Sing Dammit, Sociologist

My Slam Prize

Sun, 15 Mar 2009 16:53:52 GMT

So, part of first prize for winning the CU Poetry Slam was tickets to see Saul Williams and Les Claypool in Denver.

Wow.

Les Claypool is a former member of Primus, and has this bass style that is sick to death. He has assembled this crazy road show called the Oddity Faire. It's a dark carnival, burlesque aesthetic, visually chaotic and beautiful, and meant to shock. And then there was the music. Wow.

So Saul as performer is like canonical, at this point. You know to expect a certain...Saul-ness of it all. But since he's branched out into producing with like, Trent Reznor, he's really adopted a rock star persona. I was really diappointed to be the ONLY person screaming the words to "Black Stacey," and being appalled/enthralled at his screeched version of Earth, Wind, and Fire's "Can't Hide Love," but that's Denver. None of my friends knew Saul's work, and the vast majority of the audience was, well, comprised of the majority group who were rock fans, not spoken word nerds like myself.

Anyhoo, I had a blast, and found a possible new road dog- my classmate Jason, who was a fan of Les' before the concert. I asked him on a humble, and the Universe made him the "right and perfect" person to have a chill night with. So yippee- go slam, go.

It's Like Spring

Sat, 14 Mar 2009 15:45:06 GMT

So I slammed for the first time in 5 years (give or take, probably give-) last night-

and I won.

First of all, I am incredibly grateful to have won, with only one new piece (written since 2004) to my name. I am the CU (University of Colorado-Boulder) Slam Champion. Yippee.

Second, I can't stop. Not out of any sort of fellings of invincibility, but the opposite. I took a big risk in performing yesterday. It merged the two sides of my life, academic and artistic, in a new way. In fact, I slammed against one of my students. That was weird. I also risked not connecting to the material anymore, and therefore the audience, Part of not writing new stuff was time, but I had not been writing before school started, and it is easy to stop writing, like it is to stop working out, because of time. It doesn't feel good, but the excuse of "no time" seems reasonable to justify inertia. In fact, I have been having bouts where I want to use a word, and I can't bring it up- they dance at the edges of my consciousness, peeved at dis-use. Use it or lose it.

If I stop now, I'll never get better. In no way do i think my craft is where I want it to be. I have too much poet envy, which means I am not reading enough, and not getting my own style enough. My voice is still suppressed to some extent- and continuing to put the work out there is a great way to guage how I'm growing, and to incentivize me to produce new work. Slams are not for the faint of heart- things go wrong, like the guy who got high nines and a 10 for trying to throw the slam with a rant about drugs...thank God for TPs in this case. But the random judges from the audience are a different form peer review. And Lord knows, with all the work I will need to put out there as an academic, putting my heart out, well, that's a co-requisite.

So, thank you CU. Thanks art- I missed you. And my department rocks hard in solidarity. As well we should.

Quick and dirty

Wed, 11 Feb 2009 20:31:08 GMT

I miss art- I miss music and writing poetry and acting. I miss them a lot.

I love academia, but can't wait to be able to incorporate the art. I need it to breathe. This is why I think I remain sick (a cold I can't shake).

In trying to do anything artistic, I have registered for the campus poetry slam and plan on auditioning for the CU version of Idol. It's either do that, or perish in a sea of articles- and we can't have that.

Ouch

Wed, 14 Jan 2009 14:49:31 GMT

I got dumped last night. That sucks.

Creative Reinventing Self Knower

Thu, 01 Jan 2009 20:14:10 GMT

I took the 43 Things Personality Quiz and found out I'm a

Creative Reinventing Self-Knower

Of course I am.

2008 in Review

Mon, 29 Dec 2008 20:07:03 GMT

January-
4-day date; is this IT? Ran into 2nd favorite mistake, again. Slipped and fell, again. Started winter quarter…undergrad, again? Turn 33; party is a bust when Pugilist and Mr. It? act out; he’s a bully. Kick the bully to the curb, posthaste.

February-
Swore off men and focused on grad school- got The Call from CU Boulder. Got accepted to UCincy. Visit Boulder. Make snap decision- if they say yay, I’m goin’.

March-
Accepted to CU Boulder and add sexuality to my focus. Overtures @ work= hell, diplomacy, and shot nerves. So glad the end is in sight.

April-
Clean up from Overtures. Laying low at work to prepare for Dancing and Stars…booked movers. Applied to Sexuality program at SFSU.

May-
Boulder house search. Gave notice at work. Dancing was a success. Stepdad’s kidney match disappears.

June-
Last month of work. Much stress. Planning for Academy. Get tested for kidney match. Do song in Undertow/Fringe.

July-
Lose movers. Book new movers. San Francisco. Sexuality. Debauchery. New passion. Late to my own party. Breast reduction. Goodbyes.

August-
Judge shows during reduction recovery. One last recording session. Move to Boulder. Start teaching. Start grad school. Meet new people. Start tutoring. Stepdad's match re-appears.

September-
Biological clock starts ticking. I get lonely. First hike. Keep teaching. Stepdad gets a kidney, so I come home.

October-
Start dating. Second hike. Submit first abstract. It gets accepted. Win student award. Close friend gets engaged- thrilled for her! Present in San Francisco. Meet up with old friends. Get assignment for next semester- sexuality.

