My Guitar Debut

As usual, I have to preface these sorts of things with a disclaimer.  This is not false humility, this is the God honest truth.  This is not that great.  I mess up a couple of times and my voice is not exactly on point . . . I could probably use some voice coaching.  And, the sound quality kind of sucks.  But alas.  Here's an imperfect rendition of the song I wrote.  At least you have an idea of how it's supposed to sound.  I think it's my theme song for the upcoming New Year.

Dear Gross Old Man,

There are so many things you need to understand, but the first one is that Guitar Center is not the place to try to pick up chicks.  Really?  Second of all, you have some audacity.  Let me ask you something.  What makes you think that you, looking like a human milk dud, even have the right to talk to me?  You are OLD.  You are UGLY.  Please understand, you can't help the fact that you look like a milk dud or that you're old.  I'm not faulting you for that.  But you can help the fact that you're trying to get all up in my face.  Holding the door to the acoustic guitar room, looking at me like a piece of meat as I walk by talking about some "You're beautiful." I said thank you, but then you had to tack on a lecherous, "No, thank you."  Ick.  Then still trying to spit some non-working game talking about some, what kind of guitar music do I play and can you come over to hear me sometime.  Um, no sir.  That's what I said, no sir.  You are creepy, you are gross, you are old, and you have no business trying to talk to me.  Get up outta my face and stop thinking that you still got it.  Cuz if you ever had it, let me tell you this right now:  You don't have it anymore.  It's GONE, son.  In fact, I suspect you lost it a LONG time ago, buddy.  So hang it up, keep your dirty old man mouth shut and sit your milk dud behind down.
                                                                         
                                                                         Sincerely,
                                                                         Me

What God Will Do

I woke up this morning with the strains of a guitar melody floating around the edge of my dreams.  It was at the end of my last dream and began to play like the music that begins to play when the credits roll at the end of a movie.

I got out of bed and words started fitting in.  I started rearranging them in the shower and I had to write them down before they slipped away:

Yeah, your heart is heavy
No miracle in sight
Oh, your heart is broken
But open up your eyes
Drifting in the ocean
Nothing to hold onto
Frightened and uncertain
But watch what God will do

Cry on, weep on through the night
Joy is here with the morning light
Trouble, it don't last always
Trust in God, trust in His ways
He is good, His word is true
Let His love wash over you
You might be surprised
You might be surprised
You might be surprised
What God will do

I pulled out my guitar and got my dream melody down along with the words.  And that was that.  I wrote my first guitar song.  Once I get a memory card for my new little camera, maybe I'll post a video of myself performing it.

Today was great for other reasons too.

1. Had Popeye's for lunch.  Stereotypical, considering my, er, demographic, but a couple of Popeye's chicken wings, some red beans and rice and a biscuit are really hard to beat.  On everything.  All crunchy and greasy.  Boy, I tell you.

2. Went to New York and Company to finally get some new sunglasses (stylish yet cheap), and not only did I buy those suckers for 50% off, I got two skirts for 80% off each.  That's what I'm talmbout, son!  Originally $40 each and snatched those bad boys up for $8 each. #winning!

3.  Had a lovely time with Mom today.  She really is a great lady.

4. One of my sweet little ones gave me a picture of himself at church tonight. A round little brown boy with dimples.

My Favorite Christmas Gifts, et al.

My Favorite Christmas Gifts
1. A luxurious red robe from my pops.

2. A Happy Bunny t-shirt from my mom that says "Teachers are great.  Whatever.  Can I have an A?"

3. A Kindle Fire from my brother.

My Favorite Gifts to Others
1. A waffle iron for my mom (We tore UP some Belgian waffles this morning.)

2. A t-shirt for my little brother that has a picture of a jar of peanut butter and a jar of jelly holding a boombox with music playing and the peanut butter saying "That's my jam!"

3. A musical light-up dreidel for a friend.

Leviticus
Leviticus is kind of boring.  It's one of the most boring books of the Bible.  All these rules and sexist laws . . . LOL.  But Chapter 11 has me rolling every time.  It's the chapter (or one of the many chapters in the Old Testament) that talks about clean and unclean animals.  Basically, what animals they could and could not eat.  It is SO funny.  So, when God talks about what birds they can't eat, He's like, don't eat flying things like vultures, eagles, owls, and bats.  Yuck!  I mean, who eats that? LOL.  Like, if I were the children of Israel I would've been like, dude, if You have worries about anything, the least of them should be that I'm going to backslide by eating some bat stew.  Really? Ugh.  But then He's like, okay, don't eat any winged insects that walk on the ground (again, no worries there), but you are allowed to eat locusts, crickets and grasshoppers. Um, thanks, God, but no thanks.  LOL.  Then He lists some other super nasty animals that are "creeping things" that He doesn't want anyone to eat: ferrets, chameleons, snails and moles, for example.  Okay, I did eat escargot a couple of times, and that does sound nasty, but it really isn't.  But chameleons?  Ewww.  It makes me wonder about the Israelites.  Like, what were y'all doing?  Just eating every nasty thing you could get your hands on so that God was like, whoa, y'all are going to have to settle down with this whole eating the doggone zoo business, so let me get some laws together to keep you from getting all kinds of exotic indigestion?

