9:20 a.m. I’ve been up since 8:45 a.m. I’ve had breakfast. I’ve read email and facebook like they are the morning paper. I’m in my pjs on the couch and under a blanket. My living room is chilly, but morning is my favorite time here. It’s when the light is good.
I was supposed to wake up at 7 a.m. So much for that.
In a bit, I’m going to read a book – Seize the Day for my Saul Bellow class. I started it last night. I hope to have some coffee while I read, but that all depends on whether c. will make the delicious coffee he makes. I think he will. I hope so.
After I read, I’ll dress for school. Gather schoolbooks, some lunch, my water bottle. I’ll drive down to San Marcos.
Today, I give my first essay-writing workshop. Kids will come to me, and I’ll sort of guide them through their topics, thesis, essay structure, etc. Blah. I’m not really excited about that if you want to know the truth.
I just turned in a story, but I am already thinking about the next one. What will I write? I am already thinking about summer. I am already trying to figure out how many stories I currently have that would make sense in a collection together (5 for sure). I am already wondering if this summer I need to take one of those stories and begin turning it into a novel. I’m thinking I’ll try to do some freelance work, try to make my first ‘business’ contacts in Austin. I’m also considering applying for a summer IA at school. I’m doubtful I’ll travel. Practical seems to be winning over magical. What can I say about that, except that it’s disappointing.
I did not sleep well last night. I felt anxious and distracted, but by nothing in particular. Just now I yawned a great big wake-up-body, wake-up-brain kind of yawn. I could easily get back in bed and sleep for another hour. But the dogs are at the back door, Ruby barking her, LET ME IN bark. Hey! LET ME INSIDE.
I hear coffee being ground.
And now the day is here before me. A thing to begin.
SONG: Behind the House, Neko Case
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
25 Things.
Something keeps going around Facebook, and after I got 5 requests to do this list, I finally did it. Then I decided to post it, b/c I don't have any fantastic blog entries in mind. Plus, I just love lists.
Regarding #1, I truly do harbor this fantasy. I love Madonna, still. I love Sean Penn. I love their square jaws and I Italian noses. And I love their feisty stubborn public personalities. They should get back together. It would make me happy.
1. I harbor the fantasy that Madonna and Sean Penn will end up together again at the end of their lives.
2. I am super introverted, but I can be very good at seeming extroverted.
3. The first time I went camping, it was with 3 other girlfriends. None of us had ever camped before, but we managed to get up our tent, build an awesome fire, and cook a kick-ass campfire meal. I have loved camping ever since.
4. I am intensely loyal; my friendships go way way back.
5. As a freshman in college - before I had real bills to pay, I used some of my waitressing tips to buy myself a brand spanking new outfit every Friday. I know that if I had a lot of money, I'd still treat myself to a new outfit once a week.
6. I appreciate nice fabrics in general and good quality construction in clothing (how well is it stitched? what kinds of detailing does it have? etc.), so I look at a lot of things I can't afford.
7. I cannot sing one bit, and I am no good at remembering song lyrics.
8. I also don't remember movie quotes or lines from books.
9. I am quite visual.
10. When I read that it rained tiny yellow flowers in One Hundred Years of Solitude, I never could shake the image. It still creeps into my memory often, and makes me sigh aloud.
11. I am obsessed with Neko Case and her music in a way that I don't know is healthy.
12. I believe that people should age gracefully (no plastic surgery) but healthfully (take care of yourselves! eat well! exercise! sunscreen!) to the extent that they can.
13. I tend to do mean things to the characters in my fiction, and I get mad at myself for doing so. Because, I like my characters.
14. I wish I was more competitive at times, but I am generally okay being mediocre at things.
15. It's fair to say, I am not an over achiever in the least bit, though I am a perfectionist.
16. I prefer to compete with myself and not others.
17. Once, a friend and I decided to start a band called The Quitters, and we were going to stage a fight during our first show and both quit the band. We haven't had our first show yet.
18. In my fantasy girl band, Sucker Punched, I play bass.
19. I generally have an f*-you attitude about authority, hierarchy and rules of etiquette and social/professional climbing. It's an innate attitude.
20. My rebellions tend to be quiet, understated rebellions that none-the-less have impact.
21. I am easily irritated by stingy people and stingy behavior.
22. I am not greedy.
23. I take pleasure in good food, and I am an adventurous eater.
24. One of my best talents is that I can improvise meals exceptionally well, particularly when I am down to an empty fridge.
25. I love a grey day with a heavy downpour, and I think that the quality of thunderstorms is what (alongside food), in the long run, I will most miss about Baton Rouge.
SONG: Good Vibrations, The Beach Boys
Regarding #1, I truly do harbor this fantasy. I love Madonna, still. I love Sean Penn. I love their square jaws and I Italian noses. And I love their feisty stubborn public personalities. They should get back together. It would make me happy.
1. I harbor the fantasy that Madonna and Sean Penn will end up together again at the end of their lives.
2. I am super introverted, but I can be very good at seeming extroverted.
3. The first time I went camping, it was with 3 other girlfriends. None of us had ever camped before, but we managed to get up our tent, build an awesome fire, and cook a kick-ass campfire meal. I have loved camping ever since.
