The Horrifying Realization That We Can All Be Rudolf Hoss

I’ve recently read a fascinating book (Children of Nazi’s by Tania Crasnianski) where it described how Rudolf Hoss could function as a man who ran Auschwitz (and other camps) and yet be apparently a loving father. Hoss, apparently, was trained to be the perfect obedient follower by first his father and then his stint in the army. So, his entire response to questioning about why in hell could you do this at Nuremberg can be summed up as: ‘I was just following orders, and I didn’t personally kill people.’ He also said if he was ordered too he would have killed his own family! 

The thing is, Rudolf Hoss is us. How many times do we see or have psychological studies done (like Zambroni Prison study) that shows when people can abdicate responsibility (i.e. ‘I was just following orders’), they willing do horrifying shit that otherwise we wouldn’t do. How many politicians/bureaucrats do we have that are just like Rudolf Hoss? 

I mean China right now comes to mind crystal clear. The government with the full compliance of its minions are sending Uighars to camps. Camps! Just like the Jewish people in Nazi Germany. And like the 1930s/1940s the world didn’t notice or give a shit until Hitler was like ‘Imma going to take that land and that land’ (actually, they really didn’t care about that either until he was like ‘Poland’s mine!’ after annexing a few other tasty pieces of land), we as a world-wide community don’t give a shit (I’m not talking about activists and others actually doing the work). When will we care? Or are we too much like Rudolf Hoss? 

Also, Trump. Like seriously, the rise of Trump and his cult of followers closely follows Hitler’s rise. America closely escaped going down the road to fascism. There had to be plenty of people, people like Rudolf Hoss, who supported Trump’s rise because it gave them permission, just like Hitler gave his followers permission. Permission for what exactly? To say they were following orders and do horrid, horrifying things (cages, anyone?). 

We today, like Rudolf Hoss’ contemporaries, are looking for answers. That’s why Trump’s ‘Make America Great Again’ slogan resonated so loudly with so many people: he (and Hitler) told people a story that made them believe that everything would get better, become their version of happiness, if only they elect him, and if only they pretend the horrible things that happened afterwards were not their fault because someone else did it, someone else ordered it, someone else took control of the reigns of their own hands.

Recently, in Kamloops they discovered the bodies of 215 children on the grounds of a former residential school. 215! These schools are Canada’s recent reminder that we too can easily turn into Rudolf Hoss given permission via orders. For I’m sure that is what whoever killed those poor children said to themselves to justify it. Justify killing children in a country that is supposedly everything Nazi Germany wasn’t: kind, welcoming, diverse, humanitarian. And, for those who forget the last ones closed not that long ago in the 1990s. The 1990s!!!  

And that’s scary, isn’t it? To know that if circumstances had lined up differently and born into a different time, Rudolf Hoss wouldn’t have done what he did because he would have had different masters pulling his strings. And this could, can be us too. If we were born in that period, in that country as a typical German dude would we have fared differently? We would like to say, yes, we’d have stepped up and faced off Nazi’s. But really? Unless you have big issues with authority and hate listening to orders, you’re likely to be just like Rudolf Hoss: following orders at the expense of your humanity. Hoss wasn’t a fanatical National Socialist believing the crackpot shit that others like Himmler, Hess and Mengele did; no, he just had a job, wanted to be ordered around, and desired stability. That sounds like a lot of people around us doesn’t it? 

We are not so different today, and really, horrifyingly we could be Rudolf Hoss. Horrifyingly, perhaps, some of us are Rudolf Hoss. 

215: because ALL children should matter

215, what is the number? Well until few days ago it was just number between 214 and 216, it didn’t mean much. That was a few days ago though and a lot of things have changed since then. Like the fact that 215 children skeletons were just discovered at former residential school in Kamloops British Columbia. That’s when 215 became more than just a number, it became a another realization that we cannot cover up our brutal past. As we mourn those children who were snatched a chance of life we can a least start the process of giving them the peace and respect into the afterlife and the healing to their family.

The one thing that has disturb me as being Canadian is the fact how Canada is all about multicultural society but had no problem about sweeping under the rug (so to speak) the fact we had residential schools, the sixties scoop, Japanese and Ukrainian interment camps. However we were like look how diverse society we are but we really aren’t… I do understand that am not ingenious however I am a person of colour who can relate to prejudice and racism that has happened. With that also being said I can be an ally and bring awareness to the ordeals and issues that is going on with the ingenious, Inuit and Métis community. We cannot continue sweep our indifferences under the rug and hope the issues clear themselves, we got to learn and educate so that future generations doesn’t believe that residential schools or separating families are ideal for a healthy normal society. We as nation need to come together and mourn these children who never came home.

