Let Us Heal.

Sitting here trying to keep my head and heart as steady and aligned as possible - another reminder of how this practice of being with it all allows for what once seemed to be impossible to be within the grasps… one deep and steady breath at a time.

I used yesterday to detach from social media and honor the black out for justice in the name of George Floyd… and all the while my mind swirled and twirled with ideas and anger and this consistent voice that sang over and over again in my head and in my heart:

Let us heal,
Let us heal,
Let us heal.

Oh, please, let us heal…

We cannot heal when we are not heard.

And so many of us go our entire existence without any opportunity to speak, yet alone be heard.

My head, heart, and soul cannot take it anymore.

We must be heard.

We must heal.

We must hold space for the stories that live within our body as well as all the stories that expand beyond our skin and into anothers.

Each valid.

Each needed.

Each necessary.

So we can heal.

For if we do not, this cycle of destruction, disconnection, and delusion will prevail.

We have been here in this space far too long - longer than most want to admit - enough is enough, let us heal, let us feel, let us sacredly move this rage into purpose and creation and truth, let us transcend this discomfort into something that is purposeful and contribute to the one thing we are truly here to do: heal humanity by healing ourselves and sharing that with all who live and breathe.

I am angry.

I am frustrated.

I am sad.

People are dying.

And in the mix of it all, I feel my throat contract with silence and my sacred rage swallow into shame…

As someone who has both color and privilege in their blood, it is so confusing on where it is I can stand and I tend to question how loudly I can speak my truth…

Where do I fit? Where do I belong? How do I express my truth?

I am the daughter of a white woman and a Hispanic-indigenous man…

I am a blend of many colors and shades and often get asked this question “what are you?”

Which I will save the sacred rage that tends to follow that question mark for another day, but know, this baggage has been with me long before I knew it was even there. Which takes me to my story today. My story of my 2nd grade self having a very real human moment. The moment where I first found out I do not belong.

I grew up in a white agriculture village where up until 2nd grade, I had no idea I was anyone different than the norm… but at the age of 7-8 I learned a really hard lesson that I continue digesting here at 33:

I do not fit in the suffocating boxes that our society and culture have created - which means I am the outsider, the outlier, and yes, even the outraged.

Which jolts me back to the terror I felt in my little itty bitty body at 7-8 years old when I had the absolute clear message given to me “I am different.”

When we do not think we belong, harm always follows. The degree of that harm is dynamic, but again it does and will follow every single time we feel as though we are not a part of the culture, the country, the globe, the humanitarian piece of peace, if we do not feel as though we belong harm will follow.

And we see that showing up in the world in many ways.

And like me, I feel we are hitting our breaking point - where we shatter through the bondage and molds that have tried to contain us - and we break free in hopes of something new.

So let me take you back to my 2nd grade self. Keri Ann Garcia. Brown skinned. Missing teeth. Innocent and Divine. Up until 2nd grade I lived my authentic soul light - I danced, I swirled, I twirled, I imagined, I dreamed, I laughed, I felt and felt deep, I was my truest Self…

I was happy. I was free.

Until the day came where the teacher asked us to raise our hands for either a census or something for a test - again - I was in 2nd grade - I can't really recall the context of the moment, here’s what I do remember:

Sitting in class. Teacher asks us to raise our hands if we are of Hispanic descent. I proudly raise my hand high to the sky with a smile on my face. I look around. My stomach drops. The walls cave in. I am the only one with my arm raised and all eyes are on me. I am the only one with my arm raised. And again, all eyes are on me.

There was a pause.
And in that pause a realization:
I am different.

Unfortunately at the age of 7 or 8 I did not have the language to express what I felt - the icky the sticky the uncomfortable sensation in my belly and chest - so I did what we tend to do,
I swallowed it. And in swallowing my discomfort, I buried that seed of difference deep in my body and psyche and allowed discomfort to root and grow.

It led me to pick on myself through my hands and nails - created anxieties and fear - things I didn't really understand I was doing out of self preservation and truly trying to enmesh into the culture of the town I lived in - as a child I had no idea what I was processing was anxiety…

And as an adult who has lived through anxiety, I know how overwhelming that can feel and be.

As a child, I had no idea I was receiving prejudice and bias if even so subtle and sweet in its disguise. I didn't know what I didn't know when I didn't know it. But I did feel it. And today it is my hope that by sharing this story with you I can begin to really weed out that toxic seed of separation and heal.

Being a blend of both brown and white is so very confusing.

And it breaks my heart that most of my life, 2nd grade on, I wanted to dissect myself from my Garcia roots. My brilliant light now dimmed by the darkness shame entails.