Doing nothing
I'm starting to get used to it.  Uh, oh.  I've gained a few pounds (just a few) and now I have to wean myself of a new Angry Birds addiction.  I'm really enjoying this time to sleep in and eat and hang out with friends that I don't get to see too often.  I think I'll be ready to get back in the game when Jan 9th rolls around, though.  I can only do nothing for so long before I start getting restless.

This is not a metaphor.

My friend got a rejection letter in the mail.

I think I wanted the job for her as much as she wanted it for herself.  It was perfect.  It had her name written all over it.  Oh, please God, let her get it.  Naming and claiming and hoping and just deep down knowing.

But what came in the mail came in the mail.

Here's what's beautiful.  She put it up on the refrigerator.  It was her way of saying "Blessed be the name of the Lord."  No matter what.  Not getting the job she would have loved.  Being thrown back into that uncertainty.  It's a part of His plan.  It's for the good.  Blessed be the name of the Lord.

It was a simple act, but such a lovely one.  Putting a rejection letter up on the refrigerator along with smiling pictures and other testaments to moments of pride.  I need to start putting everything that God allows to happen up on my spiritual refrigerator.  Not just getting an assistantship.  Getting all As.  Everything.

Impatient Me

I want what I want, and I want it now.

I'm impatient.  I'm realizing this more and more.  I'm working on it.

1. In the car, stuck in holiday shopping traffic.  I'm telling all the cars ahead of me in all the languages I know to hurry up.  Apúrate.  Dépêche-toi.  Why am I in such a hurry?  I have a span of time in which to lie back comfortably.  I have no deadlines.  What is this restlessness?  This energy to keep moving, and now?

2. Craving for chocolate.  Deep, gooey, dark, fudgy chocolate.  Brownies.  I want them now.  I bought a box. Whipped them up.  Popped them in the oven.  Couldn't wait.  I left them in the time it said to leave them in, but they still weren't done through and through.  Let them cool off, they'll set, it'll be okay.  I love gooey, almost to the point of still batter-y brownies, but the bottom line is that they weren't done.  But I still cut into them and satisfied my craving.  But they weren't done.  But I wanted them now.

3. Talking to my friend.  She didn't want to distract me while I was writing papers, so she waited to tell me.  The words start tumbling out, sometimes talking over her.  "I think—" "You should—" "You shouldn't—"  The words bubbling up, they can't wait to get out, I have to tell her that . . . Really?  You can't just let her talk and you just listen?  Maybe she doesn't want opinions and solutions.  Maybe she just wants to be heard.  And that includes closing your overactive mouth and listening.  And waiting.  She waited to tell you, so you can't wait to listen?  But the words bubbling up and burning.  I wanted to say it now.

4. A new purple monkey on my bed I couldn't wait to get.  Sitting at my laptop, fingers going, mind racing and wondering.  I can't wait.  I want to know now.  I want what I want, and I want it now.  Steeling myself.  Let the uncertainty and impatience wash over me like hot waves.  What is this restlessness?  I have a span of time in which to lie back comfortably.  Don't you dare pick that burden back up.  Snatch your hand away from it like a touched hot iron. It isn't yours.

No Room

Consul Flavius Antonius had sent one of his servants down to the main hall of the inn to request fresh water, but had also requested that she personally bring it up.  Flavius didn't even call her by name.  He just referred to her as "the almond-eyed servant girl."

She had gone to the well sullenly, her stomach churning in disgust as she drew the water.  Flavius Antonius was charged with overseeing affairs in Judea, and it was tax-collection time in Bethlehem.  He frequented Abner's inn when he had to stay overnight in Bethlehem due to his various business and administrative duties.  He never tired of picking away at her, trying every ruse to chip away at her resolve, his ultimate goal to lure her into his bed.

He made promises, but marriage wasn't among them.  Would he, a Roman official, condescend to wed her, an orphaned Cyrenian slave?  He promised to buy her freedom, even boasting that he'd pay Abner twice what she was worth.  He tantalized her with tales of his travels, knowing that she longed to escape her dull life at the inn where she constantly endured Abner's harsh tongue lashings.  He tempted her with gifts of silk and finery, which she always refused, knowing that she tired of her drab, tattered, servant girl trappings.  If she would just give in to Flavius she would have her freedom and the chance to live a more comfortable life.  But what of her dignity?  What of her character?

As she passed through the main hall on her way to deliver the water, she was arrested by the sight of a young woman about her age, great with child.  The young woman's mournful eyes locked with hers as the young woman's husband pleaded with Abner:

"As you can see," he stammered, "My wife is great with child.  She-she's already having labor pains and she needs a comfortable place to lie down.  Please.  If you could find it in your heart to—"

"I repeat, there is no room.  No room!  I don't know what else you want me to do!  Would you have me put out one of my paying customers because of your failure to plan?"