November-
Puerto Rico for student paper prize. Come home for Thanksgiving, see virtually no one. Meet a new guy, a great guy…potential? Study for comp.

December-
Third hike. End semester. Comp- ow. Come home for a too-long break. The guy with potential seems to be sputtering; I’m learning to let things do what they do.

With two days left in ’08, what I know for sure (yeah, O, I stole it!):

I know that Marianne Williamson was right; who am I not to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? My playing small does not serve the world…but remembering that, ah, there’s the rub. I am trying to play bigger; not bigger than I actually am, but bigger than I have been. It’s difficult to stop judging your insides by someone else’s outsides, or even your own evaluation of where you should be.

I know hiking is awesome, and my hiking does not mean I have stopped being black…I still won’t kiss a dog in the mouth (smile).

Quick story; mom and I, watching Something New last night. Sanaa Lathan’s character, at the climax and going to get her [white] man, sees his dog (whom she detested at the beginning of the movie), hugs him, and gives him a big kiss. I tell mom that the dog is a metaphor for her assimilation; her distance was just her cultural training kicking in, that dogs and people are separate. Kissing the dog indicates that she is ready to accept her white beau without feeling like she’s selling out….mom listened to this load of BS and nodded slowly- she agreed! (Jeepers. And yet…)

I know I am guilty of Othering. Don’t know yet whether it’s a good Othering, or anomie. We’ll see.

I know passion is required for this life to go well. I know that I have neglected passion, and fixated it on unworthy and unsubstantial candidates (people and things). Next year has to be about spending time in the passion pool.

Welcome, 2009.

Stupid Quiz

Fri, 05 Dec 2008 17:47:29 GMT

Your result for Howard Gardner's Eight Types of Intelligence Test...

Linguistic

4% Logical, 22% Spatial, 75% Linguistic, 29% Intrapersonal, 37% Interpersonal, 43% Musical, 6% Bodily-Kinesthetic and 10% Naturalistic!

"Verbal-linguistic intelligence has to do with words, spoken or written. People with verbal-linguistic intelligence display a facility with words and languages. They are typically good at reading, writing, telling stories and memorizing words and dates. They tend to learn best by reading, taking notes, listening to lectures, and via discussion and debate. They are also frequently skilled at explaining, teaching and oration or persuasive speaking. Those with verbal-linguistic intelligence learn foreign languages very easily as they have high verbal memory and recall, and an ability to understand and manipulate syntax and structure.

Careers which suit those with this intelligence include writers, lawyers, philosophers, journalists, politicians and teachers." (Wikipedia)

Take Howard Gardner's Eight Types of Intelligence Test at HelloQuizzy

Rant- Life Lessons

Fri, 21 Nov 2008 06:29:24 GMT

Life is telling me stories- I selectively listen. It is telling me that I have limits- I cannot take 13 credits next semester. I must choose my battles.

Life is telling me that in large part, I am as bad as communicating with my students, as they are in communicating with me. The problem is, I am 13 years older than they, and I should know better.

Life says, "You cannot, nor is it your job to, take care of everyone. You are not the mama!"

Life is showing me my own worth- that my awesomeness entitles me to make an occasional demand, or at least, a specific request, without constantly bracing for disappointment or abandonment. This is kind of cool to know.

Life is especially showing me that nerd-dom, channeled and focused, is dead sexy, and it gets work done.

Life has showed me that every decision has both hidden costs and unknown benefits. You won't know until you walk through the door.

I think Life wants me to do more art.
I think Life is proud of me for fighting to use art as research.
I think Life wants me to get out of my own head more often.
I think Life wants me to be in better contact with friends and family.
I KNOW Life wants me to finish my reading for Theory.
I'm pretty sure Life wants me to practice gratitude.
And I hope...I hope Life wants me to date this man who I am drawn to. We'll see what Life says.

So Life...thanks.

Love Reading List

Mon, 20 Oct 2008 03:37:12 GMT

The subject of love- finding it, keeping it, not losing yourself in it- has been a hot topic lately. In conversations with friends, I have realized that I have come across some tools that can help any woman come to terms with her love situation, and develop a game plan for going forward. I say help- the reality is, I'm giving away advice I don't use all that often. But I can change, I can change (sung a la Saddam on South Park)...

So here are some books you can read or recommend. Sorry for the heteronormative tone of these books as well as the emphasis on helping women. I'm keeping it as real as possible, and in my experience, women fuss over this crap way more than men, and they also have more vocal complaints about enforcing boundaries. So here goes:

1) Write It Down, Make It Happen- by Henriette Anne Klauser. This is a good all-purpose book for making the stuff you think about come to fruition, but especially helpful for love-seekers is the chapter that relates the story of a woman who wrote letters to her soul mate almost daily, before she met him- to sharpen her vision of what she wanted, and to prepare herself for his entrance into her life.

2) The Five Love Languages- by Gary Chapman. This is brilliant. it is a communication book by a minister. But he never beats you over the head with religious rhetoric. Instead, he offers practical tips on how to identify how your mate registers loving gestures, and exhorts you to find and speak your partner's "love language-" saying and/or doing things in a way that your partner will appreciate, not the way you feel like expressing love, which may register as a big dud on your partner's scale.

