an email I wrote to organizers and future student leaders of the Jar Project at my college

*below is an email I wrote about a jar project that had angered me for so many reasons. I finished writing it yesterday at 4 pm after 3 hours of perfecting it. when it comes to race and community and dialogue, I deeply care about those kinds of discussions. when activism is done in a way that hurts the community more than it was before, that's when I get angry. especially when such discussions were entrusted to student leaders that promised to represent me, voices like mine were overlooked. left out.

activism should be as healing as it is forceful. hurt does not fight hurt. i hope that my email below introduces ideas that future student leaders at my college would consider when thinking about the impact they're making on our small, liberal, bubble-like campus. 

i say a lot when i'm angry.

hope you'll enjoy the tea below ;)

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4.22.23.

Hello, 

My name is DieuNgoc Nguyen, a current Smith college senior and here have been my consistent thoughts of the late jar project and the impact of the Student Power Coalition thus far from it. 

I understand Leela has stepped down as president, but from word of mouth, I heard that Leela was also a part of the Jar Project's organizing so I have included Leela in this email as well. 

**And to Tamra or the SGA Office, if I can have your help in forwarding my email here to future candidates of SGA, that would be very helpful. Much of the future of race relations on campus is in their hands. 

I may be a senior with just one month left. I've never been a part of SGA. I've only viewed it from afar and occasionally filled out surveys at SGA tables at most. So yes, I'm not very involved on campus in government, but I deeply care about the Smith community and the conversations we have around race. I was the lead organizer of a past event centering Anti-Asian Hate amidst the pandemic, so race discussions are something I am at least familiar with.

This email is for the Student Power Coalition, nestled within SGA. And to SGA as well. To future SGA candidates. And to the leaders who approved of the Jar Project.

I admire your goals and values to make smith a more equitable place. I am a first-gen, low-income student myself. I also worked the opening campus center shift that saw the additions of obscure quotes from confessional and two white sheets of paper with the words "WHITE RAGE" at the center of it all. Of course I was curious, so I got really close to the new changes of the wall of hats and read each confessional quote taped to the exhibition. Confessional is an anonymous space. I looked back at the title again. "White Rage." With no context given, I understood that the new wall art was supposed to highlight how all these obscure quotes must be about something race-related. I remember how that morning there was a lot of talk about what these White Rage posters were about. Again, such little context. Just, words claiming something that held a lot of weight but had no context. 

It absolutely felt like fear-mongering, for the zero context it had. Different quotes on different doors. Students of color in my friendship circles would speculate for days that different confessional quotes were on different houses based on whether or not that Smith house had majority POC or not. Whatever it was, it felt as if whoever put those quotes up had information about the inhabitants of that house. Of course, upon further speculation, I realized all these quotes were criticisms of the Jar Project. 

However, very few people I knew could make this connection. It felt as if I was the only one who knew, so I found myself explaining this connection to many of my friends of color who were alarmed by this on their doors, and friends who were white who were also alarmed by this. 

So I asked myself, "what the heck is going on? How are anonymous quotes criticizing the jar project automatically under white rage? It makes me white to criticize the jar project?" SPC is a committee under SGA. SGA is supposed to represent my voice, and as someone who works the night shift too at the CC, I haven't been able to share my thoughts yet. So here they are.

So far, the actions and approach of the Jar Project in its pursuit of equity and inclusion, I feel does not represent my values. Neither does it include me. I don't know how you folks gathered input from the community to go forth with a project that you thought helpful to the community, but certainly not from folks that have my values when approaching activism. I'm going to assume you folks found input and validation amongst yourselves. That's fine and all except, you're a subcommittee under SGA. Again, the role of which is to consider my concerns and find a way to reach out to me. Neither of this was tended to. So I'm going to assume the BIPOC, first generation, low income demographic that your circles work within does not include a Vietnamese American first generation, low income student as myself. 

You might disagree with me and the way I approach activism on campus, but I don't think you're creating a healthy environment for future, long term, truly long term, community discussions and ownership about race and equity. I understand the intention of the jar project is to give students who've experienced racial discrimination from a big act to a micro aggression to be honest to their "perpetrator" who must qualify as a white person. Perhaps that really is how you view racism. But see, that does two things. (1) it makes the situation very black and white. Racism doesn't just source from white folks, which is the hallmark of your project. There's many types of racism. Racism even between communities of color which is rarely talked about. Racism based on motherland politics. (1.5) With just a jar expressing feelings, there's no next steps. For such an ambitious project that required tapping into one's innermost pain, there was very little guidance. No next steps to heal.  Simply air your thoughts. But what about the possible retaliation later? And considering the other side receiving the jar, it would feel like a witch hunt. So now, individuals just need to learn to better hide their biases, in broad daylight, but hiding is not productive in race discussions. 

(2) looking at the long term consequences of your impact so far, you're making a community where it will only be more difficult to talk about race, not without a fear of stepping on toes or making indelible mistakes. Again, with no next steps, the receivers might do well by saying sorry, but what's exactly happening? What's the outcome that you truly wanted to achieve? Because certainly, individual healing is not achieved, not when neither party knows what to do after sending a jar. And certainly, community healing is not achieved, if the organizers of this project have unintentionally or intentionally created a culture that will only ever be anxious and fearful when discussing race in public spaces. And that limits the quality of future race conversations on campus, especially between non-POC and POC folks. 