I remember before big tests and exams - the ones where we had to fill in all those little bubbles - I would ask my mom “do I really need to check the Hispanic box?” almost in a state of panic and now I can see it as anxiety… the apprehension of getting to that test and not just to take the damn test, but to fill in my name and information… my identity - ugh! “oh sweetie..” She would say, “you do not have to do anything you do not want to do (she always had a way of reminding me I had advocacy and choice even though we both knew I didn't) but know it will set you apart but in a beneficial way” (really mom?? What does that even mean??) More confusion & contradiction consuming my mind.

So, I would check the box and my soul and body would take a gut punch - deep shame - deep disgust - and why??? Because society labeled it that way??? Because I labeled it that way???

We start to believe we are wrong, bad, incorrect, due to the damaging idea of not belonging.

This baggage has stayed with me for sometime. And it just was a few days ago in the mix of another black body being murdered and deep sitting and listening to my heart and soul that I made a connection to that 2nd grade self and my 33 year old self today - I have been picking on myself since that moment on… my hands, my nails, my toes, my mind, my heart, my authenticity - big shames here guys that I vulnerably and bravely share with you in hopes that you know without any doubt you too have this ability to cast light on these woes and pain and heal them (let us heal let us heal let us heal) - I have been picking myself apart - harming myself - and then creating another loop of shame where I have to hide away the parts of me because they look so bad… I’m done doing that and I know I am done doing that because I can willingly dig up this pain… this toxic seed that my body has stored far too long…Not just for me. But for every 2nd grader out there - child or adult self - that needs this reminder: we can heal.

Let us heal.

Most of my life I had run from my Garcia side.
I tear up just writing those words.

And then with the loss of my parents and learning more about their lives as human beings - people- and children - in addition to the lessons this world continues to reveal to me - I now sit at 33 and want to detach from my whiteness.. I Want to run far far far away from the hatred and harm half of me contains.... One part is harming the other. And I see how I lived this out.

This disconnect.
This delusion.

No more.
No more.

The more I learn about the true history of our country and hear other peoples stories of indifference and bias and prejudice… the more I read about black and brown bodies being killed, murdered, separated from their families and homes and people… the more this sacred rage and fire builds in my body and soul - Igniting and shedding away the shames of darkness and detachment… and reminding me of who I Am.

And where I come from.

I come from 2 people who had to make it on their own regardless of the shade of their skin.
I come from 2 people who’s heart, soul, and intense capacity to love and forgive allowed them to endure their story and give birth to mine.
I come from 2 people who continue to remind me of the brilliance and beauty and bravery that lives within our bones and thrives through the radiance of our souls.

I am their dream. And they are mine.
They are here with me.
And we get to heal together.

So as much as I want to run from one half of me and hide in the other, I cannot.

I am the blend of such beauty and possibility and potential as well as toxicity, harm, and hate.

My work is knowing which parts now to nurture and which parts to transcend.


I think about my 2nd grade self and I soften into the thought of all the 2nd grade self's out there suffering in silence. The ones who are adults now and still cannot find that harmony of head and heart because this world has pushed and pulled and misaligned us with its false fables of who it is and what it is to belong.

I think about the 2nd graders in this moment watching the news, hearing the stories of what is happening, seeing people murdered due to their skin, seeing people harmed due to what our eyes see, and seeing those who are supposed to CARE for us not rising to the occasion and instead replicating and rejoicing in harm…

I think about my parents as their 2nd grade selves and what it is they were processing and if their reality hindered their imagination of something better…

I look back only to heal that which pulls me back.
I cannot stay there.
I walk through with purpose and ask that the wisdom comes up to meet me right where I am.

I ask that our wisdom comes up to meet us all.

I walk through these flames of transcendence and transformation with purpose - my pain as my purpose - my wounds as my service - my existence to truly exist as I am - perfectly imperfect in my blend of all that is and all that I can be.

I call up my ancestors and ask for the same healing to be placed upon them.

Let us heal.
Let us heal.
Let us heal.

Harmed people harm people.
Destruction feeds destruction.
Illusion leads to illusion.

We have to be the ones who break the bondage of this baggage of separation and judgement the only way we can: softly, sweetly, and swiftly cutting the cords the pull and push us apart.

This is the work of love and yoga in action.

I ask and ask so kindly, may we be the ones who dig up the bondage and hold the space for every story that awaits to be heard.

For who it is we are today.
And for who it is we want to be tomorrow.

I am ready.
I am willing.

Let us heal.
Let us heal.
Let us heal.

-keri


****Pictured: my dad at 2nd grade, my mom at 2nd grade, and me at 2nd grade at the top.
I smile and sink into the innocence and wonder we all held… and continue to hold.
I love you mom. I love you dad. I love you keri. I love you all.

Let me know how we can continue to break bondage and heal collectively.

I will be at the Saginaw protest on Saturday (6/6) at 1pm on the corner of Bay Rd. and Tittabawasee. I will also be at the Midland protest Sunday (6/7) at 3pm meeting at “the Circle” in town center. Let us heal. Let us heal. Let us heal.

I am here, Warriors. Willing. Hopeful. And so very ready***