We have just been given 215 reasons why All children should matter. Even though they never got chance to live we can still honour who they are by coming together and acknowledge that never again. That children from our past or to the newest one we have the right to make sure they all matter. For it doesn’t matter their ethnicity or race or creed they are important enough for this world. Even if it’s just give them the peace and grace to live in the afterlife. Jesus once said “ let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.” Children are our future as well as our past to learn and come that events of our past doesn’t happen again. Our children are important and they do matter. We were just given 215 reasons why and let us not forget them nor other children who haven’t made it home that they are not forgotten. Because when we unearth more forgotten children(which can happen Kamloops wasn’t the first nor last) we can send them off with all the love and respect that any child deserves.

Backyard Fairies: A Poem

when its time to venture out into the backyard

just take a brief sunshine moment

to pause your oversized giant feet,

feet that if you’re not careful can smush an errant fairy,

and still your overactive all-seeing-but-not eyes,

become one with nature

because then you’ll see the most

extraordinary sight:

an entire world

beyond normal ken

a beautiful magical

fluttering of

fairies,

blue, green, yellow, red, and too many more coloured wings,

darting to and fro,

chittering and chattering,

living in tiny colourful, whimsical houses,

lilting and looting

enchanting sounds everywhere

from tiny wind chimes to singing children musical flowers

such a sight you’ll only behold,

if you just still.

Am A Golden Girl: How Sophia and The Golden Girls aspire me to be golden too

When my mother was younger she had read a poem “when I get old will wear purple” alas she went out and found a purple shawl. She used it occasionally because she was stubborn to the fact she was a senior. However I have been very adamant about when I get old I want to be Sophia from Golden girls. Not because I envision myself being Italian grandmother, I just like that for an old lady she is blunt and at times she has no filter, but I also want to grow old gracefully like Cecily Tyson because I don’t know who else made being in their 90’s so gorgeous! Seriously I’ve always wanted to be an old lady not because I don’t value my youth but it all the wisdom and understanding old people have. So I might not wear purple when I get old but I want to be confident in who I am when I get to that age.

Probably my love for growing up to be a mature woman most likely came from the sitcom Golden Girls. Even though I was quite young when that show aired I thought it would be fun to share a house with my besties when we get old just like show ( I am still all for this FYI). However it wasn’t just their friendship but also how they tackled with different issues like elder care, HIV/aids, and coming out and same sex marriage. It was also how they adjust being older women that life doesn’t end when you get widowed or divorced that you can still have enriching life with whoever you choose. They made growing old fashionable and relevant because let’s face it there is many aspects of society where once you get to a certain age you are done with. Because we all have heard many actress who have seen roles change or go scarce because they hit 40, 50, 60 etc but life as we know doesn’t necessarily end once you hit a certain time.

I just hope that I age with grace, I don’t mind if I get wrinkles etc. I just want to be a woman who supports other woman and champion for others rights. I know that I will have wisdom and understanding to pass down to others. That is who Sophia was for me, she was never left out by the other women even if she was older, she was included and she was seen as equal. Plus who doesn’t like solving life problems over a slice of cheesecake. However Sophia usually has the more interesting stories (sorry Rose) plus any stories that start with “picture it…” you know it going to be good a story. That’s how I often associate with mature women is their stories because when we are younger we are so focus with trying to adapt and change when you are older you are content with you and what you are. Even if you haven’t had an easy journey, your story is still relevant and can be empowering to another person.

I know that I have several years before am considering on purple or if my besties and I live in a house together. However there will always be phone calls or messaging, even cheesecake to help us get through. Getting old can wait because even if I can’t wait to be Sophia, there is always time because I still got a lot of life to live. Plus what use is an older woman if she doesn’t have any stories to tell and how can I get stories if am not living life. The biggest thing about getting older is that our life doesn’t stop and either should we. That’s why I think we all relate to The Golden Girls, they proved that we still have a lot of life still to live. They still had dates, sex life, careers etc. Age was just a number that didn’t define them and I hope that’s what I aspire to do too. That I can live my life on my terms and not be define by a number.

Ten Responses to ‘BUT FAMILY’: A Poem

One:

I’m glad you have a good family, but not everyone does

don’t invalidate their experiences.

