Roots: A Communal Journal

I love getting up on a Sunday morning to breakfast that awakens my senses. I love the sound of Spam (or more accurately, Great Wall Canned Pork and Ham), sizzling in its own salty, fragrant oil. I love poking through an over-easy egg, its bright, rich yolk gently piercing through. I love the smell of Nissin ramen, its rich broth of MSG, faux beef and sesame oil evaporating into the air and spreading across the room. Most importantly, I love the memory of what spam and egg on ramen brings. It brings the nostalgia of sharing a table with strangers in a Hong Kong teahouse, slurping our own bowls of piping hot noodle soup, never making eye contact with each other, but knowing that we all are joined by a shared experience: a communal, sweat-inducing, cholesterol-raising, and yet incredibly joyful three-and-a-half minute journey through the senses. These days, I joke about spam and eggs. I joke because it's the weird thing I still hold dearly to from my childhood. But I was reminde...

White guilt. Being woke. Markers of our feeble, self-centered attempts to fix the wrongs of our world. Then we think, don't be too guilty though because that's a burden. Don't try too hard to be woke because that's annoying. If we try to be what we think we need to be, we'll be worse versions of ourselves. We can look for acceptance in each of these things. I'm clearly woke cause I married an Asian guy. oh and I can check more diversity woke-card boxes if you want. Just ask! If I complain about annoying white people before you do, then I can clear myself from white guilt... because I clearly get it and am working hard to fight injustices by complaining about people. I'm thankful we can't make ourselves right. We can lay down our self-imposed identity at the foot of the cross. I can't measure up to woke-ness. I can't be held back by guilt. Jesus takes both of those, He gives us a light and easy burden. I have the privilege and ...

Everything reminds me of home. Driving down Jefferson, walking around Campus Martius, getting stuck behind the Q-line, running through my neighborhood--it all reminds me of home. I grew up in a big city and dearly love cities in general. Give me the hustle and bustle of a busy thoroughfare over the serene calm of a rural landscape any day. Even so, I don't feel at home in Detroit. In my mind, I live in a shadow of what I love. There's no way to skirt around the reality that I am a white man living on the East Side. Growing up I operated in the majority culture with all the amenities that a large, prosperous city affords a white man living in a comfortable, safe neighborhood. Many of my frustrations with living here stem from my discomfort with realities that exist only due to systemic racism. I won't deny that much of what I miss about home is the ability to do what I want when I want. The tension I feel then comes from the fact that I don't JUST miss the c...