3) A Return to Love- Marianne Williamson. This book makes me throw it across the room every time I read it. It is frustrating and makes me feel guilty. But I love it, because it is all about being in a truly loving place, and being responsible to love, and not ruled by "falling" in love. Culled from years of teaching A Course in Miracles, Williamson gets you thinking about your motivations and actions in a way that implicate you, but also gives you the power to change your circumstances. Good for codependents.

4) Getting to "I Do-" Pat Allen and Sandra Harmon. Another tosser. The main author is a relationship coach who suggests women pick the energy they wish to express, and breaks down the consequences for making a choice. She deconstructs energy into "masculine" and "feminine" expressions, and argues that by choosing one, your mate will have to be your opposite, in order for the relationship to be free of the gender role confusion we so often see in relationships. She also advocates abstinence until commitment, which we all know is not my strong point. I hate the book because it makes so much sense, and, once again, makes me responsible for my own happiness, and not some man "out there."

I don't advocate a wholesale swallowing of the ideas these authors put forth, but a careful reading of these texts can result in new thinking about relationships, behaviors and expectations. I'm going to go back to them and see where I stand on the issues they present. Who knows? I may just get a great relationship out of it.

And How...

Mon, 13 Oct 2008 04:27:18 GMT

This has been a very, very good week.

My abstract was accepted- I will be going to San Francisco to present my first-ever paper, "Out of the Mouths of Babes: Feminist Research as Sexuality Research" at the Western Regional Training on Sexual Literacy. This paper breaks down the experiences I've had, many chronicled through this blog, producing and writing shows that combine poetry and theater, centering women's voices and interrogating sexuality in new ways. The premise for the paper is that when I began these projects, I was not thinking about feminist research, but through producing them and having talks with my mentor, Mr. Purcell, I realized that these shows can be seen as feminist action research, and the writing process can lead to new research questions.

So that was exciting, but wait- there's more! My abstract won best student paper, and I get to go to San Juan, Puerto Rico to SSSS- the national conference for the Society for the Scientific Study of Sexuality! I am mega, big-time excited. It's one of those things I never thought could happen to me, and is another piece of evidence that I am headed in the right direction.

The dating exercises continue, although now that I've broken the drought, I'm in no rush to make up for lost time. I'm still adjusting to my new body, and for now remain unwilling to share it with anyone else. Time also remains at issue. I love school, but between tutoring my athletes, teaching my classes, and doing my own reading and research, I am pooped! I got to go out and do karaoke on Friday, but whoa, Nellie, does my voice need a workout! I am out of practice. So yeah, dating regularly might be a bit premature. More will be revealed.

'Cuz I Needed the Reminder

Tue, 07 Oct 2008 05:50:34 GMT

A Reason, a Season, or a Lifetime

People come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. When you figure out which one it is, you
will know what to do for each person.

When someone is in your life for a REASON . . . It is usually to meet a need you have expressed. They have come to assist you through a difficulty, to provide you with guidance and support, to aid you physically, emotionally, or spiritually. They may seem like a godsend, and they are! They are there for the reason you need them to be.

Then, without any wrong doing on your part, or at an inconvenient time, this person will say or do something to bring the relationship to an end.

Sometimes they die.
Sometimes they walk away.
Sometimes they act up and force you to take a stand.

What we must realise is that our need has been met, our desire fulfilled, their work is done. The prayer you sent up has been answered. And now it is time to move on.

When people come into your life for a SEASON . . .
Because your turn has come to share, grow, or learn. They bring you an experience of peace, or make you laugh. They may teach you something you have never done. They usually give you an unbelievable amount of joy. Believe it! It is real! But, only for a season.

LIFETIME relationships teach you lifetime lessons; things you must build upon in order to have a solid emotional foundation. Your job is to accept the lesson, love the person, and put what you have learned to use in all other relationships and areas of your life. It is said that love is blind but friendship is clairvoyant.

Author Unknown

More Updates- Sociology and my own Rock of Love

Sun, 05 Oct 2008 23:49:14 GMT

I submitted my first academic abstract on Wednesday night. The same university that hosted the Summer Institute on Sexuality Studies, is hosting a Regional Training on Sexual Literacy, and I threw my hat in the ring to present a paper that frames the poetry theater as feminist inquiry that interrogates sexuality. Said in plain-speak, I want to talk about how letting women write about their own lives in their own words is a political act that empowers women, and can lead to research questions for further study. I'll know this week whether I will be presenting. Meantime, I'm doing some freewrites that will hopefully help me to figure out what to say in the darn paper.

In other Sociology news, I am beginning to fill my toolbox with a list of research questions to explore. For those who know me well, you know I have no shortage of ideas, but tend to lack the stubbornness to finish what I start. In this case, which is the precursor to finding a dissertation topic, I have a problem linking all my major interest areas into a cohesive research project. Luckily, six weeks into my first of seven graduate years is really early to even be considering dissertation stuff, so I'm ahead of the game in this sense. It looks like I'll be doing a mixed-methods project that looks at race and sexual politics and citizenship through a gendered lens, and if the gods smile upon me, I'll be able to work some crim(inology) in there too. My cohort reminds me that my interests have changed rapidly since the Open House in February, and they have; I just am more aware of what will get me out of here faster, and what it takes to get a job. I am still interested in the same broad topics, like the African American female experience, but I'm learning, and those learnings impact my research. That's what grad school is all about.

