“Queer not as being about who you’re having sex with (that can be a dimension of it); but queer as being about the self that is at odds with everything around it and has to invent and create and find a place to speak and to thrive and to live.” – bell hooks

I’ve seen my family move between worlds, assimilating to find semblance of belonging, adjusting their language, cadence, and volume to blend and fit in the container they live in.

My parents were both stationed in Germany, serving in the Army before heading back to the U.S. in 1990, with their first stop being in Vancouver, Washington. My Dad likes to joke that Vancouver was only meant to be a temporary stop, “6 months tops, and then we were going to move to Oakland, California,” he used to tell me.

34 years later, my parents are still in Vancouver, in the house I was born and raised in. Since my Dad is originally from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and my mother from American Samoa, the things I heard most growing up from people around me were, “Wow! What are you?” or, “You’re so exotic!” and of course,

I always laughed because, for the most part, these were my friends or parents of my friends. What else was I to say?

Though I’m Biracial with deep and rich cultures from both of my parents, the communities I was raised in were predominately White, and my parents wanted a life better than the ones they had when they were younger. They taught us to speak, enunciating our words, drilling in us how to be polite, well-mannered, and slow to anger, wanting us to understand the spoken and unspoken rules of the game of life to keep us safe. We thanked our friends’ parents for hospitality after slumber parties, obediently followed the rules, and seldom asked, “Why?” until I did. 

As a genderqueer, biracial person of color, my intersecting identities have always demanded me to ask questions about the world around me in order to dive deeper into who I am and where I could find belonging. I remember asking questions like, 

“Why can’t I wear boy clothes?”, and 

“Why can’t I like girls instead of boys?”

“What do you mean I’m not Black enough?” 

These questions led me to push boundaries, intentionally and unintentionally, defining and redefining what it meant for me to show up in the world.

My questions, particularly around my sexuality, led me to study the Bible. I learned from an early age that the bible was full of stories that allowed for complexity and duality: stories of hope in mourning, joy in the midst of suffering, lament in liberation – these things that could exist simultaneously. I also learned and internalized the rhetoric that “homosexuality is a sin”, which forced me to ask questions about the stories in this book that so many people clung to for hope, and so many people weaponized for harm. 

I was trained to ask questions like:

Who was this written for?
Who was this written by?
Who had the privilege to learn how to write to record these stories?
Who benefits from these laws?
What assumptions do we make about the people left out of these stories?

I took these questions and pursued a degree in biblical studies at George Fox University and eventually a Master of Divinity from Princeton Theological Seminary. These questions and stories eventually led me down the path of becoming a pastor, consistently teaching me what it means to show up for my community since this book was full of stories that told just that: stories of being a good neighbor, caring for the poor, widow, and orphan, and advocating for the marginalized.

These stories invigorated me and, with my intersecting identities, radicalized me and informed how I’ve worked as a chaplain, pastor to youth and families, bartender, program manager, and program director. I’ve carved out spaces for young people to ask questions, push the boundaries of what community looks like to include our whole selves, and journey with people as we figure out how to love ourselves enough to be able to love one another. I’ve been able to ask questions during evaluations, summarizing data and feedback from the community to reimagine curriculum and approaches for learning. I’ve held close the space in between worlds in order to find hope, joy, and belonging.

I’m grateful to be able to bring these aspects into the work at Construct the Present, especially in times like we’re living in now. I’m grateful to be bringing in my lived experiences, my own training, and my curiosity to continue to ask the questions that have expanded the corners of systems to include more voices, more experiences, and a richer understanding of community.