When I was nine-years-old, my cousin and I went swimming on a hot summer day in Manila, Philippines. Upon returning from an invigorating swim, I noticed the sun had touched my skin and left a darker tone on my complexion. I did not give this change of color that much attention; in fact, I carried a sense of pride bearing the sun marks on my shoulders. I never thought of it much until the people around me did. Friends and family members would say, “Hala, Gabes! Ang itim mo na!” (“Oh no, Gabes! Your skin got so much darker!”), “Gabes, did you even put sunscreen lotion on? Look what happened now.” A friend of my cousin’s even hugged me apologetically and with deep sympathy, as if getting darker skin was the worst thing in the world. But what she did not know was that the loss was not in the change of complexion. This was the time when my younger self began to rethink her relationship with swimming—that perhaps she should refrain from the water for now.

In the Philippines, there is an implicit and pervasive understanding of what it means to be beautiful, and this underlying notion has carried on for centuries. The ideal image of beauty is to appear more white: to have caucasian features and lighter skin. I’d hear stories about parents who used wooden laundry clips on their kids’ noses to reshape the flat and broad cartilage into a bridged form., Filipinos with darker skin tone and a flat nose would get bullied and teased by others for their natural looks.

In my work at ������Ƶ, I have researched and processed how this stigma stems from my country’s history of oppression and that there are numerous types of oppressive forces and scripts around body image that have already been shaping social and cultural contexts which, frankly, are forces and scripts that seem more familiar to us than they are oppressive.

The in society and media, especially the realms of fitness, clothing, advertising, and film, have taught us to hate our bodies. They capitalize on our self-esteem, our body hatred, and our fear of not being pursued, accepted, and loved for their own economic and societal advantage. But as much as there is urgency in exposing and challenging these self-loathing ideologies and systems that magnify the so-called standard for beauty, we must be awakened by our own unconscious tendencies that replicate and reinforce such scripts and ideas which continue to dismiss and think less of ourselves and others based on how we look or not look. We see these ideas in the minor and seemingly ‘normal’ details of how we compliment our friends who lost weight, exchange dieting tips that subconsciously inflict fatphobia, give our lingering attention to people who resemble television models, stereotype marginalized bodies, and in my case, praise the white body and reject the natural parts of being a Filipina.

I know that our world is changing and is reckoning with these issues and stories, but have we examined our own part in holding an inhospitable and discriminatory system together? Have we paid attention to our vernacular and our assumptions of what our own standards of beauty look like? When we think of ‘beauty,’ is it more automatic for us to think about someone or something else other than us? Have I, as part of the marginalized group, made the efforts to reclaim who I am in my body as an act of defiance against the social stigma? Have I returned to the sun and the water – the natural friends to my brown, islander body? Have I befriended them again, as it chooses to nourish and replenish me in my full self? Will I let it hold me again?

Resources to Go Deeper:

, Sabrina Strings

The post A Response to the Oppressive, ‘Standardized’ Image of Beauty appeared first on ������Ƶ of Theology & Psychology.

This month on the Intersections blog, we are exploring the art of nurturing our identity and formation in a way that allows us to continue growing in wisdom, empathy, and clarity of calling. It is a challenge to open ourselves to the care and sustenance needed to sustain deep, meaningful service in the places of deep need all around us. And in order to open ourselves to care, we must also be able to identify the places of our identities that are still impacted and influenced by our histories of harm and internalized messages of shame.

In that vital, difficult work, we were deeply inspired by the research and insights offered by Gabes Torres, MA in Counseling Psychology student, MA in Theology & Culture alumna, and Program Assistant for The Allender Center, as she presented her Integrative Project in 2018. Gabes’s project, “Ang Mga Sugatang Kamay na Naghain sa Lamesa (The Scarred Hands that Set the Table)—The Violation of Hospitality: Consequences from Centuries of Colonization in the Philippines,” wrestles with the painful scars that grow out of colonialism.

For this project, Gabes interviewed a Filipino woman who works in hospitality industries in the United States. Gabes describes the woman’s impulse toward subservience—a fear of saying no, challenging authority, or naming experiences of harm—that is common among Filipino workers. Gabes argues that that subservience is a reflection of the manipulation and corrupt power dynamics at the heart of colonialism and imperialism.

“The irony here is in the fact that these events are taking place within the context of hospitality industries, and these reports violate the very meaning of hospitality,” says Gabes. “Because the true practice of hospitality exists in the mutuality of responsibility and roles between host and guest, where there is a shared power, there is an equal value, acceptance, protection, service, and respect towards one another.”

“The true practice of hospitality exists in the mutuality of responsibility and roles between host and guest.”

To unpack the ongoing effects of colonization in Filipino culture, tradition, and even sense of self, Gabes says it is important to take a look at history and follow the narrative threads that are still very much at play today. But Gabes advises caution in doing so, since most of the dominant historical narratives propagate the belief that explorers and colonizers helped advance a “primitive” culture, rather than exposing the violence and irreversible harm brought by colonization. To meaningfully reflect on where we are today, we must be willing to tell the full, honest stories of where we have been.