Finally, in the vein of my addiction to HGTV, I am teaching myself how to date. I don't know how to date, and I especially don't know how to date in graduate school, as a black woman in Colorado. So I'm practicing. This involves much hilarity (because it's me), and much angst (because it's me). I had my first date in almost a year (the last being the guy who didn't leave for four days, but turned out to be a big bully). Yesterday's date was a largely relaxed affair, complicated by an awkward ending and my own inexperience with such matters. This seems to be a good guy; the jury's out on whether he's my good guy, or if he should be thrown back into the sea. But the simple fact that I reached out to someone I don't know, and made the effort to do more than hook up, is huge for me. And like I tell my students, the beginner's mind is key to deconstructing things sociologically. Assumptions are detrimental to analysis, and trying new things helps a fish to know (and put language to) the difference between wet and not wet. More will be revealed. Wish me luck- it's a jungle out there!

I Am Full

Sat, 04 Oct 2008 03:43:20 GMT

Wow- I should post more often. I am, like my grandmother says of the brethren during testimony, "full."

I'll start with sociology updates. I still love my cohort of 15 diverse classmates; I still love my program and my professors. I know my teaching assignment next semester; Social Constructions of Sexuality. I'll be TA-ing for the same professor I work with in Intro (this semester). This is awesome. I am rapidly joining the ranks of CU-Boulder's "Perversity Clique;" my name for the small cadre of sexuality researchers within the department. We have different interests- BDSM and identity, Black Female Sexuality, Exotic dancers, you name it. But since we're politely marginalized, we support each other.

I have been having a great semester, networking with academic crushes, and learning the ropes of the department. I have three straight up, full-on academic crushes so far, and I get to work with one this semester learning Feminist Methods. She used to work at my undergraduate institution, and we often share stories and know many people in common. My advisor is another huge crush, and a professor who has this semester off, but came to talk to our cohort in a departmental seminar, is the third. Can't wait to work with them.

The only blemish on my graduate career, other than realizing that this is my home now, are my students. I teach (now 88) mostly freshmen, and they just took their first exam of the semester. I have tried everything I know how- I have tried to bribe them with candy; I've tried to quiz them into doing the reading; I've tried the Socratic method, and I've tried the Black Mama browbeat. None of it has worked. The scores were abysmal! I don't know what to do...and I want to feel for them, but I really want to give them a good, old-fashioned ghetto a$$-whuppin'. They aren't even trying. I mark papers, they don't change anything on the next paper. They refuse to follow directions, come to office hours, or even remember their recitation number, and yet- they somehow want to make this my fault! Honestly, the more they push, the more I tighten my butt cheeks- if you need a diamond, see me at the end of the semester. I'm sure I will have pressed out a few by then.

So those are my freshmen. The thing is, I really care about their success. I want them to do well, and I want them to pass this class. But I can't lower my standards to let them coast by. I actually had a student tell me she couldn't come to recitation because 1) she had been ill, 2) she couldn't find the building we hold class in, AND c) 8 a.m. didn't fit her sleep schedule- could I please give her some make-up work?

I laughed, and then went out for drinks with my cohort. Today I sent a short note indicating that emails were insufficient; she'd have to come see me during office hours. And she's not the only one of her ilk.

Thank goodness I compared scores with another TA- her tests had the same range I did. So it's not just me.

Wish me luck, ya'll. I am full, and my outlets are few. I might just blow!

I Need Help

Sun, 07 Sep 2008 02:27:43 GMT

Find out your style quotient

I took this Quiz- Find out your style quotient

My Result Was:
You aren't much stylish. You can wear the same clothes throughout the year till they wear out. Brands don't matter to you much.

Try another quiz or try the same quiz Find out your style quotient

More Myspace Quizzes on lots of topics.

Graduate School Week One

Wed, 03 Sep 2008 03:56:25 GMT

I'm really freaking here.

Damn.

I'm in Boulder, in grad school, and I'm teaching. Me.

Langston Hughes writes about a dream deferred..."does it explode?" I have the opposite scenario- what happens to a dream realized? It's still a bit of a mind-screw, to be honest. I'm living far away from my family for the third time, and this time, I realize what I am missing- my grandma's smile when I walk in the door for Monday night dinner, midnight trips to Meijer with mom, a routine that requires fairly little and affords lots of spending power.

But now, here, in Colorado, I'm finding a new aspect of myself. I am smart- I am well-prepared intellectually for this endeavor (so far, knock wood). It's phenomenal that my summer experience at The Institute has provided me with information I can share with my department. Coming in as a pseudo-expert is awfully nice.

I am becoming much more of a homebody- I like being in my tiny little space, and without the bar or the Pugilist or my own expectations to dog me, I'm much more still (and a bit healthier- I drink water like a mofo here).

I still know relatively few people, and I don't have habits yet- kinda good. In the soup of not knowing, I am free to play, create, experiment with very little at stake.

So that's all Zen. The hard-core Over-the-Rhine in me says this is a good place to get work done. I think I can handle being here to do what I have to do. It helps that my department is phenomenal, so far. I have wonderful professors, and my cohort is cool if not yet cohesive. My students, though...

So far, I give myself a C minus in teaching. It's only been a week, and I am hard on myself, but first impressions are everything, and I don't feel like I connected with any of my recitation sections. I have one that I could tell everyone was alive in, but one is silent and one, actively hostile. I teach them again tomorrow, complete with dashiki and a clip from Rize, talking about culture. If you can't befriend them, scare the hell out of them. I figure, it was my mom's philosophy for raising kids, can't hurt me none.

