There’s this song that’s been coming on Christian radio by a group called Hyperstatic Union called “Praying for Sunny Days.” It’s been going through my head all day, and it won’t get out. There’s a part during the chorus where the lead singer’s voice goes up in a really high, sweet sounding falsetto, and I just love it. There’s just something about hearing a sweet, warm, fluid falsetto that gives me a bit of an adrenaline rush. Some things cannot be explained. They just are.
I had a little break from the 6th graders yesterday—they had some activity or another—International Day, it was. So, since I’m what they call an “exploratory” teacher—those classes which go in 7 week rotations—I’m one of the guys they cut out when they have a special program or whatever. But, psshhh, I’m not complaining.
Well, anyway, during my break, I was reading the February edition of National Geographic and I was enthralled by the feature they had on the chemistry of love. Like, it explained the chemicals and processes that go on in our brains when we feel like we’re in love. It went on to say that studies were done and that the level of seretonin in the blood of someone “madly” in love (for this particular study, someone who had fallen in love within the past 6 months and obsessed about the love object for at least 4 hours a day) is not dissimilar the level of seretonin in the blood of someone who is suffering from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. So, love and mental illness could be difficult to tell apart.
But then it talked about how “studies around the world confirm that passion usually ends.” Our neurons become desensitized to the surges of dopamine that gives us that romantic high. And, as the article states, like cocaine users, we need more and more of the “drug” to produce the high. So it fizzles. That part kind of made me feel a twinge of sadness because it’s scientifically proven that the stars inevitably fade.
But then, there’s another hormone called oxytocin. “It’s a hormone that promotes a feeling of connection, bonding. It is released when we hug our long-term spouses, or our children. It is released when a mother nurses her infant.” So, after we’ve been burnt out on dopamine, if the relationship is to last, both partners have to sustain enough oxytocin levels to keep things going for the long haul.
I don’t know why this article fascinated me so much. I mean, as of late, I haven’t been blown away by any dopamine surges. But I guess it’s just like a scientific breakdown of one of my inner debates: What’s more important—the excitement of attraction (that will eventually fade), or the less exciting “good qualities” (that will need to be present to make things operate in the long run)? What’s more important—dopamine or oxytocin?
In the end, I know dopamine isn’t everything, but how can oxytocin even enter the equation if there’s never any dopamine to get things going in the first place? You knaamean?
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Monday, April 24, 2006
Blogfast of Champions
I’m baaaack . . .Blogfast?
‘Breakfast,’ the word from which ‘blogfast’ has been derived, is a compound word made up of ‘break’ and ‘fast.’ When we get up in the morning and eat a bowl of Wheaties, we are breaking our “fast” of not eating since dinner the previous night. Okay, what does this have to do with blogging? I went on a blogfast this past week. Actually, an Internet fast. (See what these modern times have brought us to?) I realized that I was spending too much time on the net—emailing, blogging, reading other blogs, and other stuff that was basically just wasting a bunch of time. And I felt a tad bit on the, uh, hypocritical side because I have this little conviction going on about not owning a TV and yet here I am being sucked into the net and, again, wasting time that could be spent doing much more productive and fruitful things. (Though, to my credit, I will admit I was not blowing nearly the amount of time I was pre-TV conviction.) I hadn’t been reading my Bible every day, but you can bet your bottom dollar that I checked my Gmail every day (more than once a day). The perfect opportunity to remedy this imbalance came last Sunday night when the pastor reminded us that we can fast things other than food and issued a challenge for us to fast something this week we really like and that perhaps we spend a lot of time doing, and the Internet was one of the things he mentioned. Gaaa! Conviction struck my heart. I resolved to fast the Internet. No blogging. No checking personal email. No Everyone’s Connected. No Facebook. No ninetyandnine. No anything Internet related until the following Sunday. Of course, the exception being for work-related tasks such as checking my Outlook mail at work and posting grades and assignments online. I had to show myself that it’s something I could do without, and I’m glad that I did. I refuse to let the Internet dominate my time. Let your moderation be known unto all men (Philipians 4:5).
