A letter to beloved community
Mel Hsu || March 11, 2022
I write to you on my last day as a Co-Director at GRP.
I.
I have always been notoriously bad at goodbyes.
When I was a kid, I wore my Mickey Mouse shoes long after they ceased to even remotely qualify as shoes.
My mom sat me down, encouraged me to take a picture of them and then gently said, “Mei 妹, I think it's time."
I’m not always graceful in the face of change.
So much so that I will hold so tightly onto distant memories as if they are still the present.
How much we wish we could keep the radiance of a glowing firefly.
So much so that we try to trap that firefly in a jar without air, wishing for it to stay beautiful forever.
II.
My big sister always says, "Leadership is not about having all the answers, but being able to prepare your community for change."
I bow my head to you, the souls who have always kept me accountable to this humbling challenge - the countless people who have trusted me in my not knowing and made room for the bright impossible phoenix light that would always inevitably come next.
This community has changed me. You have taught me that vulnerability and courage are synonymous. You have taught me that being a beginner and asking questions without fear is one of the most powerful places we can be in. You have taught me that joy is one of the most revolutionary forces that there is.
Ya’ll know that I love a good color-coded spreadsheet and an excruciatingly detailed plan. Today, I cannot give you the perfect agenda, the perfect timeline, the perfect check boxes to measure objectives and outcomes. I do not know what comes next. I do know and own that the work is not done - the questions we set out to answer last year with a name change have led us to unearth the deeper questions that have been there for us to bravely face for many, many years. Thank you for trusting me in knowing that I cannot continue to lead this work in the next phase of this organization’s life in this specific role.
Today, I’m trying my best to listen deeply to my sister - trying my best to inhale and exhale with you the truth.
We need to let the firefly out of the jar for it to be able to keep breathing.
III.
We’ve felt the impact of not being able to see you in our seasonal rituals since the start of the pandemic. What fierce magic it is when we can be together, to break bread together, to sing together, to grieve together, to starfish together, to be absolutely terrified onstage in front of one another and to know that we are held the whole. damn. time.
This community has always been a force to be reckoned with, a sacred constellation. Even when we are not physically able to be together, when we can’t see one another across the circle (as Sam always says), when we’re moving so quickly we can’t even think (as Candy pushes me to interrupt) - we’ve always been able to find our way back to one another. My wish for us all is that we'll all be able to still feel each other’s hands, voices, spirits, memories, teachings, learnings across the city, across time zones, oceans, galaxies - even if we can’t see one another.
I know we’ll find our way back to each other.
IV.
7 years ago, my dear mentor and friend diane gave me my own classroom at Mastery Charter. It was my first time teaching - it was the first time anyone had ever trusted me with a room in which I could put my own posters up on the wall, in which I could build my own barometer of success. The first time I could create the musical learning space that I wished I had growing up.
For 7 years, this organization has trusted me with so many firsts. First volunteer coordinator. First full time job. First co-directorship. First time mapping out an organizational budget. First time with the space to try out different pronouns.
You've entrusted me for 7 years to do things that I had never done. This is a gift that I will never be able to express enough gratitude for. I know that I am better for it. I know that I will carry you with me into every room in which I do not know the answers and I will know that I am all the more powerful for it.
V.
I would like to share with you the moments from the past 7 years at this organization where I felt the happiest, the fiercest, the closest to my grief, the closest to my dear teammates, the closest to this work, the closest to myself.
Thank you for bearing witness to these moments with and for me.
I think that the act of you, here beside me, bearing witness is what I need to finally be able to let them go.
VI.
For those of you who have done me the honor of attending my first iterations of
Hold this Space: An Exercise in Not Shrinking on Stage:
It’s taken me a minute to dance through weird jealous grief, work through my ego death and
ultimately celebrate wildly the fact that the workshop is no longer mine. It belongs to you now. And it always will.
When in doubt, remember that this xerox of a xerox of a xerox of a xerox will always be yours.
VII.
Over the Fall, the Transition Doulas led staff through a writing exercise of trying on language for a potential new name. It feels right to share with you what I scribbled down - on this day of endings and beginnings.
We honor and carry the spirit of Rock Camp, of walking through the hallways with walkie talkies clipped onto our fanny packs and hearing young people sing and jam and create their heart’s sounds without apology. We have always known that our sounds are from another world beyond this one - a world where everything we already know, we already are, is infinite, transcendent and beyond this world’s boxes. If you listen closely, what many might consider to be “just noise” is actually a diary entry, a love letter, an act of resistance, an elegy, an anthem.
Thank you.
Mel
Photos by: Robin Stamey, Kirstie Krause, Andrea Jácome, Chris Chacko, Sam Rise