Writing for blogs owned by Daves

Recycling posts here...

I received invites from two bloggers named Dave (one in Delaware, one in California) to write about the location where I live. I’ve been meaning to sit and write, since it’s good therapy. Who here doesn’t need therapy? Therefore, I figured this would be an opportunity to kill multiple birds with one stone. This use of metaphor has nothing to do with my disdain of birds, or my love for Chik-fil-a’s spicy chicken deluxe sandwich.
Today, I voted for the first time in my neighbourhood. I walked 6 blocks, about half a mile, at dimly lamplit 6 p.m. to get to my polling place.
People tell me I shouldn’t walk by myself in the dark in the city, let alone, the inner city. People often express concern for my safety, and occasionally express anger about my move to North Philadelphia. One of my justification attempts is: “Well, it’s not like I’m walking around by myself at night.” Oops.
I walked towards the entrance and someone handed me a flyer: “HOW TO VOTE DEMOCRAT: PUSH #2 STRAIGHT TICKET”… something like that.
Flashback to 2008 – my family’s first time voting as U.S. citizens. I went to vote with my mom. She was peeved by my Obama t-shirt. At the front of the line, I gave her a hug and said, “Do the right thing, Mama!” She pushed me away and responded with a shameless, “Aiya! Stop campaining in my face! That’s illegal!”
Back to 2012, I looked at the flyer, then looked at the woman. SMH. She asks, “Do you know how to vote? I can tell you if you don’t.”
I’m not sure if she wants to tell me HOW to vote (Democrat), or how to use the electronic voting machines (read the instructions on the machine and follow them).
For a moment I forget why I am living in the community and almost say, “Why the hell would I choose to live here if I weren’t a Democrat?!?!” And even though Republicans get on my nerves sometimes, I am indignant at how one might feel alienated or judged if they were registered at this election site. Meanwhile, I’m also feeling defensive towards her hypothetically assuming I didn’t know how to use the machines because I’m Asian and maybe couldn’t speak/read English.
So, I didn’t end up voting straight ticket, partially out of spite at this flyer, partially because the electronic machine was so much easier than the bubble sheet I had to fill out 4 years ago in Michigan, while living the dental school life of constantly filling out bubble sheets to the point of tears.
A few hours later, as I write this, I am annoyed at myself – for being inconsistent between what I say and what I do, for not wanting to be labelled or typecast based on my life decisions or group identities, yet wanting to label myself, and for letting go of my primary identity and prioritizing an identity that I normally don’t prioritize. I think this is what makes it difficult to [live in and] write about my experience in ‘da hood. I want to discover and articulate generalities about cultural behaviour, because maybe understanding will make me feel more in control, but I can’t even predict my own thoughts and reactions half the time.
As mentioned above, therapy is needed. Hopefully, if I can keep this writing thing up, I will be more sane, while perhaps appearing more insane to you, poor reader.
And maybe I will also have better titles for future blog posts.