Treading Softly over Spilled Beans
Once beans of any type, be they black beans, navy beans, pork n’ beans, whatever, have been spilled, there’s really no way to clean them up. Of course, you can try, but the beaniness is still going to be there, and there’s no way of getting around it. (sigh) Let’s just say a quite . . . unsuitable (if you knew the situation, believe me, you’d agree) spilling happened this week, and it’s gotten to me a little. How can someone just bare their entire heart and soul to you, beans spilling over in quite an untimely and confessional manner, and then afterward, after they’ve gotten it off their chest, regardless of your response, expect things to continue business as usual? Don’t you realize that I now know how you feel and I know that you know that the feeling is not mutual? It makes me feel weird, a little bad even. Don’t you think it might make me feel a wee bit uncomfortable talking to you for a while? Yes, you are a human being; we all have our weaknesses. But I’m human too. Ahem.
Getting Snatched Up
My mostly middle-aged, mostly female co-workers are starting to get to me too just a tad—with this whole “have you met the new band director yet” business and such like. I guess they just can’t help themselves seeing a fresh little young’un like me existing completely unattached. “I can’t believe no one’s come by and just snatched you up yet.” I get an image of myself walking peacefully along at the park or something, and then this huge hand swoops down out of nowhere and jerks me up off the ground by the collar, snapping my head back and leaving my little arms and legs flailing. “What happened to Chantell?” “Oh, she finally got snatched up.” I’m starting to wonder, am I snatchable? At the rate I’m going, I might have to be carefully coaxed. Like a trapped kitten being persuaded to come down from a tree.
Take That, You Standardized Test Villains!
I broke down and took the GRE last Saturday. It’s one of the hurdles you have to jump before applying to grad school. It was the computer-based version, so you get your scores on the verbal and quantitative parts as soon as you finish. (There’s a little writing part and they send the results later.) I was freaking out about the quantitative, because I’m so not a math and reasoning person. I was so much more confident about the verbal—reading comp, analogies and sentence completion are my strengths, I thought. Language Arts major, hello? But whaddya know, the scores flash up on the screen and I did 20 pts better on the quantitative than I did on the verbal. How’d I manage that one? The verdict: Verbal—660, Quantitative—680. Score!
UGST
I’m working overtime to finish the readings and papers for the Paul class this summer. I cannot believe it’s like a month away. I must do it. I refuse to be unprepared.
By the way . . .
Next month there will be a little surprise. Your friendly neighborhood blogger will be introduced into another realm of the blogosphere. Stay tuned!
Friday, April 14, 2006
Alive
Every day is a new day
I’m thankful for every breath I take
I won’t take it for granted (I won’t take it for granted)
So I learn from my mistakes
It’s beyond my control
Sometimes it’s best to let go
Whatever happens in this lifetime
So I trust in love (so I trust in love)
You have given me peace of mind
I, I feel so alive
For the very first time
I can’t deny You (I feel so alive)
I, I feel so alive
For the very first time (for the very first time)
And I think I can fly
That’s the first verse and chorus of a song called “Alive” that was really popular a few years ago by a crossover “rap core” group called POD. The music’s a little edgy, but the lyrics are pretty inspiring, and kind of give voice to how I’ve been feeling lately.
For the first time in a while, I’ve gone without falling back on my characteristic “moodiness.” I feel like I’ve progressed, like I’ve gotten over a little hump that I’ve been trying to get over for a while. I’ve realized that, for the first time in a while, I actually feel good about myself and that God is leading me toward an “expected end” (Jeremiah 29:11).
I just finished reading a book that I mentioned previously entitled Revelations of a Single Woman: Loving the Life I Didn’t Expect by Connally Gilliam. The book itself, indeed, was something I didn’t expect. It wasn’t a much-despised-in-my-eyes-waiting-on-a-man book. Neither was it a keep-a-stiff-upper-lip-and-get-on-with-your-life-without-a-man-all-you-need-is-Jesus book. It was an honest, insightful, almost memoir, of a single, Christian lady navigating through life. It was the Aristotelian Golden Mean between the two extremes I mentioned above. It spoke to something I was having a bit of an inner struggle with (see post entitled “Uh-oh”).