4. I am intensely loyal; my friendships go way way back.
5. As a freshman in college - before I had real bills to pay, I used some of my waitressing tips to buy myself a brand spanking new outfit every Friday. I know that if I had a lot of money, I'd still treat myself to a new outfit once a week.
6. I appreciate nice fabrics in general and good quality construction in clothing (how well is it stitched? what kinds of detailing does it have? etc.), so I look at a lot of things I can't afford.
7. I cannot sing one bit, and I am no good at remembering song lyrics.
8. I also don't remember movie quotes or lines from books.
9. I am quite visual.
10. When I read that it rained tiny yellow flowers in One Hundred Years of Solitude, I never could shake the image. It still creeps into my memory often, and makes me sigh aloud.
11. I am obsessed with Neko Case and her music in a way that I don't know is healthy.
12. I believe that people should age gracefully (no plastic surgery) but healthfully (take care of yourselves! eat well! exercise! sunscreen!) to the extent that they can.
13. I tend to do mean things to the characters in my fiction, and I get mad at myself for doing so. Because, I like my characters.
14. I wish I was more competitive at times, but I am generally okay being mediocre at things.
15. It's fair to say, I am not an over achiever in the least bit, though I am a perfectionist.
16. I prefer to compete with myself and not others.
17. Once, a friend and I decided to start a band called The Quitters, and we were going to stage a fight during our first show and both quit the band. We haven't had our first show yet.
18. In my fantasy girl band, Sucker Punched, I play bass.
19. I generally have an f*-you attitude about authority, hierarchy and rules of etiquette and social/professional climbing. It's an innate attitude.
20. My rebellions tend to be quiet, understated rebellions that none-the-less have impact.
21. I am easily irritated by stingy people and stingy behavior.
22. I am not greedy.
23. I take pleasure in good food, and I am an adventurous eater.
24. One of my best talents is that I can improvise meals exceptionally well, particularly when I am down to an empty fridge.
25. I love a grey day with a heavy downpour, and I think that the quality of thunderstorms is what (alongside food), in the long run, I will most miss about Baton Rouge.
SONG: Good Vibrations, The Beach Boys
housekeeping.
One.
Sajan story - I finished writing it on Sunday. I am proud of the fact that I had 4 pages last semester, and then I picked it up on Th. and finished it on Sunday. 27 pages (more like 25 b/c there are a lot of page breaks that make it 27). BUT it is a draft draft draft. I have NEVER EVER turned in a first draft for workshop. So I am VERY VERY nervous about that. I turned it in on Tuesday.
I removed the first page from my blog b/c it's changed quite a bit. I have to say, nothing makes me hyper aware of a story's flaws than seeing it up on a blog - and that helps me figure out revisions pretty damn fast. But thanks, Natalie, for the nice words about it. Obviously, since I removed the post, your comment doesn't show up.
I am sad that the girl dies in the story, but in the end, it is a hopeful story. I hope I can revise it into something really good. I'll let you all know how the workshop this coming Tuesday goes.
Two.
Good vibes. Thank you for those good thoughts. I had been watching TV late the other night and a commercial pops up for a contest where you write 100 words about "How you bring the world to Austin." The prize was 2 roundtrip 1st class tickets to anywhere in the world that Continental flies. Alas, I must not have won, b/c they were supposed to announce the winner on the 24th and I've heard nothing.
No big deal. I didn't loose anything, and I did gain something. All of you were kind enough to take a moment to think of me without even knowing why.
SONG: Good Vibrations, The Beach Boys
Sajan story - I finished writing it on Sunday. I am proud of the fact that I had 4 pages last semester, and then I picked it up on Th. and finished it on Sunday. 27 pages (more like 25 b/c there are a lot of page breaks that make it 27). BUT it is a draft draft draft. I have NEVER EVER turned in a first draft for workshop. So I am VERY VERY nervous about that. I turned it in on Tuesday.
I removed the first page from my blog b/c it's changed quite a bit. I have to say, nothing makes me hyper aware of a story's flaws than seeing it up on a blog - and that helps me figure out revisions pretty damn fast. But thanks, Natalie, for the nice words about it. Obviously, since I removed the post, your comment doesn't show up.
I am sad that the girl dies in the story, but in the end, it is a hopeful story. I hope I can revise it into something really good. I'll let you all know how the workshop this coming Tuesday goes.
Two.
Good vibes. Thank you for those good thoughts. I had been watching TV late the other night and a commercial pops up for a contest where you write 100 words about "How you bring the world to Austin." The prize was 2 roundtrip 1st class tickets to anywhere in the world that Continental flies. Alas, I must not have won, b/c they were supposed to announce the winner on the 24th and I've heard nothing.
No big deal. I didn't loose anything, and I did gain something. All of you were kind enough to take a moment to think of me without even knowing why.
SONG: Good Vibrations, The Beach Boys
Friday, January 23, 2009
the sajan story.
