Decolonizing Love

I did not fully understand the monstrosity of emotions that was coming over me like waves. There were moments where the storms would settle, and I would think about the meals we shared and how our eyes lit up when we discovered that some of our cultural snacks resembled each other. And though, the good times were good, the lows felt longer to sit through. In those moments, I realized that pain was not the opposite of love, rather for us, it was the condition that came with it.

I love men of color. I love finding ourselves in the Hispanic/Asian aisle in the extremely white and gentrified Safeway near our campus. I love procuring meals in my mind as my eyes land on the spam and his on the tortillas. I love the way I can look at them and receive a glance of affirmation letting me know that I am not the only person in the room uncomfortable with implicit biases. I love how I don’t have to explain how colonization shaped my self-perception. I love how I don’t need to be more Filipino than I am American in new spaces, like a chameleon changing her colors because of her surroundings. I love how my last name rolls off of their tongue the way my last name should sound. I love the freedom of yelling expressions in my native language around them. Punyeta! Susmaryosep! Tangina! And I love hearing them do the same. Like an exclamation point, what we had was bold! There was this fierce recognition of each other’s wholeness. How each embrace in each other’s arms felt like that of our grandmothers who raised us. In the face of the colonizer, it was beautiful to be so madly in love—with each other and with ourselves.

I hate men of color. I hate how their dominance over me mimics the dominance of our colonizer. I hate how they demand orgasms from my body. I hate how respect means the belittlement of what comprises my womanhood. I hate how I muted my reality in order to soothe theirs. I hate that when I was thought to be too powerful, that perception empowered them to challenge that power through abuse and pain. I hate how in our private lives, after a day of organizing and activism, they demanded I assumed a subordinate role. I hate how their self-proclamation of being a feminist blinds them from seeing that they act in a completely opposite way. I hate that the labelling of the white male patriarch as “chauvinist pig” provided a convenient scapegoat for their sexism. I hate how they cannot admit that the work of decolonization requires that they must also let go of their own patriarchal way of thinking and loving. I hate how they can scream “down with white supremacy!” but cannot be pro-woman in their everyday interactions. I hate how their abandonment issues prompted them to test the boundaries of my strength. I hate how every time I failed their test my love would come into question.

“Are you a real woman if you can’t hold me down? Can you handle the pain of decolonization? Are you actually my ride or die? I thought you were strong. Guess you were lying.”

I hate how their shame stops them from letting go of their pride. Most of all, I hate how they were so hurt… that the only way to release that out of their system was onto me. They denied their pain, the right to feel and heal. Like gas, suffering expands inside of all of us—filling us completely no matter the size or amount.

I am sorry our systems failed you. I am sorry violence always seemed like the only option. I am sorry that the violent distress in Nogales was imminent and real. I am sorry that the U.S Imperialist state drew a border between you and the rest of your family. I am sorry that the connection was severed. I am sorry that your questions weren’t answered as a young boy. I am sorry you were told to kill your emotions at the age of seven. I am sorry you were taught to fear intimacy. I am sorry that while we were all in kindergarten learning the ABCs, you were also learning to wear a mask of patriarchal masculinity. I am sorry I placed expectations onto you that was beyond your capacity. I am sorry that you believe that your selfhood and your patriarchal sexualities are one and the same. I am sorry you never could find the courage to create an honest portrayal of your fears. I am sorry you could not honor your inner self in a world that told you not to. I am sorry that patriarchy is a system that denies men full access to their freedom of will.

We have to mourn every time we love someone. The more time passes, the more we succumb to our lowest instincts. The more time passes, the roles of patriarchy gets revealed to us. As I move more and more away from our destructive relationship, I can see the picture clearer now. I can see where I am supposed to be. I am not there yet. As I climb the stairs, step-by-step, a moment of hesitation holds me back from landing on reconciliation.

Pain and anxiety have become best friends with my ego. No matter how much I collect my pieces and glue them back together, I know beneath the brushed paint exactly where I am broken. It is when the cold wind of regret whispers through my gaps that I revert back to who I was—ashamed and full of doubt. Do I deserve healing? I knew that we were both suffering. I knew that I was suffering a lot. But what if he was right? What if I was just playing victim as his best friend said? What if I am mirroring those that have always oppressed him? What if I am the narcissistic one, and not him? What if the problem lies with me and it is all on me that we are both in this turmoil?

I’ve realized that the only way I can heal from this is for me to accept that you abused me. Because even my unconditional love comes with boundaries. Because you can no longer convince me that violence is coupled with a colonialist version of passionate love. Because I no longer can sit in anger. Not until you let go of your will to dominate, I will never know a whole version of you. A version of you without the manipulation and pain. I want to honor your truth, not only in the confines of your room but in a world where patriarchal machismo was challenged. I believe a world like this is possible. For now, all I can do is honor my truth. There is a divinity that comes with my femininity; a power that used to make you tremble is now the same power that allows me to release my resentment for you. However, don’t get it wrong. Reconciliation is not enough to bring us to justice; it is just the first step.

By Trish Alvaro (@trishalvaro)

(she/her)

Edited by Halima Jibril (@h.alimaa)

Graphics by Dajia (@freshed__squeezed)