I feel like I’m on the brink of making some big decisions. It’s probably come to the forefront in light of the fact that I’m taking the Graduate Record Exam (GRE) tomorrow—a must before entering graduate school. A part of me was tempted to . . . well, the only way to explain it is to say to sit on my talents. To resist going for the gold for fear that I might miss out. To wonder if I’d get so caught up in “doing” that potential whatevers would get left in the dust, and that once I’d reached the pinnacle, there I’d remain—accomplished, successful, victorious, and alone. But something in this book spoke to me. The author speaks of her experience in this same struggle:
“So what does a woman do when her British boss and her aunt Bonnie from Texas, whom she barely ever sees, can smell her issues a mile away? when she realizes that, like the servant who hid his talent in the ground for fear that the master was a tyrant, she too has buried her talents for fear that God is perhaps a little twisted? when she faces her suspicion that God is someone who might give her gifts in communication, spiritual leadership, and vision that, if she were to use them fully, would sabotage the very desires of her heart for marriage and possibly a family? [ . . .]
Sitting behind my computer in my windowless office, staring at unfiled papers and a keyboard with dust in its crevices, I repented. God, I’ve buried the talents you’ve given me because I’ve feared how my life might go if I use them. I’ve been wrong. Please forgive me. Then—hoping no one would barge into my office while tears dribbled onto my keyboard, I laid that big pile of strengths and weaknesses, dreams and fears, down before him. Okay, God, my talents—and my desires—are yours. You gave them to me; now I’m giving them back to you, for you to do with them what you’d like. No more ineffective strategic hoarding and stingy distribution for my own purposes. [ . . . ]
Perhaps, though, whether we’re talent smushers or talent celebrators or somewhere in between, finding the answer to the question, How much of myself—my time, my energy, my abilities, my heart—do I give to a career? begins at the same place for all of us: acknowledging that we can’t control an unpredictable work or relational future. We can only face what’s real in the present, offer our talents back to the Talent Giver, and move forward with the best wisdom we have.”
She goes on to mention in the subsequent chapter how those who are the most satisfied in their work are those who “are using their strengths for something or someone greater than themselves.” Something clicked in my mind. The assurance that I’m where I need to be flooded over me. Teaching, the profession in which I’m engaged now, is something that is deeper to me than a job. It’s a calling. Investing in young minds is something greater than me. The potential my current students have is more than I am. And participating in increasing that potential satisfies me. God has given me the ability to speak another language fluently. I feel that I’m giving back to Him what He's given to me through translating during church services, teaching a Bible study in Spanish, and by teaching a free beginning Spanish class sponsored by the church.
In the end, I know that God has also given me the ability and the opportunity to progress using the talents He’s given me, and right now, the choice of whether I’m going to celebrate them or sit on them has to do with furthering my education. I cannot be afraid of the unknown and the unpredictable. I cannot be afraid of taking what I consider risky steps if those steps are ordered by God.
I’m thankful for every breath I take
I won’t take it for granted (I won’t take it for granted)
So I learn from my mistakes
It’s beyond my control
Sometimes it’s best to let go
Whatever happens in this lifetime
So I trust in love (so I trust in love)
You have given me peace of mind
I, I feel so alive
For the very first time
I can’t deny You (I feel so alive)
I, I feel so alive
For the very first time (for the very first time)
And I think I can fly
That’s the first verse and chorus of a song called “Alive” that was really popular a few years ago by a crossover “rap core” group called POD. The music’s a little edgy, but the lyrics are pretty inspiring, and kind of give voice to how I’ve been feeling lately.
For the first time in a while, I’ve gone without falling back on my characteristic “moodiness.” I feel like I’ve progressed, like I’ve gotten over a little hump that I’ve been trying to get over for a while. I’ve realized that, for the first time in a while, I actually feel good about myself and that God is leading me toward an “expected end” (Jeremiah 29:11).