So that's week One. More will be revealed. I miss ya'll.

A Life Less Busty

Tue, 05 Aug 2008 14:49:16 GMT

So it's been a week since the Great Cut- I'm no longer a zaftig FF-cup wonder. I'm not quite sure what size I am, swelling being what it is, but I'm much, much smaller. My San Francisco friends will understand this part well; I dressed yesterday in black button-front shirt and black pants, and looking in the mirror, presented much more androgynous than I ever have. And it didn't bother me- I thought it was cool.

Being defined by any physical trait is a double-edged sword. It gives you a touchstone for identity, but it also makes you paranoid about who you are without it. Many people will tell you that, up until the moment they knocked me out (probably to keep me from yammering about my doubts), I was not sure I could go through with the reduction. I mean, who would I be? Would I have a problem not busting out all over?

It didn't help that most people reacted like I was going insane. Men literally mourned the upcoming loss of The Girls; women asked for me to transplant some of my excess to them. I wondered if this was really a necessary surgery, or was I just being vain?

One week later, I still can't answer questions about whether it was worth it. I am smaller, but still sore and drugged and generally useless in the upper body area. I pride myself on being generally productive with bouts of laziness, and this is the reverse. I spend more time asleep and watching judge shows than anyone ever should. But I'm enjoying the opportunity to break out of one more stereotype I hold for myself. I have always been "the smart girl;" "the busty girl;" "the girl with glasses," etc. If I'm not that girl anymore, there's a clear new space to play in, and from the tone of my last few posts, I seem to desperately need to break out and do a new thing.

Today I have my stitches removed, and the drains come out (this surgery ain't all glamourous). I hope to gain more range of motion soon, and I hope to be able to stop sleeping while sitting up. And I'll continue to keep you updated on how a life less busty goes. I'm looking forward to the journey.

Response to A Friend

Mon, 04 Aug 2008 01:54:32 GMT

So a friend write me this (edited by me) email:

I'm sorry.

I know that you're leaving. I know that tonight was your shindig, and
I had every intention of going. Until I sat and I thought about it
for awhile. I really wasn't up to being around all of Cincinnati's
collected [general nastiness].

It may sound stupid, but it's still pretty damned painful to me.

I wish that I could be strong enough to say that I don't give a damn,
and that I would just walk in there and be fine...but I can't. I want
to see you before you leave, if you can forgive me for not showing.

I miss you. Really I do. You are dear to me.

There's more, but the crux of the message is there. And this is a response to that friend, as well as a general heart-rending out-pouring of emotion about me leaving this town and the collected group of personalities that I have gathered around me.

To you, friends, I say, I am trying to work out a version of friendship that does not consistently require me feeling bad so that you all feel good. I have heard more "sorry"s that the law should allow, and, at this point, I don't have any response to them. I am numb.

I know that things are very often not personal, and I don't think enough of myself to believe that it's all about me, but for once, on my leaving, I wanted it to be. I wanted to feel like the years I've spent in Cincinnati mean enough to folks that they could stop by for a quick beer, if only because they knew I would be a non-drinking, limited mobility invalid for my remaining time in town. I wanted them to recognize that I planned a going-away party (for myself, how pathetic and telling), built so my friends could come, built to not hit the surgery or the San Fran trip (slight miscalculation). I want my friends to know I didn't even want a going away party, but everyone told me I owed it to my friends to let them say goodbye.

I didn't have the heart to tell everyone that I suspected very few people would show up, that I feared very few of the folk I call "friends" would be bothered to come. And I was proven somewhat correct.

When you give yourself a party, several things come to mind. Will anyone come? Why am I planning this myself? Is it because no one else can? Or no one else will?

In my case, I realized that my mother, once again, is correct- be careful who you call friend. I have a series of acquaintances, from different lives, with varying levels of connection and communication. It's hard to bring all those folks together in one place. I tried four times- only the first was a rousing success. I feel like I should have followed my first mind and just faded into the sunset- but that felt melodramatic as well.

So it's said, and done. I won't see many people before I leave- I'm too sore and drugged up and tired to do more than connect via Facebook, and I've got family trading organs tomorrow. I'll write about this time in my life, and maybe that's the payoff- I get another life experience to write about. Sometimes, that's all I can ask for.

I love you, Cincinnati, and I am grateful for the folks who I have laughed, cried, fought with and loved. I'll miss many of you, and some of you know where to find me. Peace to you all, and really, it's ok. It's all ok.

Post Script to an Ending

Thu, 31 Jul 2008 18:43:13 GMT

I am home from San Francisco, which deserves (and will get) its post. I have also had the breast reduction I'd been planning an fearing for months. Now I'm recovering at my grandmother's apartment, waiting to heal and to begin my new adventure as a graduate student.

The surgery has given me much time (and plenty of drugs) to think- about pain, and limits, and saying no when you mean yes, yes when you mean no. I'm a consummate people-pleaser, and I realized after San Francisco, many of my so-called friendships are predicated upon me feeling bad so that others can feel good. And I've had it. San Francisco gave that to me (so I say Thank You).

Going across the country will give me a new space to recreate myself, but my mother tells me, and is true, that "Wherever you go, there you are." And if I don't deal with the attitudes and behaviors that created my life here at home, it will just be the same in Boulder. And so...