So, a friend wisely reminded me that a lot of journals state that stories submitted to them for consideration cannot have been published in any other capacity. I know this, but when I posted that last piece of a story, it was just something I felt like doing. It helped in a way. When I read it on my blog, I realized that the first three pages were completely disjointed - that I'd acutally done something in that revision to dismantle the draft I'd workshopped. I took the post down.
Now I'm posting another piece of draft. It too will likely change quite a bit - as it already has while I've been working. But it's the story I'm working on for my next workshop. I turn it in on Tuesday. Enjoy it while you can; I'll probably remove this post in a few days.
***
As if the white widow’s salwar kameese her mother wore was merely a theatrical backdrop, Sajan appeared. A tiny creature, she moved from behind her mother to her mother’s side. She locked one arm around her mother’s leg and bent her free arm toward her chin to suck her thumb.
My father embraced his youngest sister, and Sajan’s eyes met mine. Her cheeks were puffed and rosy, as if Amrita Chachi had pinched them for a solid minute behind the door to the customs waiting area from which they’d emerged. Sajan’s khol-trimmed eyes were the size of quarters. The six-year-old, her feet newly planted in America, stared hopefully at me.
Amrita Chachi, only twenty-seven, but to me at the time, a nearly middle aged widow, kissed her lips together audibly. “Sajan, say hallo to Ujaala Didi. Go on, beta, give her a hug.” Chachi nudged Sajan toward me.
I examined Sajan’s tight braids, tied in loops so they hung like a puppy’s ears on either side of her small head, each loop secured at the top with a wide pink satin ribbon formed into a bow. Pink also showed through white lace that covered the entirety of her dress. Pink, her favorite color, and ‘Pinky,’ my mother’s nickname – a juvenile holdover from the childhood days when pink had been my mother’s favorite color. It became a source of great camaraderie for the my mom and Sajan.
“Didi.” Sajan whispered in slow motion. “Do you like my Am-Reecan-frock?” She’d probably been rehearsing this little bit of English for weeks. Small brown and pink and white Little Bo Peep. Except for the blue, wing-shaped pin the stewardess must have fastened to her bodice, her outfit was like a prissy Halloween get-up. I looked at the cuffed, lace-trimmed socks hugging her ankles. I felt equal parts love and disdain.
“It’s pretty.”
When we arrived home, my father dragged their enormous suitcase into the room my mother had spent two weeks preparing. My mother and Amrita Chachi embraced like old friends reunited. Eyes closed, the two women smiled while they hugged. But then I saw Chachi’s body shrivel against my mother’s chest. Her smile wavered into a quivering line, and she began to wail. My father rushed back into our kitchen.
“Beta, take Sajan to her new room,” my dad suggested that first day, during that first breakdown. Too stunned to defy (after all, wasn't it my room?), I took hold of her hand and obliged.
When my mother started preparing the room, she suggested, “Ujaanti, maybe it would be good to put Sajan in your room with you? It’s going to be a hard time for Amrita Chachi. She may need some privacy.”
“What about my privacy?” I expected to provoke her, but my mother simply pursed her lips and glared. With no further attempt to coax me, she moved two single beds, one from out of my bedroom and one from out of storage, into the extra room. She replaced my bed with the double that had previously occupied the guest room. Chachi slept against the room’s far wall, and, for almost one year, Sajan slept against the wall our two rooms shared. Neither mother nor daughter complained about the arrangement.
It was August when Sajan came. It was the middle of hurricane season, the beginning of the school year, and just after the long rift between my mother and me began. My mom put Sajan in my care, and in that care, she died. I wish I had understood then that Sajan was not a burden. That in fact, she deserved every bit of my mother and every bit of me, every bit of comfort and love we could offer. I have lived with this weight, the way I failed as a daughter, as a sister, as an American ushering in a new American.
Now I'm posting another piece of draft. It too will likely change quite a bit - as it already has while I've been working. But it's the story I'm working on for my next workshop. I turn it in on Tuesday. Enjoy it while you can; I'll probably remove this post in a few days.
***
As if the white widow’s salwar kameese her mother wore was merely a theatrical backdrop, Sajan appeared. A tiny creature, she moved from behind her mother to her mother’s side. She locked one arm around her mother’s leg and bent her free arm toward her chin to suck her thumb.
My father embraced his youngest sister, and Sajan’s eyes met mine. Her cheeks were puffed and rosy, as if Amrita Chachi had pinched them for a solid minute behind the door to the customs waiting area from which they’d emerged. Sajan’s khol-trimmed eyes were the size of quarters. The six-year-old, her feet newly planted in America, stared hopefully at me.
Amrita Chachi, only twenty-seven, but to me at the time, a nearly middle aged widow, kissed her lips together audibly. “Sajan, say hallo to Ujaala Didi. Go on, beta, give her a hug.” Chachi nudged Sajan toward me.
I examined Sajan’s tight braids, tied in loops so they hung like a puppy’s ears on either side of her small head, each loop secured at the top with a wide pink satin ribbon formed into a bow. Pink also showed through white lace that covered the entirety of her dress. Pink, her favorite color, and ‘Pinky,’ my mother’s nickname – a juvenile holdover from the childhood days when pink had been my mother’s favorite color. It became a source of great camaraderie for the my mom and Sajan.