I just finished reading a book that I mentioned previously entitled Revelations of a Single Woman: Loving the Life I Didn’t Expect by Connally Gilliam. The book itself, indeed, was something I didn’t expect. It wasn’t a much-despised-in-my-eyes-waiting-on-a-man book. Neither was it a keep-a-stiff-upper-lip-and-get-on-with-your-life-without-a-man-all-you-need-is-Jesus book. It was an honest, insightful, almost memoir, of a single, Christian lady navigating through life. It was the Aristotelian Golden Mean between the two extremes I mentioned above. It spoke to something I was having a bit of an inner struggle with (see post entitled “Uh-oh”).
I feel like I’m on the brink of making some big decisions. It’s probably come to the forefront in light of the fact that I’m taking the Graduate Record Exam (GRE) tomorrow—a must before entering graduate school. A part of me was tempted to . . . well, the only way to explain it is to say to sit on my talents. To resist going for the gold for fear that I might miss out. To wonder if I’d get so caught up in “doing” that potential whatevers would get left in the dust, and that once I’d reached the pinnacle, there I’d remain—accomplished, successful, victorious, and alone. But something in this book spoke to me. The author speaks of her experience in this same struggle:
“So what does a woman do when her British boss and her aunt Bonnie from Texas, whom she barely ever sees, can smell her issues a mile away? when she realizes that, like the servant who hid his talent in the ground for fear that the master was a tyrant, she too has buried her talents for fear that God is perhaps a little twisted? when she faces her suspicion that God is someone who might give her gifts in communication, spiritual leadership, and vision that, if she were to use them fully, would sabotage the very desires of her heart for marriage and possibly a family? [ . . .]
Sitting behind my computer in my windowless office, staring at unfiled papers and a keyboard with dust in its crevices, I repented. God, I’ve buried the talents you’ve given me because I’ve feared how my life might go if I use them. I’ve been wrong. Please forgive me. Then—hoping no one would barge into my office while tears dribbled onto my keyboard, I laid that big pile of strengths and weaknesses, dreams and fears, down before him. Okay, God, my talents—and my desires—are yours. You gave them to me; now I’m giving them back to you, for you to do with them what you’d like. No more ineffective strategic hoarding and stingy distribution for my own purposes. [ . . . ]
Perhaps, though, whether we’re talent smushers or talent celebrators or somewhere in between, finding the answer to the question, How much of myself—my time, my energy, my abilities, my heart—do I give to a career? begins at the same place for all of us: acknowledging that we can’t control an unpredictable work or relational future. We can only face what’s real in the present, offer our talents back to the Talent Giver, and move forward with the best wisdom we have.”
She goes on to mention in the subsequent chapter how those who are the most satisfied in their work are those who “are using their strengths for something or someone greater than themselves.” Something clicked in my mind. The assurance that I’m where I need to be flooded over me. Teaching, the profession in which I’m engaged now, is something that is deeper to me than a job. It’s a calling. Investing in young minds is something greater than me. The potential my current students have is more than I am. And participating in increasing that potential satisfies me. God has given me the ability to speak another language fluently. I feel that I’m giving back to Him what He's given to me through translating during church services, teaching a Bible study in Spanish, and by teaching a free beginning Spanish class sponsored by the church.
In the end, I know that God has also given me the ability and the opportunity to progress using the talents He’s given me, and right now, the choice of whether I’m going to celebrate them or sit on them has to do with furthering my education. I cannot be afraid of the unknown and the unpredictable. I cannot be afraid of taking what I consider risky steps if those steps are ordered by God.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Odds n' Ends
We all know the devestating feeling of unrequited love--you're really feelin' someone, but they just ain't feelin' you. They want to be "just friends." Oh, and then to have to see them with someone else. Ouch. Well, this devotion on ninetyandnine makes a parallel between that feeling, and how Jesus might feel when we relegate Him to "just friends" status. Check it out here.And now, for some hearty laughs. I got this forward and nearly busted a gut:
You a Ghetto Christian If . . .
1. You lie on an application to get a job and then get up and testify that "God made a way out of no way"
2. You get mad at a visitor and call them out for sitting in your seat.
3. You tell the preacher to baptize you from the neck down because you just got your hair did!
4. You take 2 hours to get ready for church, get there late, and leave early!!!
5. You open your Bible & cough from the dust that flies out.
6. Your wedding song is 'Secret Lovers'.
7. You do not lift your hand during worship because your acrylic nail is broken.
8. The only time you like to sing in the choir is when they let you sing "your" song.
9. You do not tithe because you say, "the preacher might be crooked and stealing the Lord's money, so I don't want to give it to him."
