Episode 85: the individualist // Monday, June 29

Keith: I've been silent so long in regards to myself and my own story and my own history. 

My mom taught me, not everyone will like you. In this case, she was talking about the little white girl who said she didn't want to play with me, a four year old black boy at the time, on the playground of a public park. I've learned that this conversation or hard experience is an initiation of sorts for almost every black American kid around that age. You learn young that people will treat you differently, avoid you, or even hate you for no reason other than your skin. I think my Asian mom, my Vietnamese mom, was capable of teaching me that because she experienced that too. Being a Vietnamese war immigrant as a child who went to an American school and got called lots of racist names.

But I somehow took my mom's advice on that playground to mean that I was supposed to ignore the emotion of sadness. I've always been sensitive, but as I grew, I kept practicing this action of ignoring the bad feelings and shrugging away every negative emotion I had. In some ways, I think that playground was where I taught myself to stay silent.

Laura: For the past couple of weeks, we’ve been spending time with nine individuals, looking at this time not just through the lens of the Enneagram, but through their lens. Today is our final stop in this journey, and it’s with someone I appreciate and enjoy so much. 

Keith: Hey, Laura and Shelter in Place family. My name is Keith Watts and I am an East Bay songwriter singer, a band leader and church and worship music director. I'm 27, turning 28 very soon. I'm an Enneagram four, a social butterfly, and a party animal. 

I love food, Vietnamese, Creole, Korean, Mexican soul food. you know, the meme: “beans, greens, potatoes, tomatoes — you name it, I will eat it.” I'm an extrovert. I am loud, attention-loving.  I love  marinating vibing in the energy of people and community. It doesn't matter what we are doing. Let's just do it. Let's just be together. And shelter and place has been a buzzkill. 

I am biracial. I am black, Asian Vietnamese. I am gay. And I am Christian.  

Laura: Keith began this episode talking about how he’d learned to stay silent. I reached out to Keith for this series because his voice is powerful. I still remember the first time I heard him sing.

Keith works at a different church now, but when he moved to the Bay Area from San Diego ten years ago, it was to take a position at the church my family and I attend. For a season, he led our congregation in beautiful music. He wrote songs that my kids still sing today. You’ll get to hear Keith sing a little later in this episode. But first, I’ll let Keith tell you a bit more about himself.

Keith: I remember some of my best elementary school friends were four black boys, and the five of us together would always hang out with each other. We'd crack jokes in the second grade classroom that even the teacher couldn't help but laugh at, but we were all still sent to timeout together for our inappropriate jokes.

We naturally would just find ourselves talking about gospel music and artists. Sometimes our hair would be a topic because we were all black, but we each had different hair textures. We were each known to be good at a thing. I was the artistic kid. One was the fastest runner. One was the sports guy. One was the class clown. Another was sometimes too smart for his own good. I didn't feel silent with them. 

I remember growing up where elderly neighbors would say things to my Asian mom, “those Negroes always causing trouble around here,” which was funny because we were in a suburb that was largely white. But then after meeting me and learning that I was my mom's son, and interacting with me, they really admired me and would go out of their way to greet me and say how great I was. 

And I stayed silent. 

I remember friends saying things like, “yeah, but you're not like the others.” And by others they meant black people. and I stayed silent there too. 

I remember going to predominantly white churches. We primarily operated out of a monocultural, white, hetero, family-focused, family-prioritizing mindset and all along, I was biracial black and Asian and a very sad closeted gay kid. And despite coming to know and follow Jesus in these churches, being loved and encouraged to lead worship in these communities, and despite watching them grow radically in many positive ways, I have to admit that I felt silent in each of them in a certain way, too.

I remember going to a summer camp and on the night of my 15th or 16th birthday, I got a random voicemail from a family member from my dad's side, my black side, whom I hadn't heard from in over six years. He wished me a happy birthday. And he said something along the lines of, “people don't get people like us. Life is going to be hard, but I'm always here for you if you need it.” And closeted gay Keith, who was just trying to flirt with girls at the time, was touched. And even though I felt silent, I felt immensely heard and seen by him. 

And yet staying silent followed me into adulthood. I learned to take jobs and quietly accept well-intentioned tokenizing statements. I learned to mask real issues around sexuality and racial and social injustice with Christianese language. 

Christians seem to love to refuse saying the word “gay” and still prefer “homosexual” or “same sex attracted.” I've experienced that sometimes around Christians, a queer person might feel the pressure to caveat or blanket sexuality as if sexuality is somehow not a part of themselves--regardless of how one's theology permits one to view their own sexuality. It's still an injustice that Christians will force queer folks to conform themselves and their words in order to be heard and seen by the church. And furthermore race conversations for Christians tend to center around language of peace and love without ever naming the root cause of the issue: white supremacy. A historic abuse of privilege and power. 

I remember the video of George Floyd's death popping up on my social media nonstop, and I just felt literally heavy. The deaths of black men, women, and children, really throughout the history of America, but during this time culminating in the deaths of Ahmaud Arbery, Brianna Taylor and George Floyd. And what's sad is the names are still coming. The list is still going. 