And it is exactly race conversations between non-POC and POC folks that we need to increase both the quantity and quality of. But SPC's impact might very well limit both, if not just the quality.

It's important at Smith that we continue talking about race. So the values of your work are critical for that. However, to me, for the conversations around race to be truly thriving, truly alive, truly fearless, we need to approach it in a way that allows the people of Smith College to know that there is room to make mistakes together and to adapt and grow together, at the individual level. At the systemic level, where there is profound institutional racism, the phone line is open. That it's actually a dialogue. Actually a conversation. Involving everyone. That we are not just talking to a wall and that we ourselves are also not a wall. 

So perhaps this issue, you can deal with as SPC within SGA and forever be limited by not representing enough voices like mine. Or you can make your own club that best represents your own interests. But I hope you'll consider my points when creating your impact. That you truly leave this space better than when you came into it. 

That it's not about setting up a space that feels like fear-mongering to get to your goals (like waiting for a jar to get to your door or waiting for the retaliation you might receive after sending your jar to a person that knows it's probably you or reading context-less posters with words that inspire fear and trepidation). There are other ways to reach justice. There are other ways for dialogue. 

For making everyone included in your activism. 

It is forever a lonely uphill battle if you cannot even identify your own allies or inspire fear in the communities you promised to serve.

For many reasons (like safety of the students, I'm going to assume important housing information and details landed in your hands to deliver the jars) that even I didn't get to discuss so far, I fear that your jar project, which started from a very important space, has left our community with more cuts than you went into it. 

And it has angered me so. Thank you for reading. Happy to discuss and learn more.

Thank you.

Where Do All My Hairs Go?

[Read this post to this music: I'll Be Home for Christmas Except It's April 2023]

I blew some wittle strands off my laptop.

It seems I only ever get onto this blog to write anything about my life when I'm in crisis. 

Homework crisis. I don't know what I don't know again. 

I sit still under the rain. When the rain leaves me drenched, I sit still under the sun. A leaf floats from a nearby tree and lands on the spot between my eyebrows, because I'm soaking up the sun that's suddenly arrived all week.

Perhaps there's a pair of sweatpants headed my way. A leash in their hands. The sweatpants pass me by. The dog turns around, eyes searching for any familiarity in me. Its paws continue skipping ahead. I'm not even a friend. Maybe one day I am. 

My own hands are holding onto a fine pen and small notebook, the size of my palm. So small, it's only meant for memorable quotes said by friends at most. Or doodles of whales circling moons at its least.

A notification that my 4 new phone cases from Shein have arrived make my phone chirp. Each case is decorated with images I've probably already dreamed of before but never thought to make a business idea out of. If only I had that entrepreneur mindset along with my econ degree. And thank god I only dream shit. Not draw them too. I'd be unstoppable.

There's a laugh across the street I could recognize anywhere. A part of me longs to be where that laugh is, but maybe we're no longer close enough for me to suddenly reach out. My hands search for the next thing to write.

Ah. Another list. 

A small notebook of lists. Always and always about things I haven't done yet. And not the things I've already done.

The very tips of my hairs come into perspective as I focus on the page on that small notebook in my lap. 

Split ends. Almost everywhere if I look hard enough. Split ends where there are none. I pull softly on a small bunch of them and again and always, a hair already free from my head and only waiting for another force to let it go, separates itself from all the other hairs already stuck on my head. 

That hair slides along the other hairs. Goodbyes. To everybody. 

I pull it all the way out and examine the entirety of its thinness. Its length. Not delicate at all. 

I rub it one way. And then the other way. I pinch it between my fingers. 

Then another hair already on my lap, perhaps from a while ago, comes into perspective. I really do stress shed. Maybe that dog from earlier saw it before I did and was wondering why I didn't put my loose hairs back on my head. 

But what's left is left. 

With two strands in my hands. And a pen. And a notebook on my lap. 

I can only hold onto so much. My hands are wittle after all. Good for making comparisons of "ohmigod your hands are so bigggg compared to mine" with hands of single men who have promised me from head to toe that they are single and are absolutely not in open relationships and who managed to actually make me blush. 

My little sister would suggest maybe to wait for the next biggest wind. 

"Then you let it go." 

Fucking wise-woman shit. 

So I wait for a wind that never comes. Not for the next 14 minutes. 

While I wait, my lips wish for a sweetness. Like Dr. Pepper. Rock sugar and artichoke juice. 

I remember the days when I used to wait all the damn day to get home. Autumns that felt like summers. Spring that felt like summers. Some lucky afternoons after school, my grandma would have it already made: rock sugar and artichoke juice. "Now we add the ice. You can't just drink it the moment you get home. Wash those hands."

I gulp it anyways. Straight from the jug. 

Fucking wise-woman shit. 

"Come here boy. Tch, tch. No more sniffing. We gotta go. Come on." Sweatpants sweats past my thoughts. I'm trying to remember my grandma right now, come on. 

Yes, she's still alive. No, I haven't called her in 2 weeks.

I wonder if sweatpants ever had the opportune to chance on such a wicked combination. Rock sugar and artichoke juice and ice. The dog turns and looks at me again. A bit more recognition this time. 

Yes, I've seen you before. 

A wind should pick up by now. Blowing all these poor strands that took a while to grow on my head, away from me. The wind will carry the strands to the patch of grass the dog wanted to sniff earlier. 

Maybe if the dog passed that grass a third time. And my strands were there. Maybe the perfume I wore today, painting those strands, would be something to recognize, if we ever meet again.