- I am giving myself permission to not talk to folks if I am too busy or just don't want to.
- I am giving myself permission to call people on their junk (and to have them call me on mine).
- I am giving myself permission to say a few, well-needed F&^%- you's.
- I am giving myself permission to say "ouch, demmit, this hurts! And it is not ok.
- I am giving others permission to not keep in touch with me, or care what I do next.

So, Other People, you are off the hook. This is a period of renegotiation, of resetting limits and reconstructing relationships. Some will be let go, some will emerge stronger. And it's all good. Some folks I will be reaching out to, and others, I will retreat from. And it's all good. My experiences are showing me that there's a great big old world out there, and when I let them in, wonderful people show up and take me higher than I ever thought I could be. So I will have no hard feelings, but neither will I contort myself to fit others' images of me, nor will I let others piss on my leg and tell me it's raining.

I'm reclaiming my writing, and my dance. I'm releasing that part of me that needs to be a professional YP. I'm totally withdrawing from questionable alliances with other women's men, and from men who are as unavailable as...well, who are pretty damn unavailable. Girlfriends, I'm done being jealous of you, of trying to talk you out of destructive behavior, and of letting certain topics be off-limits. If we're going to be friends, we're gonna start going there about any and everything- because I think our lives depend on it (more on that later- it's a legacy from San Francisco).

I'm not the best correspondent, and I don't check in as much as I would like. But let's change that. Let's create authentic relationships, let's build, let's support each other. This is how it's gonna be from now on, at least for me. If you're in, let's go. if you're out, goodbye. Go in peace.

Bleeping Daphne

Mon, 21 Jul 2008 00:43:01 GMT

So I'm hanging out in San Francisco for three weeks, transitioning from artist and arts professional to full-time scholar. The process largely involves a great deal of reading, followed by a great deal of drinking...rinse and repeat. But I sacrifice for my career.

I am wandering along Haight (I'm living in Lower Haight while I'm here), and stumble into a bookstore tucked away along the various T-shirt, hookah shops and tattoo parlors. They have no romance novels (infidels!), so I browse the list of upcoming authors to do signings.

Her name caught my attention first; a clang from my Slam past (is it ever a past, or does the Slam urge just lie dormant?). She had two new books out; one a collection of poems and shorts, the other, a collection of erotic stories featuring her as a character. Some were true, some pure fiction. Intrigued, I decided to attend the reading.

I don't often get tongue-tied around celebrities, but I revert to my screaming New Kids On the Block days when I meet "famous" slammers. Patricia Smith, Roger Bonair-Agard, StaceyAnn Chin, Sarah Jones...you get the point. Daphne Gottlieb ranks up there for the awesomeness of her presence alone. Her locks, her height, the style that says "f&^% you clothes, you serve me-" she bowled me over. She gave away prizes, and I wound up with plastic birds, not plastic handcuffs.

I dragged along another woman from the Institute, a Mainer who is as Tri-Delt as I am boho. We both noticed how human Daphne was; she was nervous through the entire reading. Her voice was really warm, like she'd be a great hostess and offer you cookies and extra blankets. We'd both bought the stories about her, me to see what kind of bravery is takes to invite people to write about screwing you, and E (the woman I was with), because she met one of the book's contributors in the store.

As she signed books at the end, I, blushing, stammered how I'd come to know her name ("I slammed in Ohio-" akin to Baby's "I carried a watermelon" in Dirty Dancing, and dropped a few names she might recognize (she did recognize them). And that was it, until I read the inscription. "You didn't have to come all the way from Ohio to meet me, but I'm glad you did." Aww... see why I have great big poet crushes?

And the book, titled F&^%ing Daphne, is really good. Fan-tastic. Get it.

All the Women Are White, the Men Black...but Some of Us Are Brave

Mon, 09 Jun 2008 13:23:58 GMT

In the wake of the long, slow drag towards deciding on a Democratic nominee, I am left with a lingering taste of bile in my mouth...

When did I stop being a woman?

When Hillary Clinton announced her candidacy, I think I was still a woman, according to media reports. I remember seeing people who looked like me (read: black and female) interviewed on television. Our opinion about the "historic campaign for women everywhere" counted.

And then, somewhere around South Carolina, women became white, and the rest of us; Latina, Asian, multiracial-Puerto Rican mulatto coloreds (read: the rest of us who are not white and middle-aged)- we simply disappeared.

I know what happened to me. I became Black; one of the 11 percent of the electorate so enthused by a viable Black candidate that we lost all other identities and became a solid voting bloc of Black (now if you believe that, I've got some swampland...).

Every interview, since South Carolina that I have seen has aired the grievances of the above-mentioned white Boomer women; their angst at the sexism in the media, their criticisms of Obama as elitist (are you kidding me? Seriously?), their threat to go to McCain come fall, yadda, yadda. And I sort of get it. It's disappointing to find that the world is not your oyster after all. It's a shocking change to be reminded that there are hierarchies in society, and that sometimes, you're not the delicate and gentle snowflake everyone rushes to protect. But here's where Black women and other women of color could have helped you; this is totally not new to us.