“Not only do the artifacts of Spanish colonization and American imperialism spread out in language, in architecture, in our very names, but also in the ideas of the Filipinos, their ideas about themselves, and others, and their relationship to others,” says Gabes. “It is also very disturbing to realize that we do not need to be in North America to see the impact and pervasiveness of American exceptionalism and white supremacy.”

Gabes argues that the end result of colonialism is an erasure of the self. Colonized people are taught to welcome and accommodate others at the expense of welcoming themselves as they are, and in the process the self is compromised and rejected. In response to this reality, Gabes ends her presentation with a letter that she wrote to her ancestors—a stunning, insightful work of art, and a profound assertion and celebration of self in the face of systemic harm.

The post The Violation of Hospitality appeared first on ������Ƶ of Theology & Psychology.

“Mary, Did You Know?” is a song that will never end up on my list of favorite Christmas carols. When I was younger, I remember hearing people from my faith community rave about how the lyrical content held a spirit of anticipation for a Messiah who will come to save all creation. I, however, do not share in this same appreciation. As a songwriter, I listen to this song—composed by a male Christian songwriter in Texas—and all I hear is how it repetitively suggested that Mary �徱���’t know who her son was, or that we, 21st century people, have better insight about the extent of his healing and grace.

A part of me is convinced that not only did Mary know—she was sure about what she had been invited into. Otherwise, she would not have gathered the receptivity and courage to respond: “‘I am the Lord’s servant. May your word to me be fulfilled.”

I have lately been talking with friends about the theme of suffering. A question that came up was, “When were the times we were open to suffering, instead of trying to avoid it?”

My answer was immediate.

As an advocate and therapist-in-training for victims of racial trauma and marginalization, this type of work often leaves me susceptible to a wide variety of social shame and harm, especially with our currently aggravated political climate. I’ve had experiences when people responded negatively to my work, claiming that racism ended after the Civil Rights act, or that there’s no such thing as white privilege. This cause has also cost me friendships, my sense of safety and belonging in many Christian communities, and vocational opportunities that guaranteed a more secure future. But I choose to persist, motivated by awareness of an enduring Jim Crow in the form of mass incarceration, or the news about a person of color experiencing post-traumatic stress symptoms even though she was not a direct victim of the generational harm her body is reacting to.

When I compare the dark state of our world today with an imagination for the full liberation and flourishing that every single person on this earth could be experiencing, I become undone. I persist because of the hope that we could be more—more free, more dignified, and more loving towards one another. I hope for a time when the wide gap between who we are today and who we are meant to become finally closes. I say yes to a costly call only when I know its worth.

With Mary, I picture a teenager struggling to explain a supernatural conception to Joseph and her community. She was aware of the likelihood that no one would believe her right away, or that no one would believe her at all. This leaves her vulnerable to public shame and the accusation of living immorally. Yet her continual obedience was compelled not by fear, but by hope—a hope for the world to be so much more than it was, and that the Christ Child who resides temporarily in her young body will bring universal peace and rest after generations of chaos and despair.

“Her continual obedience was compelled not by fear, but by hope—a hope for the world to be so much more than it was.”

She might not have been fully aware of the detailed parts of her son’s coming miracles, nor the degree of his humility and obedience to God, but she said yes to a costly call of pain and peril ahead—for not only did Mary know, but she was sure of its worth.

In this time of hostility and collective unrest, may we reassess the health of our hope, and with this, I pray:

Holy Light,
Just as your mother, we ask that you renew our imagination of the immeasurable scope
and depth of your redemption.
May we live a life that not only embodies good news, but is also thrilled by it.
May you move our hearts to gaze at wonder with openness.
May you fortify our spirit to discern whether we walk in fear or in hope.
You are well aware of the darkness of our night,
The volume of our cries,
The constancy of our questions and doubts.
So may you give us a radiant assurance that we are favored and loved.
Our eternal belonging and rest are coming closer by the day.
Until then, may we ease in the mystery of your fierce and gentle ways,
You have always been with us.
Closer than breath, you are with us.

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Artist Statement

Before the birth of Christ, the world waited and hoped in deep anguish for the fulfillment of their Messianic expectations. This song shows that even today, we are not yet done with our waiting.

As individuals and as a world today – whether we are aware of this or not – we continue to search for the ultimate fulfillment of our longing, leaving us with the innate sense of “there must be more.” And while we anticipate, the words to this song also hold the tension that Christ transcends all space and time – he was then and now. He is here and is to come.

Lyrics

In our waiting,
We sing of a light
The one we’ve always longed
That overwhelms the dawn
Jesus, the hope of every song

A holy name
Once found in ancient words
He came
Into the fullness of the night
The meek of us all sighed
At the sight of Heaven’s King

He is here, and He is yet to come
He’s with us in our hopes, our wounds, our joy, our fears
He is then and now
Closer than every breath,
He bids us all to rest and wait
For our truest day of peace
The world yet to come
The light that overwhelms the dawn

Have we heard
He’s come to bring us love
The comfort of our cry
That brings all creation
To our true name and cause and life

He is here, and He is yet to come
He’s with us in our hopes, our wounds, our joy, our fears
He is then and now
Closer than every breath,
He bids us all to rest and wait
For our truest day of peace
The world yet to come
The light that overwhelms the dawn

That same star will lead us home
O let us come, let us adore

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