“Didi.” Sajan whispered in slow motion. “Do you like my Am-Reecan-frock?” She’d probably been rehearsing this little bit of English for weeks. Small brown and pink and white Little Bo Peep. Except for the blue, wing-shaped pin the stewardess must have fastened to her bodice, her outfit was like a prissy Halloween get-up. I looked at the cuffed, lace-trimmed socks hugging her ankles. I felt equal parts love and disdain.
“It’s pretty.”
When we arrived home, my father dragged their enormous suitcase into the room my mother had spent two weeks preparing. My mother and Amrita Chachi embraced like old friends reunited. Eyes closed, the two women smiled while they hugged. But then I saw Chachi’s body shrivel against my mother’s chest. Her smile wavered into a quivering line, and she began to wail. My father rushed back into our kitchen.
“Beta, take Sajan to her new room,” my dad suggested that first day, during that first breakdown. Too stunned to defy (after all, wasn't it my room?), I took hold of her hand and obliged.
When my mother started preparing the room, she suggested, “Ujaanti, maybe it would be good to put Sajan in your room with you? It’s going to be a hard time for Amrita Chachi. She may need some privacy.”
“What about my privacy?” I expected to provoke her, but my mother simply pursed her lips and glared. With no further attempt to coax me, she moved two single beds, one from out of my bedroom and one from out of storage, into the extra room. She replaced my bed with the double that had previously occupied the guest room. Chachi slept against the room’s far wall, and, for almost one year, Sajan slept against the wall our two rooms shared. Neither mother nor daughter complained about the arrangement.
It was August when Sajan came. It was the middle of hurricane season, the beginning of the school year, and just after the long rift between my mother and me began. My mom put Sajan in my care, and in that care, she died. I wish I had understood then that Sajan was not a burden. That in fact, she deserved every bit of my mother and every bit of me, every bit of comfort and love we could offer. I have lived with this weight, the way I failed as a daughter, as a sister, as an American ushering in a new American.
go forth and write. and read. and grade a lot of essays while you're at it.
I started the semester with a terrible attitude. I didn’t feel ready for it to begin. I didn’t write one bit over the break. I was afraid that when school began, I’d suffer from a solid and debilitating case of writer’s block. I had angst over my assistantship, as I’ve been put with a professor who works her assistants to the bone. And the two classes I am taking in addition to my fiction workshop are going to be a whole lot of reading. Have I ever told you that I am a particularly SLOW reader? (Like I am with everything.) All the reading for classes (including keeping up with readings for my assistantship, was adding to my anxiety. For a solid week before school began, I had nightmares every night except one. Negative, negative, negative.
Yesterday, I realized I better turn my frown upside down if I’m going to get through this semester and be a bearable human being. Here is where I am today (and I reserve the right to change my mind).
Assistantship-
I actually like the woman for whom I’m working (I’m also working ever so slightly on my grammar habits this semester – notice “for whom” rather than my lazy “who I’m working for”). I bitched and moaned about her all night on Tuesday. But something switched on Thursday. I went to her office before class, and I got the warmest feeling about her. Then I felt I’d misjudged her actions on Tuesday and when we met in December. I’m sure it didn’t hurt that she told me I looked, “chic as usual.” Did she realize that I was a fly who needed some honey?
During class (American Lit from 1865 to the present), I perked up more. My instructor began talking about realism and regionalism, the unifying theme of this course. She covered place as a central theme in American fiction, with the West/California representing the future, the South representing “lost causes” (and I would add, misfits) and the East representing “tradition” and “culture.” I liked that assessment, and it seems true even to this day, across fields. For instance, I still think of the West when I think of anything new and experimental in architecture. My instructor also touched on the importance of dialect in literature when regionalism first emerged. Did she know that dialect is one of my favorite issues to contemplate? I think we are fairly lazy readers today; I also think that we are generally committed to homogenizing the English language in a particularly elitist manner. So when I see dialect, I get excited that people are TRYING to represent a thing as ever changing and organic and, honestly, fun, as spoken language. Isn’t language a constant mutation? Besides, when I'm reading a story, hard as it may be for me to grasp, I still WANT to know what the story sounds like set in Minnesota or Idaho or Amish-country in Ohio. Surely people don't SOUND as they sound to me in Louisiana. Or Texas. I also got excited when it clicked for me (as she lectured) that as regionalism evolved in literature, so did the American landscape architecture profession. The profession began attempting to address issues of urban versus rural, regional design (think Thomas Church and the Prairie style of the Midwest, etc.) parallel to when these issues arose in American literature. These kinds of connections inspire me to listen.
Later, I made a suggestion about her lecture, and to my surprise, she seemed pleased instead of insulted.
I'm not thrilled about the massive amount of grading (20 essays per week), and the essay writing workshops I'll conduct each week. But I'm not heinously frightened of them anymore. It could change.
Reading-
There is still a lot. But, for my assistantship, I’m forcing myself to read all of the materials that will be covered on the first exam. I have 3 readings left.
For my own classes, I read a novel over the break that I needed to read. And as for the rest of the novels and short stories, I will manage. There is no choice except to manage.