Two:

since when does family equate with perfect behaviour?

people are human,

they can be monumental

screw ups, assholes, self-involved twats, condescending

and on and on and on

and its not like these people will turn it off regarding their family.

Three:

there is this whole discourse on removing yourself from toxic relationships,

but not family?

why can’t family be toxic?

why do we get called selfish when cutting toxic family but wise when we cut off other toxic people?

make it make sense.

Four:

they say we teach other people how to trust us,

and we have to be active participants in this or,

you know, it’s kinda all our fault,

and yet,

we just have to accept how our family treats us?

what if I don’t want to be hit or yelled at

or or or

Five:

what if your family is never there for you?

why should you be there for them?

isn’t life, relationships a two-way street

or does that stop at the door to a family home?

Six:

Fuck you,

you don’t know anything

or everything

about the situation.

Seven:

it kinda seems like you are passively condoning their behaviour,

even encouraging it.

Eight:

while you are pardoning their behaviour,

do I have to also apologize for doing what’s best for me?

what about my apology?

Nine:

Seriously, fuck you.

Where do you get off on making judgements on my experience?

Ten:

perhaps, maybe a tiny bit– unless you have a good family– you are projecting onto me?

Just food for thought.

The strong one: A poem

I rely on you because your strong… and I broke.

It’s tough being the strong one, especially when you want to something

Else. Anything would be better than strong.

Sure strong for some might be motivation, progression but for me and

Myself, my strength is fortress, it’s my wall and with it am nothing and

Without it I don’t know how to go on…

Please don’t rely on me because I’m strong, it’s just don’t know how

Else to be. I don’t want to be weak, not that weakness is fragile but I

Know that am not weak. I’m strong but I don’t want to be.

Do you understand all pressure, do you know what it means to be “on”

All the time?

I don’t want to be the strong one, I don’t want to bear that armour..

I just want to be me however I don’t know who I am without being

Strong.

Do you see my dilemma, my ordeal? My strength was thrust upon me

As child and it covered me like a blanket and now I don’t know how

To function without my “blanket”.

I’m broken because am strong and my weakness is because am strong,

I don’t know how to be me without it…I don’t want to be the strong one

Not anymore. Please, please, help me to let it go…

Taking Out Stress on Your Body: Mental Health, and Dermatillomania

Dermatillomania: a disorder whereby a person chronically picks at their skin.

I know that I didn’t pick my skin as a kid, because I don’t have memories being told off about it (I do, however, have memories about being told off for cracking my knuckles). I think I first started picking my fingers as a teenager, I mean that is when I can clearly remember being told off about doing it. I never got into the whole using a razor/knife and cutting scene, but in a way skin-picking has a lot in common with cutting. Both practices are a form of self-harm (harming the body, I mean), both practices give people a momentary rush of relief from the pain/stress/anxiety, and both become coping practices. Now saying that, cutting obviously has more inherent danger than skin-picking; usually, skin-picking doesn’t have the possible side effect of serious injury or death unless you let the sites get infected or, as I saw in one gut-wrenching case, you start picking seriously unadvisable body parts (this woman got injured on her legs, and so went under the gauze to start picking out her nerves which then has led to other horrifying things including I believe she is almost at the point of losing her legs). I won’t ever go down the path of picking unadvisable body parts because frankly that both grosses and freaks me the f out. Like I can’t even look at that poor lady’s photos of the damage she had done to herself and get a picture based on the comments. I hope that my fingers will never get infected (and I do take care of them after).

Why I started doing this habit, I can’t say. All I remember is just one day I started to pick a little at the edges of my cuticles, and I also remember how it made me feel: momentarily relieved. Like I let out a huge exhale. I think subconsciously I had been looking for a way to alleviate the internal combustion of feelings that felt like they were always pressing at the edges (which is a reason why I was always incredibly burn-the-world-down-angry). Every time I picked at my fingers it gave my brain (and still does) a momentary sigh of distraction, relief, and a way to settle myself. It became a way to cope with situations that I didn’t want to be in (and still does) by giving me something to focus on. In a way I was (and still am) taking out my stress on my body.

And, well ever since then I have picked my fingers…sometimes other parts of the body, but mainly my fingers. It’s not something I do constantly every day, every year. I have peaks and valleys. Frankly, it depends on my stress and anxiety levels, also if I have some part that is easily pickable (like a hangnail etc.).

