xinan pandan
frankfurt
I feel like I have always been in search of a home. There was this yearning within me for a place that I could be part of this longing for belonging. Growing up in Germany, as a queer non-binary person of color, meant to be always different, othered, categorized, fetishized and exoticized.
The first time I walked into a BIPoC safer space, I felt like I could really breathe deeply for the first time in my life. A huge burden was lifted off of me, of constantly staying alert, of not knowing when to expect the next racist comment, of always keeping my guard up.
The first time I walked into a Queer BIPoC safer space I almost cried, because everybody was so beautiful and powerful with their genderfuck attitude. I was moved to see how people carried themselves with pride and a sense of self, of knowing that we are who we are and that we are not alone. That day ended with me being cuddled up with people I had just gotten to know, but who already felt like family. This was a moment of rest, of letting go, of finding myself in others.
Community is such a vague concept, and there are always problems with defining these terms. Questions arise: Who belongs to a community and who is excluded? How do we handle conflicts, dismantle power structures, make spaces accessible and meet each other’s needs? Community spaces are not perfect and it takes a lot of work, energy and trust to build a vision of how we want to live together. Yet, they also represent the sphere where I come closest to the feeling of belonging to a place where I could build something.
There is also always the issue of finding a physical space where we can organize and hold events, as access to such ressources are very limited for people who belong to these communities and face multiple intersections of discrimination. We make due with what we can get: Community has become this roaming home as a place of togetherness, rather than a fixed, physical place.
The pandemic has deepened the marginalization of racialized people, especially when considering the intersections with gender, class and disability. People who are the most vulnerable struggle even more to stay safe and meet their basic needs. These are times where hate crimes and domestic violence have risen, many of us have lost their jobs and are without access to adequate mental health care. Capitalism has very openly shown its ugliest sides. We felt forgotten, and that our lives and wellbeing are worthless. When the government should have been taking responsibility and offering support, their lack of action made it even clearer than before, that most institutions and structures in Germany are very much racist, ableist and transphobic and do not intend to change. Although some could turn to their families for support, many Queer BIPoC did not have this option, as their family of origin is not safe to be around.
However, during this time of crisis we have also seen a great wave of solidarity within communities to keep each other safe, find ways to support one another in trying times, either emotionally, financially or just by offering help to go grocery shopping for someone else. It was a pushback against a mindset of scarcity that we were taught since childhood. With this artist residency I would like to pay homage to the bonds fostered within chosen families and a community that stepped up in times of crisis and gives me hope, when hope feels like an impossibility.
tell me a story
Queer BIPoC community spaces are spaces of storytelling. These stories that we share with each other are so unique and so relatable at the same time. Here we learn to recognize ourselves in others for the first time. We recognize the pain that we share, but we also recognize the beauty we all carry, that is inherent to us.
There is so much power in sharing your own narrative, in taking agency, in determining how you tell your own story. Too often, we feel like we have no control over it, that we don’t have a voice, or a space where we can speak and be heard and be seen and accepted for who we are.
please tell me a story
there is so much i don’t know
there is so much i want to learn
please tell me a story
of life
of joy
of sorrow
and wonder
please tell me a story
of your dreams
of your visions
of whatever it is you wish for
please tell me a story
about how you came to be
about your years of resilience
about your hours of brilliance
about your moments of clarity
about your sparks of beauty
about the struggles you’ve had to overcome
about the burdens you still have to carry on
about the ghosts that haunt you
about the past that doesn’t want to let go of you
please tell me
your wildest dreams
the brightest future you can imagine
please tell me
how you want to live
how you want to shape this life
what choices you want to make
what actions you want to take
please tell me
what makes you feel your worth
what grounds you to this earth
what brings you peace
what does love mean to you?
what does family mean to you?
what does community mean to you?
please tell me
so that i know i am not alone
so that i know what we share
so that i know how we can be here together
because life would be beautiful with you in it
holding grief
The pandemic has brought the topic of our own mortality, death and grief into our daily lives. Many of us have lost loved ones during the last two years. Some, to the virus itself, others to precarious situations, made even worse by the circumstances. Grieving someone often feels very lonely and I felt very disconnected to the world and the people who are close to me.
I struggled to find words to describe losses that run that deep and for a long time it felt like I lost the ability to speak and to express myself. But having a kind and loving support system around helped a lot, to accept and hold space for all that pain and to find my voice again.
i’ve lived in a void
where i am not able to speak
and no language exists.
i’ve been here too often
and sometimes i imagined myself to stay here forever.
it is dark and lonely
the silence is deafening.
but this solitude feels like comfort.
here, there is nothing anymore
that i could lose.
because there is nothing to hold on to.
in a rare glimpse of light,
i see my friends walk and talk
and live their lives
and i feel so distant
so far away.
i try to speak
i try to ask for help
but i’ve lost all the words, i’ve ever known.
there is this barrier in my mind.
a place where i cannot go
even when i want to go there so badly
to understand.
but death is too abstract to grasp
too far away to understand in this existence
of being just a human, in a world that i just do not understand.
i do not understand what death means.
not understanding death, means not understanding life,
not understanding reason
not understanding how you can be gone.
i am so afraid to live this life
of loss
of pain
of suffering
and to struggle
and to fight a fight that goes on and on and on.
i am so tired.
‘the hardest thing in this world is to live in it’
but i don’t have to do this alone.
i don’t have to be alone.
there is
community,
chosen family,
friendship,
love
and solidarity.
we take care of each other.
we try our best every day.
it is trying,
what we must continue to do.
against all odds.
we don’t always have a solution
but we have each other.
because we are doing this for each other
and for ourselves.
it might feel lonely sometimes,
it might be difficult sometimes.
mistakes are being made,
paths may part and never intersect again.
it is an imperfect world
and this is also something i must learn to accept.
i’ve learned to let go in the arms of chosen family
who embraced me in loving kindness
who held space
for my sadness
for my grieve
for my imperfections
for me
so that i can breathe again.
i surrender
to whatever there is to come.
and with this
i am allowing myself to be like this,
to feel all this hurt.
and with this
i found a moment of peace
and i found self acceptance
and i found my ability to speak again.
it was never lost
it was always right here.
like the beating of my heart
that carries all my love for those who have left.