On Whose Shoulders Do I Arrive?

On whose shoulders do I arrive? What a loaded question… I don’t believe there is an answer —well, a concise and straightforward one, at least. I arrive from those who came before me in my being, creative practice, and academics. I arrive from my experiences, failures, and triumphs — bettering myself from each lesson I learn. Rather than arriving on someone’s shoulders, I stem from them: reaching and grabbing at information, soaking in all they have to offer while stretching my spiritual being from one person to the next, connecting all those who came before me.

My being stems from the generations before me, my family members who grew up in other countries, so that I could have opportunities here. I arrived before my family, including my mother, father, and grandparents; I adapted to the family after me — my younger brother and sister — who have raised and shaped me into the woman I am today. My family has created me physically, mentally, and emotionally; they helped make my values, characteristics, virtues, beliefs, and intelligence (with only the slightest bit of help from myself and others around me). They gave me fantastic opportunities and the utmost love and support throughout all my endeavors.

They taught me how to show love and kindness, aiding me in developing and harboring platonic and romantic relationships until I was thrown into the world as an adult. They carry me when I’m sad, hurt, or lonely, never letting me focus too hard on negativity. My family lifts me out of the trenches of sadness, comforting me and bearing the burden of my not-so-often shed tears with me. They show me how a new challenge arises each day and how I can consistently overcome it, even when it feels like the world is ending for everyone. They’ve helped me expand my toolbox to handle my anxiety and depression; those fleeting breaths became less and less frequent with all their kind words and signs of love. I arrive on their shoulders this way… but I’m nowhere near the end of my speech.

I also have lovely friends who I take everywhere with me. They live near and far — some even on other continents. They help me make complex decisions by offering advice, they come to support my performance endeavors, and they love to be silly and enjoy the potentially limited time we have together. Still, I know most of the friends I’ve made will be friends for life. The people in my circle will never leave; we may go round and round, and sometimes, our friendships will seem redundant and burnt out, but the flame of spiritual love never burns out. We experiment and have no shame in sometimes being pushed over the edge; even when we take it too far, there’s no pressure to hide our sickness from one another, helping each other through it all. They bring me joy, laughter, serenity, and peace. We make music, memories, and art, and flourish in the spaces we create for ourselves.

My friends and I never have a dull moment; even if there is a lull, it doesn’t feel like one. We blast music (most definitely pissing off my RA), dance around, sing, laugh, and play; we’re still just kids. Sometimes we get confused and ask to borrow the other’s brain, but more often than not, it’s a group effort to do most things besides our work. Most of the time, it’s all smiles — we celebrate each other’s triumphs and achievements the most. I share my writings, performance pieces, and thoughts with them (they do the same to me), and we soak it all up. We’re sponges still, learning and adapting as we go. They are also how I arrive at class, social events, work, and everywhere I go.

My creative practice stems from the billions of artists before me. The ones I have met or worked with, studied in school, found online, listened to, and learned from. Some of the artists I have encountered include but are not limited to Katherine Fischer (a visiting professor at NYU), Alice Sheppard, José Muñoz, Holly Hughes, VanGogh, Bill T. Jones, Monet, Diana Taylor, Dimitri Chamblas, Finch (an underground musician under a pseudonym with a crazy unique creative vision), and many more including many of the people I’ve met during my time at NYU.

Dimitri Chamblas, specifically, with whom I explored the depths of his creative mind, was presented with an opportunity in a class taught by Katherine Fisher. We created the third-ever rendition of Fountain, a piece that turns a human into a fountain. While I now have a new party trick—gargling water that sounds like a fountain —that is not all I gained from the experience. I gained new friends and was a part of a spiritual ritualistic experience. The first time we ran the piece in its entirety — twenty minutes of gargling water — my soul was touched. I felt different, and I took that with me. Every artist I’ve met, studied, and learned from has impacted me and left an indelible mark on my work today.

I’ve adopted a key aspect of their practices into my own mindset. For example, Karen Finely’s freedom of expression and openness towards the body; that mindset is now just a fragment of the things that come into mind when creating something new. Now, when I dance or write, I implement openness and a kind, nurturing care of the body and mind; while it may not be seen easily in this piece, it’s there. I also draw inspiration from musicians’ lyricism, aiming to incorporate flow in both my words and bodily movements, and to be gentle with every project, even through harsh strides. This creates my artistic practice. However, my academic practice slightly differs.

My academic practice extends from everything I’ve ever learned — even this gold rush project in fourth grade, where I had to crab walk around my whole field and use toothpicks to pick out chocolate ships from cookies (weird, I know). I arrive on the shoulders of every poet I’ve ever read, listened to, or studied, and I hope this comes off somewhat poetic for my readers, but it may not be very clear. I still get confused, but when I do, I dive into research and ask questions to anyone who may have answers; sometimes, I ask those who won’t have an answer for me to hear their thoughts as well. This may be childish, but I see it as curious.

I learn from lawyers, psychiatrists, artists, writers, editors, doctors, and educators. They all possess a wealth of knowledge that can positively impact the younger generation, including my peers and me. I absorb their knowledge as if I’ve been deprived of a vital nutrient source for years. Knowledge is more fulfilling than food; I could go days without eating a proper meal and still feel full from the satisfaction my studies and desire for knowledge bring. However, since that is unhealthy, I do eat. I draw inspiration from those who feed me, including Emily Dickinson, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Karl Marx, Siobhan Burke, Lewis Carol, Victoria Phillips, Edgar Allen Poe, Naomi E. S. Goldstein, and more, even if our views don’t align. I yearn to listen to the academics listed and many other scholars speak, to hear what they would say.

If I drew you a map, a long invisible string would connect me, all the people listed, and more. You’d see the trajectory of my life in various-colored strings (representing emotions, monumental moments, beliefs, virtues, lessons, etc.), showing where I started and how I traveled, danced, and moved through life to where I am. I stem from them, I arrive from them, I come with them. I take up space with them, share space with them, and exit space with them. They are pieces of me, and I, by extension, am now pieces of them. So, on whose shoulders do I arrive? Or who comes with me on my shoulders? It’s a theory, and it’s not meant to be clear. It’s not clear to me, and probably not to you. Now, I ask you to ask yourself: On whose shoulders do you arrive?