10. After you've done wrong and someone has rebuked you, you don't repent but you say, "Well the Lord knows my heart."
11. If you have ever said, "show me in the Bible where it says, thou shall not smoke."
12. Your favorite part of the service is the benediction.
13. You buy "hot" merchandise and testify the Lord blessed me with a TV, jewelry, clothes, etc.
14. You overheard someone say, "We got fed today at service" and you asked if they served chicken.
15. You finish smoking on the outside of the church and then try to lead a song, get choked up, holding your throat and say to the congregation, "The devil don't want me to sing this song!"
Monday, April 10, 2006
Catharsis
ca•thar•sis n. 1. a purging 2. a relieving of the emotions
It is said that a true tragedy, as in a Shakespearean tragedy, should not inspire sadness, but rather a feeling of awe, of wonder, of catharsis. Awe at how far the tragic hero fell, wonder at his potential, his greatness, in spite of the fall, and catharsis because the fall, though tragic, allows us a vicarious release because we recognize the human elements of the tragic hero in ourselves and are reminded that if such a great one could fall as a result of human frailty, so much more easily could we.
I had one of the most cathartic experiences in my life tonight. (It had nothing to do with the likes of Hamlet or Othello, just so you know.) Okay . . . I’m not going to do that “hypothetical” thing again, I’ll just be straightforwardly vague.
There was a situation that occurred which caused me to harbor resentment against another. No matter how hard I tried to force myself to get over it, or to convince myself that I was over it, it always popped back up—the discomfort in their presence, forced smiles, silent avoidance, and the mental monologue that began “How could this person behave the way they did then, and expect everything to be fine now?” I was hoping the pop-ups would become less frequent and eventually go away. But they never did. After all this time, still . . . POP! I’d try to placate myself with “Well, it’s not like I’m bitter,” and then . . . POP! Yet again.
I’m so not a confrontational person, that was part of the difficulty, and the other was pride. Something we all need a little less of. But tonight, God had my number. As soon as the pastor opened up his mouth, I knew. All of the scriptures he talked about had to do with how people with servant attitudes humbled themselves, and a common ritual to demonstrate that in the Biblical times was that of foot washing. Abraham was hospitable to and washed the feet of the three strangers that came to visit him. The unnamed harlot in John washed the feet of Jesus with her tears and dried them with her hair. I knew. Tonight was the night the air would be cleared once and for all or the resentment would turn into bitterness. It was up to me. We had a time of pseudo-foot washing during service tonight. We simply got tissues and wiped the feet of our brothers and sisters in the Lord to symbolically demonstrate humbling ourselves one to another.
I was so overwhelmed. I was seized with the knowing of what I had to do. I was compelled to make my way to the person who I harbored resentment against, and to humble myself to them. My humanness did not want to. And the situation was such that I had to sort of go out of my way to do it. (Another person began symbolically washing my feet, and the person I harbored resentment against was symbolically washing the feet of another.) But God wouldn’t leave me alone. Eventually, I sobbingly stumbled over to where the person was sitting, and swallowed my pride as I began to wipe their feet with a tissue.
It happened. A purging. A release. Catharsis. We both knew why, and we both cried a cleansing cry together. Though it was still unspoken at that point, it was enough. I was finally able to give it all to God.
After service, we were finally able to talk about it. Finally acknowledged, finally out in the open, finally explanations, finally apologies offered and accepted. It was a good, honest talk. Not like the forced smiles of before.
My heart is able to breathe and beat a little easier now. The seeds of resentment that the devil tried to nourish into roots of bitterness have been done away with, and it’s all because of a great and awesome God.
It is said that a true tragedy, as in a Shakespearean tragedy, should not inspire sadness, but rather a feeling of awe, of wonder, of catharsis. Awe at how far the tragic hero fell, wonder at his potential, his greatness, in spite of the fall, and catharsis because the fall, though tragic, allows us a vicarious release because we recognize the human elements of the tragic hero in ourselves and are reminded that if such a great one could fall as a result of human frailty, so much more easily could we.