Writing-
I made a commitment to myself – write new material, and push myself to write more quickly. It doesn’t need to take a full month writing every day to finish a short story draft. This week I picked up a story I’d begun last semester, and I pushed through to give it a middle. Now I’m working my way to the end. It’ll be a sloppy, slobbery first draft, a real mess. But I plan to complete it this weekend. The fear of writer’s block is gone now. Amazing how it came back when I just sat down and began.
This will be a challenging semester on the whole. But I’ll be rewarded with a summer. A whole entire summer. And I’m keeping sane by training for a triathlon. Maybe that in itself is not sane, but it sure helps me FEEL saner.
SONG: Good Vibrations, The Beach Boys
Yesterday, I realized I better turn my frown upside down if I’m going to get through this semester and be a bearable human being. Here is where I am today (and I reserve the right to change my mind).
Assistantship-
I actually like the woman for whom I’m working (I’m also working ever so slightly on my grammar habits this semester – notice “for whom” rather than my lazy “who I’m working for”). I bitched and moaned about her all night on Tuesday. But something switched on Thursday. I went to her office before class, and I got the warmest feeling about her. Then I felt I’d misjudged her actions on Tuesday and when we met in December. I’m sure it didn’t hurt that she told me I looked, “chic as usual.” Did she realize that I was a fly who needed some honey?
During class (American Lit from 1865 to the present), I perked up more. My instructor began talking about realism and regionalism, the unifying theme of this course. She covered place as a central theme in American fiction, with the West/California representing the future, the South representing “lost causes” (and I would add, misfits) and the East representing “tradition” and “culture.” I liked that assessment, and it seems true even to this day, across fields. For instance, I still think of the West when I think of anything new and experimental in architecture. My instructor also touched on the importance of dialect in literature when regionalism first emerged. Did she know that dialect is one of my favorite issues to contemplate? I think we are fairly lazy readers today; I also think that we are generally committed to homogenizing the English language in a particularly elitist manner. So when I see dialect, I get excited that people are TRYING to represent a thing as ever changing and organic and, honestly, fun, as spoken language. Isn’t language a constant mutation? Besides, when I'm reading a story, hard as it may be for me to grasp, I still WANT to know what the story sounds like set in Minnesota or Idaho or Amish-country in Ohio. Surely people don't SOUND as they sound to me in Louisiana. Or Texas. I also got excited when it clicked for me (as she lectured) that as regionalism evolved in literature, so did the American landscape architecture profession. The profession began attempting to address issues of urban versus rural, regional design (think Thomas Church and the Prairie style of the Midwest, etc.) parallel to when these issues arose in American literature. These kinds of connections inspire me to listen.
Later, I made a suggestion about her lecture, and to my surprise, she seemed pleased instead of insulted.
I'm not thrilled about the massive amount of grading (20 essays per week), and the essay writing workshops I'll conduct each week. But I'm not heinously frightened of them anymore. It could change.
Reading-
There is still a lot. But, for my assistantship, I’m forcing myself to read all of the materials that will be covered on the first exam. I have 3 readings left.
For my own classes, I read a novel over the break that I needed to read. And as for the rest of the novels and short stories, I will manage. There is no choice except to manage.
Writing-
I made a commitment to myself – write new material, and push myself to write more quickly. It doesn’t need to take a full month writing every day to finish a short story draft. This week I picked up a story I’d begun last semester, and I pushed through to give it a middle. Now I’m working my way to the end. It’ll be a sloppy, slobbery first draft, a real mess. But I plan to complete it this weekend. The fear of writer’s block is gone now. Amazing how it came back when I just sat down and began.
This will be a challenging semester on the whole. But I’ll be rewarded with a summer. A whole entire summer. And I’m keeping sane by training for a triathlon. Maybe that in itself is not sane, but it sure helps me FEEL saner.
SONG: Good Vibrations, The Beach Boys
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
good, good, good vibrations.
If you get a minute and remember, please send me all the positive energy, prayers and good thoughts you can muster between now (Tuesday) and January 24th (Saturday). I will report on why January 24! Thank you!!!!
SONG: Good Vibrations, The Beach Boys
story about a girl.
I hate the story I am writing. Working again on the one where I kill the little girl. Sajan.
I am up for workshop in two weeks, so I turn in my story next week. I started this piece last semester, and then I stopped all together – nowhere even near being finished, in a barely-begun state. Dropped it like a piece of trash. Swept it away like lint off my shirt, or more likely, dog hairs. But you can’t get rid of dog hairs, no matter how many times you use a lint roller. At least I sure can't. I guess this story has been affixed to my brain ever since I started it. JUST WRITE THE DAMN THING. JUST WRITE IT. JUST LET YOURSELF FINISH.
I am up for workshop in two weeks, so I turn in my story next week. I started this piece last semester, and then I stopped all together – nowhere even near being finished, in a barely-begun state. Dropped it like a piece of trash. Swept it away like lint off my shirt, or more likely, dog hairs. But you can’t get rid of dog hairs, no matter how many times you use a lint roller. At least I sure can't. I guess this story has been affixed to my brain ever since I started it. JUST WRITE THE DAMN THING. JUST WRITE IT. JUST LET YOURSELF FINISH.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
President Barack Hussein Obama.