If Barack had not won the nomination (in a fair fight), there would be no news stories about the Black voting bloc (BVB) threatening a GOP shift. Politics by vengeance is not possible when the stakes are so high. The BVB would have been a bit sad, but in the end we'd shrug, put our yard signs in the attic for future generations to see what we almost did, and we'd start stumping for Hillary.

So this message is twofold. To the media: thanks for reminding Black women again that our femininity is always in question, and that we must constantly choose loyalties between race and gender standpoints. And to the White, Boomer women who are upset- this is America, sweetie. Life is pain. And your behavior, hogging camera time and nearing shrillness, is the reason feminism isn't integrated. Now tuck your lip in, stop acting like a brat and grab an Obama sign. We've got important work to do, as a country. Quit bull-sh..ting.

Love, the Black (Female) Voting Bloc.

Happy BirthdayS

Wed, 26 Mar 2008 12:43:49 GMT

Happy Birthday nerak_g ! Happy birthday [info]momoyeahmomo

Race

Tue, 18 Mar 2008 22:29:02 GMT

I'm sitting in my favorite coffeeshop, procrastinating writing a final. My heart is as heavy as the skies outside, and thank God it's raining so hard, I don't feel compelled to cry.

I am one of those people who grew up just past the Civil Rights Movement. I'm privileged to have never grown up with any kind of overt and pressing segregation, nor any legal overtly racial discrimination policies (Reagan doesn't count). And my mom, trying to give me a better life, sent me to mixed schools and encouraged me to affiliate with all the students in my classes. Especially in elementary school, I had a rainbow coalition of friends. I knew we had differences; my friend Jennifer was black, but had a white mom, long, silky hair, and lived with her grandmother; Aine's dad was a nurse; and David's mom taught us Chinese customs and gave us chopsticks for Chinese New Year. My mom was a single parent. Differences, but-who cared?

High school was more difficult; we began to pull apart a bit, more balkanized by activities than race, although I did learn that it wasn't cool to be smart to some of the black kids at school- athletics were cooler. Band was so uncool as to render me largely invisible. But again, I had friends across the spectrum; fellow nerds in black and white, a tenuous alliance with tough black girls on drill team, and a huge crush on a cafe au lait boy whose ethnicity defied us for years. We called him Arab, Latin, mixed...turns out he was Dutch and Cruzian (St. Croix), by way of Aruba. OK...

But we all hung out, and danced to similar music mostly, and had similar goals. Yeah, there were only a few interracial couples around, but at the school for nerds, not that many people were dating at all. I even had a white, guy friend who, like me, thought all the race conflict we heard about (rarely saw) was stupid. When we'd pass each other in the hall, he'd yell loudly to me, "Whassup, Honky!" and I'd reply, "Wassup, Nigga!" Like smoking or getting pregnant, we thought being racist was just plain dumb. Culture was cool and being proud of your ancestry was awesome, but why waste time hating someone because they were lighter or darker than you? Dumb.

When I got to Cornell, I realized what I had been sheltered from. Vitriol and rhetoric of entitlement, violence and resentment, and this from kids who could buy and sell their way to a college degree! Here I was, this kid from Cincinnati, trying to sing Kuumbayah and hold hands, while the revolution started to televise itself. To say I wigged out is an understatement. I lived in the black dorm, had almost all black and brown friends (although they were Trinidadian and Nu-Jamaican and Puerto Rican), but I secretly penned a novel about two fish-out-of-water freshmen forging an interracial relationship amidst campus conflict and violence.

Coming home to Cincinnati didn't help. I was disappointed, angry, and scared; plus, I had discovered how hard dating was, and all the new rules that came along with sexual politics in America. I felt ugly and ostracized, from black men and white, and the only haven I had was the campus diversity organization, where freaks like me from all walks of life, countries, and colors came together, voluntarily, to talk about race and reconciliation (to be glib). I think RAPP (the last P is silent) saved my life. It turned me from an angry militant to a much more reasoned adult, no longer sheltered and naive, but also, not mad at the whole world for things outside my control.

Adulthood has largely been a mellowing period. I laugh at how little younger people think about race when forging friendships, but I cringed tonight when I saw a doe-eyed young black girl inviting a handsome white boy to her house for dinner. "Be careful!" my heart shouted, just in case... he wasn't as evolved as she. Projection? Hell yes. Rejection kills; disappointment only maims. Call me the Phantom of the Coffeehouse.

Anyway, to my heavy heart- Barack and America. Race and 2008. Resentment and anger. Halle Berry as the beautiful version of black women. Subprime borrowers getting a bailout vs. No Child Left Behind. And me, sitting alone in a coffeeshop, wishing I had some friends around me to tell me that it's gonna be ok. Because today...today, I wonder how the hell I'm gonna survive in Boulder.

Today has been a day of rants, but...I miss writing, and I miss hope. I had it; I guess I just misplaced it. Send me some if you see it, ok?

Barack's speech

Tue, 18 Mar 2008 19:13:04 GMT

...Made me cry.

Open Letter to Barack

Tue, 18 Mar 2008 13:10:22 GMT

Barack,

I said the other day in class that race is no longer a primary factor in the average Americans' behavior- that similarities in values and actions were. My argument was that most white people only care that you act just like them, more than the color or your skin.

Man, was I wrong.

I've been watching the news this week- how could I not? And I have seen how folks are making Rev. Wright's words somehow about you...and about your love for this country, therefore your ability to lead it. And I have, to be much more stringent than your wonderful wife, rarely been less impressed with America than I am at this moment.