I had one of the most cathartic experiences in my life tonight. (It had nothing to do with the likes of Hamlet or Othello, just so you know.) Okay . . . I’m not going to do that “hypothetical” thing again, I’ll just be straightforwardly vague.
There was a situation that occurred which caused me to harbor resentment against another. No matter how hard I tried to force myself to get over it, or to convince myself that I was over it, it always popped back up—the discomfort in their presence, forced smiles, silent avoidance, and the mental monologue that began “How could this person behave the way they did then, and expect everything to be fine now?” I was hoping the pop-ups would become less frequent and eventually go away. But they never did. After all this time, still . . . POP! I’d try to placate myself with “Well, it’s not like I’m bitter,” and then . . . POP! Yet again.
I’m so not a confrontational person, that was part of the difficulty, and the other was pride. Something we all need a little less of. But tonight, God had my number. As soon as the pastor opened up his mouth, I knew. All of the scriptures he talked about had to do with how people with servant attitudes humbled themselves, and a common ritual to demonstrate that in the Biblical times was that of foot washing. Abraham was hospitable to and washed the feet of the three strangers that came to visit him. The unnamed harlot in John washed the feet of Jesus with her tears and dried them with her hair. I knew. Tonight was the night the air would be cleared once and for all or the resentment would turn into bitterness. It was up to me. We had a time of pseudo-foot washing during service tonight. We simply got tissues and wiped the feet of our brothers and sisters in the Lord to symbolically demonstrate humbling ourselves one to another.
I was so overwhelmed. I was seized with the knowing of what I had to do. I was compelled to make my way to the person who I harbored resentment against, and to humble myself to them. My humanness did not want to. And the situation was such that I had to sort of go out of my way to do it. (Another person began symbolically washing my feet, and the person I harbored resentment against was symbolically washing the feet of another.) But God wouldn’t leave me alone. Eventually, I sobbingly stumbled over to where the person was sitting, and swallowed my pride as I began to wipe their feet with a tissue.
It happened. A purging. A release. Catharsis. We both knew why, and we both cried a cleansing cry together. Though it was still unspoken at that point, it was enough. I was finally able to give it all to God.
After service, we were finally able to talk about it. Finally acknowledged, finally out in the open, finally explanations, finally apologies offered and accepted. It was a good, honest talk. Not like the forced smiles of before.
My heart is able to breathe and beat a little easier now. The seeds of resentment that the devil tried to nourish into roots of bitterness have been done away with, and it’s all because of a great and awesome God.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Uh-oh . . .
That what my heart says when my brain is thinking about making a paradigm shift. Out loud, I say "Oh, great. So, where does this put me now?" (sigh.)
I can't seem to escape it. Ever since I graduated from college I moved from "young adult" to "single" status. Now this whole "single" thing keeps popping out from behind corners trying to blindside me. Okay, it's not like that for real. lol. But understand--after reading these articles, my brain starting doing that thing, and now "uh-oh" is echoing around in my chest cavity. Wait until you have a little bit of time so you can sit down and read these. They're from a Christian webzine called Boundless that I assume is targeted toward the twentysomething crowd (akin to ninetyandnine).
"The Cost of Delaying Marriage"
"Defending 'The Cost of Delaying Marriage'"
"Rethinking the Gift of Singleness"
Ay, caramba, does this mean that . . . am I like . . . is my thinking like . . . is our popular Christian culture's thinking like . . . you see what I mean? 'Cuz first I thought that the seemingly prevalent A/P thinking was warped, a la "get married when you're 12." (and, for the record, I still do.) But now I'm afraid that the new and improved "singleness as gift" might be off. What's a girl to do?
I can't seem to escape it. Ever since I graduated from college I moved from "young adult" to "single" status. Now this whole "single" thing keeps popping out from behind corners trying to blindside me. Okay, it's not like that for real. lol. But understand--after reading these articles, my brain starting doing that thing, and now "uh-oh" is echoing around in my chest cavity. Wait until you have a little bit of time so you can sit down and read these. They're from a Christian webzine called Boundless that I assume is targeted toward the twentysomething crowd (akin to ninetyandnine).