I wanted only to write the most positive words today, because my heart is brimming over with the most incredible joy. But behind this joy is a collection of memories less joyful. Yet it is these experiences that make my joy and pride that much greater. It is this collection of memories and experiences that help me recognize the transformative moment in history that is this particular inauguration, and how often do we consciously bear witness to such moments?
When I was home in Baton Rouge, a friend commented that she is just so tired about “it being about him being black,” because there are so many other reasons to be excited about Obama being president.
Of course it is about him being black above all the reasons to be excited about Obama.
When I was home someone else commented, “It’s black owned, but I can find everything I need over at old So-and-So’s store.” Of course it’s about him being black.
In fourth grade my dad didn’t want me to play with a little girl who lived in our townhouse complex, a Jamaican girl – not because she was a bad child, but because the color of her skin caused him to assume all the dirtiness in the world about her character. To assume it and fear it. I remember, even at that young age, telling him outright he wasn’t being fair. As sharp as my tongue can be, it wouldn’t surprise me if I called him racist. Of course it’s about him being black.
Growing up, I heard more people say the word “nigger” more than I can begin to count.
I heard a man joke a few years ago to a woman about some action she’d taken or something she’d just said, that she’d better “watch it, or your nose might start to get wider.” Isn’t it about him being black?
I did not grow up in the sticks. I grew up in the same gigantic south as a lot of people. Somehow, I have always had tremendous clarity that racism is based on fear. I share a birthday with Martin Luther King, Jr. and maybe I’ve been hyper sensitive from as early as I could understand. But I have understood for a very long time.
The first time I visited Colorado I felt astounded about all of the white flesh (and lack of brown) surrounding me. I admit that it has taken me time to adjust to living in a city where I rarely see or interact with African Americans.
I have also felt protective of what it is to be Southern in the face of northern, intellectual liberals who come from places where there are no black people – peers who have little experience of interaction between races.
I know it is complicated – or at least systemic and so challenging to dismantle – the way that racism and the circumstances of racism in this country have evolved. But there is nothing complicated about hatred, about presuming human qualities based on skin color. Of course it is about Barack Obama being our first president of color. A man, who, in spite of his color, has been elected president by a still bigoted country. Of course it is about him being black – for all of us, regardless of our color.
His election gives me all the hope in the world that my children will be less bigoted than I am, as I am far less bigoted than my own father, and I feel grateful for such hope.
Here we are, January 20, 2009. My sister’s birthday. My nephew’s birthday. What would have been MLK’s 80th birthday. To recognize that we are in a transformative moment, we must be willing to recognize the past’s obstacles as well as the ones that await – not for the sake of blame, but for the sake of absorbing all the joy and importance of this moment. Here we are alive and, if we choose to be, aware enough to recognize a transformative moment in our very own history.
When I was home in Baton Rouge, a friend commented that she is just so tired about “it being about him being black,” because there are so many other reasons to be excited about Obama being president.
Of course it is about him being black above all the reasons to be excited about Obama.
When I was home someone else commented, “It’s black owned, but I can find everything I need over at old So-and-So’s store.” Of course it’s about him being black.
In fourth grade my dad didn’t want me to play with a little girl who lived in our townhouse complex, a Jamaican girl – not because she was a bad child, but because the color of her skin caused him to assume all the dirtiness in the world about her character. To assume it and fear it. I remember, even at that young age, telling him outright he wasn’t being fair. As sharp as my tongue can be, it wouldn’t surprise me if I called him racist. Of course it’s about him being black.
Growing up, I heard more people say the word “nigger” more than I can begin to count.
I heard a man joke a few years ago to a woman about some action she’d taken or something she’d just said, that she’d better “watch it, or your nose might start to get wider.” Isn’t it about him being black?
I did not grow up in the sticks. I grew up in the same gigantic south as a lot of people. Somehow, I have always had tremendous clarity that racism is based on fear. I share a birthday with Martin Luther King, Jr. and maybe I’ve been hyper sensitive from as early as I could understand. But I have understood for a very long time.
The first time I visited Colorado I felt astounded about all of the white flesh (and lack of brown) surrounding me. I admit that it has taken me time to adjust to living in a city where I rarely see or interact with African Americans.
I have also felt protective of what it is to be Southern in the face of northern, intellectual liberals who come from places where there are no black people – peers who have little experience of interaction between races.
I know it is complicated – or at least systemic and so challenging to dismantle – the way that racism and the circumstances of racism in this country have evolved. But there is nothing complicated about hatred, about presuming human qualities based on skin color. Of course it is about Barack Obama being our first president of color. A man, who, in spite of his color, has been elected president by a still bigoted country. Of course it is about him being black – for all of us, regardless of our color.
His election gives me all the hope in the world that my children will be less bigoted than I am, as I am far less bigoted than my own father, and I feel grateful for such hope.