I can’t stop picking my fingers. Trust me, I’ve tried. I’ve put band-aids on my hands to stop me (actually, I still do that when I think it gets a little out of hand). I’ve put lotion on my hands (which honestly, I still do but just to moisturize now). I’ve put an elastic band on my wrist to snap every time I have the urge (but the thing is, half the time I don’t even realize I am picking…). I’ve worn gloves to reduce the ease of access (which is not fun in the summer or trying to do while operating a computer). It also doesn’t help that first my mother then my grandparents have hounded me about stopping this habit. My mother would yell at me stop alongside some pithy epithets. That just made me pick even harder. My grandparents for the longest time would lecture me about the dangers to my health. That just made me feel ashamed and stop momentarily. My husband on the hand simply puts his hand on mine when he wants me to stop picking. And you know it doesn’t make me feel stressed or ashamed.

This not something that I can stop easily, and who knows if I’ll ever stop on my own as the coping mechanism becomes outdated and I develop new ones (maybe I should see a shrink about that…). What I do know is that I pick because I’m using my body to alleviate stress/anxiety, and that shaming, or yelling doesn’t work at all (really, don’t shame people). All it ends up doing is making me feel like an ugly-toad step-sister sitting beside beautiful people who seem to know everything about everything; like I can’t do anything right, the perennial ugly fuck up. It’s not a great feeling. However, when my husband simply puts his hands gently on mine to stop me it feels more like ‘hey, you’re picking, you should stop’ with overtones of love and understanding. My husband doesn’t do it because he has a prejudice against me picking my fingers, rather, we have an understanding: I stop him gently when he picks his nose and he stops me gently when I pick my fingers. We both know we should stop doing what we are doing but half the time we don’t know we are. In this way, I don’t feel abnormal (and I hope he doesn’t).

Colour in: a poem

Colour in love

Colour in hope

Colour in peace

Colour in joy

What is rainbow without some colour?

What is a storm without dark clouds?

What hue of yellow is the sun?

We don’t know all colours in box

So why is some accepted and some not?

What makes a rose prettier than dandelion?

What makes honey so sweet?

When we colour in love, we colour in acceptance.

When we colour in hope, we colour in dreams.

When we colour in peace, we colour out war.

When we colour in joy, we colour out sorrow.

A rainbow is beautiful because of all the hues it makes.

Dark clouds bring sunny days again.

All colour are beautiful and special.

The rose is not prettier than dandelion just maybe more fragrant.

The honey is sweet because of the hard work of the honeybee.

When we colour in we can see the world as beautiful place.

They Think I Am Dumb: A Poem

there are two supervisors

we call them the bitches 2,

they think I am dumb.

they don’t hide it,

though they think they do

behind a facade of condescending paternalism,

over exaggerated explanations,

coupled with

weird expectations of knowing everything about academia,

they think I am so dumb,

I need constant reminders that ‘other’ people at this stage don’t have that much comments on their work,

they I think I am so dumb,

I don’t notice they keep pushing back the deadline,

they think I am so dumb,

I didn’t notice they checked out early on and then blamed me when things went awry,

they think I am so dumb,

I didn’t notice they didn’t care about my breakdown over visa-issues caused by them,

they think I am so dumb,

I don’t notice they don’t remember anything about me,

they think I am so dumb,

that I think I am friends, hell even friendly, with their fake asses,

they think I am so dumb,

that I accept, even love, their ‘help’ and ‘service’ in doing my degree,

they think I am so dumb,

that I should thank them for just doing their jobs,

they think I am so dumb,

I don’t see their elitist attitudes and not giving an iota of info to a first generation grad student, and so when I fail its my fault,

they think I am so dumb,

that what I say is what I mean,

they think I am so dumb.

Sword and song: a poem

We are the sisters of sword and song.

Even though we are women, we are strong and we are mighty.

We hum a warriors tune as we gear up for battle.

Our armour is secured and our heads are held high as we, the sisters

Go to war. Our sword is by our side and the song is held in our head.

As we toil, as we fight, we remember our warrior song.

After the siege, after battle, even though we are worn, even if we are

Tired. We gather, us sisters and we we sing our warrior song. It’s a song

That we will teach to our younger sisters who in turn will teach even

Younger until each sister hears the song and knows the tune. It will be

Fierce in her heart, so when a sister feels down, when a sister alone,

She will start to hum the tune and we the other sisters will join, so she

Will not be alone. Whether we are at war together or if we are alone,

We are sisters of sword and song.