"The Cost of Delaying Marriage"
"Defending 'The Cost of Delaying Marriage'"
"Rethinking the Gift of Singleness"
Ay, caramba, does this mean that . . . am I like . . . is my thinking like . . . is our popular Christian culture's thinking like . . . you see what I mean? 'Cuz first I thought that the seemingly prevalent A/P thinking was warped, a la "get married when you're 12." (and, for the record, I still do.) But now I'm afraid that the new and improved "singleness as gift" might be off. What's a girl to do?
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
The New Band Director
Everyone’s been abuzz about the new band director at school. Everyone’s been coming up to me, telling me how I “have to meet him.”
“Have you met the new band director yet? Well, you really need to.”
“Oh, he’s so nice . . . he’s adorable.”
“Oh, you’d just love him.”
I’m like, why do I have to meet the new band director? Teachers (all female, of course) have been literally stopping me in the hallway and peeping into my room during my breaks to tell me about the new band director.
Okay, I’m a young single girl, and I guess my older co-workers have this motherly instinct to try to set me up. I suppose this elusive new band director (I still haven’t met him. Right now, he’s like the ghost of Hamlet’s father—rarely seen, but driving all the action of the play) and I have a few things in common. Both young, both fresh out of college, and both . . .
“He's very highly qualified. Great guy. He’s African-American, and . . .”
Ding ding ding ding ding! I knew it. I knew it.
As soon as someone mentioned him to me, deep down inside, I just knew that was the reason I had to meet him. He’s a young black guy. I’m a young black girl. With so much in common, something’s bound to happen, right? Clunk. That was the sound of me stepping up onto my hollow, wooden soapbox.
This is not the first time I’ve been “destined” to be with someone in the eyes of others because of a simple, if not superficial, commonality. This little phenomenon has proven itself to be especially true among my dear brothers and sisters in the Lord. Black guy with the Holy Ghost = Chantell’s soul mate. Forget about the fact that we have little in common outside of our race. Forget about the fact that he's 15 years older than I am. Forget about the fact that I’m just plain not attracted to him. (And if there are local folks reading this, please believe me when I say that I promise I am not referring to anyone in particular—it’s a combination of instances.)
Okay, let me backtrack. I know that people who try to match me up with another single of the opposite sex have good intentions. I know they mean well, really. Perhaps the new band director is a great guy who I'd "just love." And perhaps my soul mate (even though I don’t really buy the whole soul mate idea, but that’s for another day) will be whatever guy people have in mind for me by default—I wouldn’t care, then, because I’d be crazy about him and whatever people thought (on that wise) would be of no import to me. But on the other hand, the seeming idea that two people of similar genetic make-up are somehow automatically compatible is ludicrous. Imagine this: “Hey, I really think you ought to talk to that guy. You both have clefts in your chins!” or “Ooh, girl, you see that guy giving you the eye? I heard he’s got a birthmark on his upper arm too—you should really get to know him” or “Looks like the new guy has curly red hair just like you do—you guys are perfect for one another!” Come on.
My examples are a bit silly, I know, but you get my point. I wish more people realized the superficiality of how we group ourselves together—and how we set ourselves apart.
“Have you met the new band director yet? Well, you really need to.”
“Oh, he’s so nice . . . he’s adorable.”
“Oh, you’d just love him.”
I’m like, why do I have to meet the new band director? Teachers (all female, of course) have been literally stopping me in the hallway and peeping into my room during my breaks to tell me about the new band director.
Okay, I’m a young single girl, and I guess my older co-workers have this motherly instinct to try to set me up. I suppose this elusive new band director (I still haven’t met him. Right now, he’s like the ghost of Hamlet’s father—rarely seen, but driving all the action of the play) and I have a few things in common. Both young, both fresh out of college, and both . . .
“He's very highly qualified. Great guy. He’s African-American, and . . .”
Ding ding ding ding ding! I knew it. I knew it.
As soon as someone mentioned him to me, deep down inside, I just knew that was the reason I had to meet him. He’s a young black guy. I’m a young black girl. With so much in common, something’s bound to happen, right? Clunk. That was the sound of me stepping up onto my hollow, wooden soapbox.