Here we are, January 20, 2009. My sister’s birthday. My nephew’s birthday. What would have been MLK’s 80th birthday. To recognize that we are in a transformative moment, we must be willing to recognize the past’s obstacles as well as the ones that await – not for the sake of blame, but for the sake of absorbing all the joy and importance of this moment. Here we are alive and, if we choose to be, aware enough to recognize a transformative moment in our very own history.
President Barack Hussein Obama.
I wanted only to write the most positive words today, because my heart is brimming over with the most incredible joy. Behind this joy is a collection of memories less joyful. Yet it is these experiences that make my joy and pride that much greater. It is this collection of memories and experiences that help me recognize the transformative moment in history that is this particular inauguration, and how often do we consciously bear witness to such moments?
When I was home in Baton Rouge, a friend commented to my husband that she is just so tired of “it being about him being black,” because there are so many other reasons to be excited about Obama being president.
Of course it is about him being black above all the reasons to be excited about Obama.
When I was home someone else commented, “It’s black owned, but I can find everything I need over at old So-and-So’s store.” Yes, it’s about him being black.
In fourth grade my dad didn’t want me to play with a little girl who lived in our townhouse complex, a Jamaican girl – not because she was a bad child, but because the color of her skin caused him to assume all the dirtiness in the world about her character. To assume it and fear it. I remember, even at that young age, telling him outright he wasn’t being fair. As sharp as my tongue can be, it wouldn’t surprise me if I called him racist. Of course it’s about him being black.
Growing up, I heard more people say the word “nigger” than I can begin to count.
During yet another moment from my last visit home, a friend talked about her hair dresser flinging that very word around. She also spoke of another friend telling her something to the effect of, "You know my family; you know I could never vote for Obama." How can it not be about him being black?
I heard a man joke a few years ago to a woman about some action she’d taken or something she’d just said, that she’d better “watch it, or your nose might start to get wider.” Isn’t it about him being black?
In childhood and adulthood, I have listened to a lot of particularly ugly words spoken about race.
I did not grow up in the sticks. I grew up in the same gigantic south as a lot of people. Somehow, I have always had tremendous clarity that racism is based on fear. I share a birthday with Martin Luther King, Jr., so maybe I’ve been hyper sensitive from as early as I could understand. But I have understood for a very long time.
Maybe it's my own repressed memories that help me understand - my mom telling me how when we moved to Delaware, I cried to her about kids teasing me because I was so dark (I'd spent a summer at a swimming pool turning browner and browner and browner). I don't remember those tears at all. I do remember my dad saying I needed to spend less time in the sun. Imagine! A child should spend less time in the sun?
The first time I visited Colorado I felt astounded about all of the white flesh (and lack of brown) surrounding me. I admit that it has taken me time to adjust to living in a city where I rarely see or interact with African Americans.
I have also felt protective of what it is to be Southern in the face of northern, intellectual liberals who come from places where there are no black people – peers who have little experience of interaction between races, who, in principle are not racist or prejudiced, and who in reality, haven't the slightest idea (beyond internal preconceived notions) what it is like to gracefully and fairly negotiate cultural differences, perceptions and the weight of history against the realities of the present.
I know it is complicated, difficult – or at least systemic and so challenging to dismantle – the way that racism and the circumstances of racism in this country have evolved. But there is nothing complicated about hatred, about presuming human qualities based on skin color. Of course it is about Barack Obama being our first president of color. A man, who, in spite of his color, has been elected president by a still bigoted country. Of course it is about him being black – for all of us, regardless of our color.
His election gives me all the hope in the world that my children will be less bigoted than I am, as I am far less bigoted than my own father, and I feel grateful for such hope.
Here we are, January 20, 2009. My sister’s birthday. My nephew’s birthday. What would have been MLK’s 80th birthday. To recognize that we are in a transformative moment, we must be willing to recognize the truths of the past – not for the sake of blame, but for the sake of absorbing all the joy and importance and weight of this moment. Here we are alive and, if we choose to be, aware enough to recognize a transformative moment in our very own history.
I wish I had more eloquent words. But frankly, what I have is the challenge of communicating my heart.
When I was home in Baton Rouge, a friend commented to my husband that she is just so tired of “it being about him being black,” because there are so many other reasons to be excited about Obama being president.
Of course it is about him being black above all the reasons to be excited about Obama.
When I was home someone else commented, “It’s black owned, but I can find everything I need over at old So-and-So’s store.” Yes, it’s about him being black.
In fourth grade my dad didn’t want me to play with a little girl who lived in our townhouse complex, a Jamaican girl – not because she was a bad child, but because the color of her skin caused him to assume all the dirtiness in the world about her character. To assume it and fear it. I remember, even at that young age, telling him outright he wasn’t being fair. As sharp as my tongue can be, it wouldn’t surprise me if I called him racist. Of course it’s about him being black.
Growing up, I heard more people say the word “nigger” than I can begin to count.
During yet another moment from my last visit home, a friend talked about her hair dresser flinging that very word around. She also spoke of another friend telling her something to the effect of, "You know my family; you know I could never vote for Obama." How can it not be about him being black?
I heard a man joke a few years ago to a woman about some action she’d taken or something she’d just said, that she’d better “watch it, or your nose might start to get wider.” Isn’t it about him being black?