And I ended up sleeping for about like two days straight, I had to turn off my phone. I had to call into my church work and let them know I was detaching. And if they needed me, they had to catch me via email. 

And if you go on Instagram or Facebook, you might find my white Christian brothers and sisters still only half addressing issues, totally ignoring the crime, many black people on faithful black Christians. We all affect one another consciously or unconsciously as we've seen. The church of which I've been a part has been silent. 

And staying silent. I also have these moments where I worry that I don't remember how to cry. When a part of you gets silenced and suffocated for so long, it becomes alienated and feels detached. You don't feel the sadness or emotions of that part of you. 

When people dig deep enough into that special sore spot and trigger you, that part of you snaps. You learn that that part of you is still there, and it's still real, and still feels immensely, because that part of you is past sadness, but  now is enraged, it’ll lash out, will act out. I've learned that this is what I've done to myself. And I'm longing to unlearn it.

I began to just let myself listen to black artists of faith who inspire me in order to heal. Some of those artists are The Aeolians, which is a vocal and choral group from the historically black college Oakwood university. Some of the many others are Jonathan McReynolds, The Walls Group. I am Son. Casey J.  I've made this intentional space of black voices and inspiration. 

Musical artists are struggling and we are finding time to work in new ways.  I'm collaborating with different artists. We're connecting and discussing the hard parts of faith, doubt, race, community, sex, and gender.

My songwriting comes out of longing love songs. Deciphering the meaning of friendship worship songs that remind me that God is my friend, my abba, my father. That even if, and when, my most intimate relationships are gone, he will still be there.

And he will satisfy me through his word, which is the scriptures through his people, which is his church and through his Holy spirit, which is himself ultimately.

I have songs of longing, which are the total opposite of that too. They expose my unbelief and rage and show how I don't trust that Jesus himself will satisfy my desire for justice or my desire for love. But overall, I've come to see that songwriting is a longing for me to regain the voice that was lost in the playground.

I long to gain a renewed voice, too. A voice that when provoked or triggered isn't one primarily expressed by wrathfulness, but rather one that knows how to unabashedly respond with compassion. And I see the state of the world and see my own personal internal state. I sometimes feel like that's impossible, but I think that's what I really do want. And I'm trying. 

And I have people in my life, my mom, my family, or my friends who call me brother and best man, and uncle and roommate. Who I believe would also encourage me to keep trying, because that's, what's good for me and for the communities in which I complicatedly and beautifully find myself a part of.

Laura: Fours are the rarest number on the Enneagram. They’re often referred to as the Individualist, because it’s extremely important to fours that people see them in all of their complexity--and they are indeed complex, and view life as complex, too. 

Fours reject the division between the pure and the profane. They understand that people are complicated. Their capacity to simultaneously hold both the joy and the pain of life is unrivaled. 

Fours feel things deeply. At their worst, they believe the lie that they are too much for others, that no one understands them or can handle their pain. And it’s true that some other types will feel overwhelmed by the four’s huge emotional reservoir. Not everyone wants to go that deep

But at their best, fours are a gift to our world. They can be inspired and creative. They can take deep pain and suffering and transform it into beautiful works of art. Their emotional honesty and deep acceptance of others can make them incredible friends. 

I asked Keith if he would be willing to share some of the music he’s been working on during this time. And because he’s a four, I asked him how he was doing.

Keith: I am doing much better than a couple of weeks ago. The song I am sharing today is called “Bedtime prayers,” which is not a church song by any means. it's an attempt, To lean into my own mixed identity and bring it all to God, sometimes in an incoherent mess. 

My close friends and housemates, also music makers, are going to help me on this. Hizkia Harto (his nickname is Chacha)  is on electric drum kit. Daniel Tomi is on bass and backing vocals, and I'll be singing and adding in some percussion stuff and keys here and there.

If you're hoping to learn more about some of the music I've done or a music that will be coming out soon, please head to my website, KeithWattsmusic.com.  You can also sign up. There'll be no spam. but that'll keep you updated on stuff that I have going on. All right. Well, thank you very much.

Laura: If you know and love a four, tell them how much you value their ability to accept you when you’re not at your best. When they need to retreat or shut down, remind them that you’re still here for them. Help them to remember their art for making even brokenness beautiful.

If you’re a four yourself, you are not alone in your pain. Others have walked this path before you, and it will pass. In the meantime, you are enough. 

Before I go, I want to take a moment to thank some incredible people who have become supporters of Shelter in Place. 

Kirstin Hernandez, I didn’t think it was possible to feel more connected to someone I haven’t seen once during this quarantine, but somehow you’ve given me that gift. Thank you for all the moments when you’ve reached out to make me laugh, when you’ve encouraged me, when you’ve made me feel a little less alone.

Chelsea Boniak, you gave me sanity during some of my most insane years of parenting. On your watch, I have run many miles that restored and energized me when I didn’t know if I had it in me to keep going. Thank you for showing me that parenting in community makes life so much better.

Tony Doerr, it’s been more than twenty years since I was your student, and all of these years later you continue to inspire and encourage me. I will forever shout from the rooftops that everyone should read the books of Anthony Doerr. You’re still who I want to be when I grow up. What a marvelous gift it is to call you a friend.