, fun, and sweet person I was after just four months. There was tension that affected how I now perceive these people as a collective. It may not necessarily be their fault, but that tension created a barrier between my friends and me. It's as if some societal problem had manifested itself in my relationships with these individuals. It shouldn't have happened, but it did. It did. And that's the most tragic part of it all.

I used to think that love is enough, that love can mend my broken perception of people. Love, undoubtedly, has shown me the corruption and division in the world. But can love also mend? That's been bothering me for a while now. Can true love mend what was broken? If it is true, then probably it can although it shouldn't just be a one-sided thing. Both he and I should have it inside us for its effect to fully ripple across the universe. But I must admit, I'm struggling... I'm finding it difficult to find my place here.

This is probably how Jean-Michel felt when the world reduced him to Warhol's adorable little black pet. I understand better now why he killed himself. I understand that it is so much easier to get that euphoric kind of love in drugs than in people. He was probably thinking, "At least drugs are more reliable than people." If Jean-Michel were still alive, I would tell him that he's not alone. I’d tell him that I finally get it—this white man's world puts so little regard on us, the people of color. They fuck us into believing that we will never be good enough and that we amount to nothing. People always say, "prove them wrong." But really, why should we?? Proving a white man, or anyone else, wrong is a mentality stuck in god knows how long ago. In the first place, issues like inequality, racism, discrimination, and sexism shouldn't even exist in this day and age. If you're an incredibly talented individual like Jean-Michel, the world shouldn't make you feel worthless, shouldn't make you feel indebted to a white man or force you to live in their shadow. This just goes to show that even in the 21st century, some white folks are still deeply insecure when it comes to people of color. It's not even an overt type of insecurity; it's more subtle and ingrained in the system, a kind of racism they can rationalize just cos... but perhaps it has always been that way, just less overt than before.

The most challenging part of being stuck in limbo is not knowing where to go next. It's not that I don't want to go back home. After all, home is home, home is where I belong. But it'll always be there. The world opens you up to these experiences and the masochist inside you wants to keep testing waters, no matter how rough the waves break, just to see if there's still hope and if there's still some good left in this world.