In childhood and adulthood, I have listened to a lot of particularly ugly words spoken about race.
I did not grow up in the sticks. I grew up in the same gigantic south as a lot of people. Somehow, I have always had tremendous clarity that racism is based on fear. I share a birthday with Martin Luther King, Jr., so maybe I’ve been hyper sensitive from as early as I could understand. But I have understood for a very long time.
Maybe it's my own repressed memories that help me understand - my mom telling me how when we moved to Delaware, I cried to her about kids teasing me because I was so dark (I'd spent a summer at a swimming pool turning browner and browner and browner). I don't remember those tears at all. I do remember my dad saying I needed to spend less time in the sun. Imagine! A child should spend less time in the sun?
The first time I visited Colorado I felt astounded about all of the white flesh (and lack of brown) surrounding me. I admit that it has taken me time to adjust to living in a city where I rarely see or interact with African Americans.
I have also felt protective of what it is to be Southern in the face of northern, intellectual liberals who come from places where there are no black people – peers who have little experience of interaction between races, who, in principle are not racist or prejudiced, and who in reality, haven't the slightest idea (beyond internal preconceived notions) what it is like to gracefully and fairly negotiate cultural differences, perceptions and the weight of history against the realities of the present.
I know it is complicated, difficult – or at least systemic and so challenging to dismantle – the way that racism and the circumstances of racism in this country have evolved. But there is nothing complicated about hatred, about presuming human qualities based on skin color. Of course it is about Barack Obama being our first president of color. A man, who, in spite of his color, has been elected president by a still bigoted country. Of course it is about him being black – for all of us, regardless of our color.
His election gives me all the hope in the world that my children will be less bigoted than I am, as I am far less bigoted than my own father, and I feel grateful for such hope.
Here we are, January 20, 2009. My sister’s birthday. My nephew’s birthday. What would have been MLK’s 80th birthday. To recognize that we are in a transformative moment, we must be willing to recognize the truths of the past – not for the sake of blame, but for the sake of absorbing all the joy and importance and weight of this moment. Here we are alive and, if we choose to be, aware enough to recognize a transformative moment in our very own history.
I wish I had more eloquent words. But frankly, what I have is the challenge of communicating my heart.
Monday, January 19, 2009
danielle.
I remember her middle name (Renee).
Her birthday (May 3).
She could do cartwheels and round-offs (I could not.).
She was BOY CRAZY at four years old, maybe earlier.
I remember distinctly that she walked across the street to our house, and into our carport and introduced herself. This is how we met. I think a washing machine or some other large appliance was being delivered.
She was not the kind of kid to get grossed out by bugs or other dirty, grimy things.
She pulled my hair or hit when we got into arguments.
She did not like to help me clean up after we made messes at my house - cause of many fights.
She played a trick on me once with another girl from the neighborhood, and it nearly caused me to poke my eye out. Literally. Or at least, it nearly poked my eye into blindness. (She and the other girl lured me to a spiky plant, told me they had a secret to tell me, and shoved me into the bush.)
We were in the same kindergarten class.
When I moved away to Delaware at the end of first grade, she was very sad.
When I moved back to Baton Rouge at the end of fourth grade, she was very happy.
She watched General Hospital - I watched Guiding Light.
She took after her godmother (Nanny), and she also loved Nanny very much.
I understood that a Nanny was a very special aunt who paid attention to one niece more than her others. I wanted my own Nanny.
It took her a long time to stop peeing in bed.
She struggled with school, but not with athletics.
Once, we checked cookbooks out from the library, and we each cooked the exact same meal for our families. The dinners included non-alcoholic sangria and homemade fortune cookies.
I do not remember if ambulances showed up at her house because her parents fought, or because her mom's leg caused her problems. I think it was both.
Her mother made me feel welcome in their home. Always.
Every year they bought a Christmas tree, and one year they got it flocked. I was envious because we had a tiny synthetic tree.
Her mom was originally from Chicago. This seemed exciting to me.
Once, her mom took us to a water park called Thunderbird Beach, and we got a flat tire on the way. A man in a truck stopped to help us change the tire.
Once, I went to a dentist appointment with Danielle.
Her dad said my name funny. He had a semi-Cajun accent.
He named his plumbing company D & L Plumbing, after Danielle and her half sister.
I don't know if Danielle's half sister had a relationship with her biological dad, but she did have his last name.
Once, Danielle and I put on her mom's high heels and bras, and we stuffed the bras. Maybe we did that several times.
When we slept over at each other's houses, we took baths together.
Baths at her house were more fun because her tub had a jet in it.
She was more of a tomboy than I was, in spite of her boy craziness.
Her parents were not happy when a group of black kids began getting bussed to our little mostly-white school. A lot of parents were not happy.
When we were playing in the neighborhood, and her parents whistled - that loud, two-finger-against-your-teeth-sporting-event kind of whistle, it was time for her to get home. Immediately.
She loved Indian food. At least the only Indian food she'd had - my mom's cooking. More than anything, she loved roti's, whole wheat flat bread, hot and buttered.
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