First, you did not ever endeavor to make race a part of your presidential race- you were loved and revered as the "transcendent candidate." But of course, certain people (I-can't-believe-we-ever-called-you-Black-Clintons) want to make it THE issue. And now you have to address not only your beliefs, but once again, like we do every day in classrooms, boardrooms and bars, represent for the entire race. And the question white folks finally want answered, once and for all, is this: "How can you be president, when you (and you people) hate America?"

That's the fear- the Fear of a Black (Barack) Planet. What the hell will happen to white people if they participate in electing someone who has centuries and continent's worth of reasons to hate the European, Christian, capitalist and colonialist values of a nation that has done very little to include you as a free citizen? I mean, the man is the nexus of what rage towards white Americans should be- he's half black, African at that- half white, the product of a single poor white woman, who by all accounts seemed to be a feminist, and was definitely and activist (and a n---- lover, but we won't speak ill about the dead); he was born in Hawaii, a colonised nation made into a state, and educated globally, witnessing firsthand the impacts of a so-called "superpower" on Third World countries. If white people were in his shoes, they'd hate them too...so how is he so hopeful? How can he be so...nice?

Enter Rev. Wright. Finally, something that proves that Barack is just like the others- he, too, hates white people. he, too, hates America! Because if he can listen to a pastor who can develop sermons that have snippets of sentences, that in a soundbite can appear hate-filled and vitriolic (no matter that they may be completely without context or analysis- the words were said!), then Barack has to believe everything the man says. He's no better than his wife; who just got around to being proud of America (and we know she's an emasculating he-woman, with her pearls and support and intelligence); he's no better than those hip-hop rappers who want to take our country over and transform them into drugged out ghettoes, with our daughters as their lily-white prizes; they're the reason we clutch our purses and scurry towards the exurbs after 6 p.m.

The message is clear- by attending the church of Rev. Wright, he proves it once and for all- Barack Obama doesn't care about white people.

***

I am often fed up by the media, and what it does, and how it does it. Bottom-feeding sensationalists pummeling each other for rhetorical booms that scare the public into purchasing their sponsors' solutions. The media is not a righteous beacon of truth- it is, anymore, obvious muckraking. And the most disappointing thing is to watch Americans eat up the rhetoric like a baby gumming applesauce; to see critical analysis and intelligent dialogue go out the window, replaced by panic and hysteria; to see them tear down what they have built up like a Tower of Babel that got too high and too scary.

Barack Obama now has to explain to white people, in a way that doesn't scare them, how the experience of being black is different, and valid. He has to do it in a way that convinces him that we won't riot and kill them; that we do love America; and that, if elected, he can control us crazy Negroes at home. Cuz if he can't control an old pastor from saying crazy shizznit and attacking the values that white folks hold dear, how's he gonna keep the rest of us cousins from acting a plumb fool and turning the White House black?

*End angry political rant*

Updates on the Remaining Schools

Sun, 16 Mar 2008 18:26:37 GMT

It's pretty commonly known in the graduate school "angst universe" that March 15 is a drop-dead date for schools with strict (not rolling) applications deadlines sending out results for Fall admission. Ergo, the closer you get to the Ides of March, the more likely it is that you are on a wait list, or have been rejected.

I applied to nine schools. Three were my "top-tier;" schools where I had a medium-to-high level of interaction/communication with faculty before application, liked the location, the program description, and the funding structure. Five were schools that I could be interested in, but for various reasons, were not my first choices, and one was an outlier, a program that I applied to because it would allow me to do the bulk of the work I was interested in, near home, with a faculty I'd met and enjoyed- but it wasn't a Sociology program.

Well, the decision being made, I am now receiving the rest of my notifications from schools, which is sort of weird. I've been accepted to two schools, one with funding, one with no news as yet. I accepted the sure deal, for a ton of reasons, but the bottom line being it became a far-and-away favorite after my visit.

The results, so far:

U of Cincy- accepted, Master's, no funding (yet);
U of Colorado- Boulder- accepted, PhD, tuition, TA, stipend, subsidized health, fellowship (I'm going- top tier);
UC San Diego- rejected (they were ranked 7th on my list of 9)
U of Arizona- rejected (they were top-tier);
Emory University- rejected (they were top-tier);
Stony Brook- rejected (bottom-tier, very little pre-application contact);

I have not yet heard from:
Syracuse
Temple
OSU (the outlier program)

I don't care, as such- I just want the letters to end the waiting. It's a weird psychological defect, I'm sure, to have accepted an offer, and yet still wait for likely kicks in the teeth from programs you don't want to go to. But seriously, what about this undertaking speaks of sanity?

It was weird- when I got the offer from Boulder, something clicked into place- a knowing that regardless of the other news, we had selected each other. Indeed, it was difficult in the scant days after my return from the visit, to not get geeked about the program. As it was, I was looking at apartment costs and soliciting bids from movers the very day I got the good news. Love at first sight, I guess.

For fans of The Secret, some of the things I wrote on my list of desired items were; to feel that I was wanted/being recruited; a phat financial package, and a faculty of up-and-comers who took a direct interest in the success of their students. I got all of that. The rest of the list I can't fully remember and some of it remains to be seen, but it's more than a decent start. To quote my friend Gabe, "Universe?! Hey, boo...thanks!"