This is not the first time I’ve been “destined” to be with someone in the eyes of others because of a simple, if not superficial, commonality. This little phenomenon has proven itself to be especially true among my dear brothers and sisters in the Lord. Black guy with the Holy Ghost = Chantell’s soul mate. Forget about the fact that we have little in common outside of our race. Forget about the fact that he's 15 years older than I am. Forget about the fact that I’m just plain not attracted to him. (And if there are local folks reading this, please believe me when I say that I promise I am not referring to anyone in particular—it’s a combination of instances.)
Okay, let me backtrack. I know that people who try to match me up with another single of the opposite sex have good intentions. I know they mean well, really. Perhaps the new band director is a great guy who I'd "just love." And perhaps my soul mate (even though I don’t really buy the whole soul mate idea, but that’s for another day) will be whatever guy people have in mind for me by default—I wouldn’t care, then, because I’d be crazy about him and whatever people thought (on that wise) would be of no import to me. But on the other hand, the seeming idea that two people of similar genetic make-up are somehow automatically compatible is ludicrous. Imagine this: “Hey, I really think you ought to talk to that guy. You both have clefts in your chins!” or “Ooh, girl, you see that guy giving you the eye? I heard he’s got a birthmark on his upper arm too—you should really get to know him” or “Looks like the new guy has curly red hair just like you do—you guys are perfect for one another!” Come on.
My examples are a bit silly, I know, but you get my point. I wish more people realized the superficiality of how we group ourselves together—and how we set ourselves apart.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Mid-Twenties
Thursday, I officially entered the world of the mid-twenties. Technically. I mean, usually 20-23 is considered “early twenties,” 24-26 is “mid” and then 27-29 is “late,” right? Or maybe I can sort of hang on to early twenties just for this year. I’m not yet on the other side of 25, which is the true midpoint, I guess.It was fun. I taught my Spanish class, and afterward my family and a few friends accompanied me to my favorite Mexican restaurant. My parents got me a digital camera, which is something I wanted for a while, and my brother got me a couple of t-shirts from one of my favorite movies, Napoleon Dynamite. One said “Pedro’s Got Your Back” underneath an outline of Pedro’s cousins in their ghetto ride. The other one said “I Voted for Pedro” underneath a dopey looking picture of President Bush. I had a really good laugh. And those of you who have heard my laugh know what that means . . .
Speaking of good laughs, earlier that day I was listening to my students’ final project presentations. They have to choose a Spanish-speaking country, create a travel brochure (with specific info included that I’ve outlined for them) and then give a presentation about it—I try to let them have fun with it, give them a chance to bring food, etc., so it’s something the kids look forward to. One particular student, an 8th grader, chose the Spanish-speaking country in Africa, Equatorial Guinea. (I didn’t even know there was a Spanish-speaking country in Africa until pretty recently.) Anyway, some of their main foods, she explained, are plantains and dried fish. “And speaking of dried fish, well, I brought something.” All the kids were expecting this, I suppose. It must have been the talk of the day. “Well, see, my pet fish died a few days ago. His name was Rainbow.” Apparently, instead of disposing of him, she set him outside to dry. I refused to believe she had actually done this until she produced him out of the plastic cup she had for the class to see. There he was, dried, perfectly preserved, and eyeless. (Yeah, she had even gone as far as to remove the deceased fishie’s eyes.) The whole class erupted. I know I’m supposed to be the teacher and in control and everything, but that was too much—I lost it. For several minutes straight we just all had a belly-shaking, tear-jerking laugh. I mean, that’s dedication. To dry out your dead former pet, take out his eyes, and bring him to school in a cup, all for a Spanish presentation. Wow. She also brought banana nut bread to share (they eat bananas and nuts in Equatorial Guinea as a main food source also), and before she could lift the little covering she had over the plate of banana nut bread, kids in the class yelled, “Wash your hands!” Dried fish germs. Yeah.
I want to give a shout out and a thank you to all of those friends who remembered me on my birthday. You guys sure made me feel special. ¡Muchas gracias!
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