She was immobilized, her gaze still held by that of the young woman.  She began to seethe with anger, knowing that Abner always kept a few rooms available for his most esteemed guests.  Just as she was about to open her mouth to offer her humble room to the couple, Abner noticed that she was idle, taking in the scene.

"Get back to work, wench!"

Flecks of spittle gathered at the corners of the innkeeper's mouth as he roared, and the vessel of water she had balanced on her head nearly spilled as she flinched from his harsh address.  She broke from the young woman's gaze and slowly began making her way towards Flavius's chamber, her heart thudding with adrenaline-laced dread.  She timidly knocked.

"You may enter."

He sat on the edge of his bed, perusing scrolls.  She began to set the vessel down on the table, but he motioned for her to bring it to him.  He placed his hands over hers as she held the vessel and tipped it towards his lips to drink.  Satisfied, he stood, placed the vessel on the table himself and pulled her towards him.  He ran a finger along her jawline.

"So, my almond-eyed girl, when will you decide to spend some time with me?" he asked euphemistically.

"Not tonight.  Not ever," she replied, pulling away from him.  He held on to her hand.

"What will it take to finally break your strong will, hm?"  He pulled on a strand of her untamed curls.  "Many women would kill to have a chance with me.  Do you realize the power I have?  Do you realize what I am offering you?  I would buy your freedom.  You would no longer have to work as a slave in this hovel.  If you would just . . . please," he whispered into her ear.

She felt herself begin to give in.  It would be so easy.  No more of Abner's tirades.  No more scrubbing the floors on her knees.  No more mucking out the filthy stables.  She slowly exhaled and Flavius drew her even closer.

But at what cost?  To exchange one master for another?  She suddenly backed away from him, knocking into the table and sending the half-filled vessel crashing to the floor.  He slammed his fist down on the table in frustration.  She ran out of the door, flew past the main hall, ignoring Abner's protests, and ran outside towards the stables, her sight blurred from tears.

As she approached, she was met with the familiar stench of the animals, but she also heard the whimpering of a babe.  In the glow of a small lantern, she recognized the couple she saw earlier bending over their newborn they had placed in a manger.  She observed the scene unnoticed, and was filled with a sense of overwhelming peace.

She returned to the inn.  Undisturbed, she retired to her humble room.  She looked out her window to see the sky filled with a glowing host of angels.  Ordinarily, she would have been frightened, but instead, she simply closed her eyes and heard the strains of a sweet heavenly chorus:

Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

A Quiet Morning

This morning is a quiet morning. A morning where I bountifully slept in. Where I languidly arose and made myself a quiet cup of Earl Grey. With just the right amount of sugar. Because I've had cups with not enough, where that peculiar Earl Greyness is a little too strong, and I've had cups with too much where the Earl Greyness is entirely masked and I'm left with a cup of hot, syrupy Southern sweet tea. I'm a self-described sugar fiend, but even sugar fiends have their limits.

Once I turned my last paper in, I thought I would feel this sense of triumph, I thought I would immediately embrace the stretch of free time laid out before me. However, even though I was excited about wrapping things up, it felt surprisingly anticlimactic, like, there was this great build up, but when I was finally done, I was just done. No confetti falling from above, no friends and family emerging out of hiding yelling "Congratulations!" and rushing in to give me a group hug. There was just the sound of the stapler, attaching all the pages. The little electronic chimes of my laptop shutting down. In addition, when I was hit with the prospect of free time after weeks of non-stop work, instead of lavishing in the prospect of a deadline-less life for a little while, I didn't know what to do with myself. But today, in this quiet morning, the aftereffects of paper-writing mania are slowly ebbing away, and I'm beginning to appreciate this time of reflection.

What I needed was a catharsis to help jumpstart the process of brain-wave stability, so last night I rented and finally watched the newest remake of Jane Eyre. The first time I read Jane Eyre, I was moved by Jane's steely resolve and unrelenting self-respect in spite of her circumstances. How she could be so eloquent and self-possessed in her at times dire straits really resonated within me. But the ending, Oh, God, the ending. After Mr. Rochester basically plays her, she ends up turning right back around, going back to a now blind and maimed Mr. Rochester and living happily ever after? Naw, son.

But somehow, last night, after being merely brought to the brink of tears at certain parts throughout the movie, the ending completely did me in. Oh, Jane and Mr. Rochester love each other! They love each other! Even though he looks like whodunnit and what for with his freaky-looking blind eyes and unkempt beard! The forgiveness and love all mixed up into a beautiful lovely bittersweet loveness! It was the cathartic release I needed, I suppose.

And now, I reflect. Over a period of approximately 10 days, I've cranked out nearly 50 pages of writing. And it wasn't just putting words on a page, it was methodical, organized analysis. Perhaps not the best. I think my professors will criticize my papers for relying too heavily on my sources. I need to get to a point where I feel confident saying what I want to say without feeling the need to back up every word with what somebody else said. But other than that, I think I did a decent job. I can look back and be proud of what I did because this time, I didn't procrastinate (well, not as badly) as I had in the past, because this time, I knew procrastination was absolutely not an option if I wanted to produce quality work. Not at 15-20 pages each and up to 40% of my final grade in each class at stake.

But did I do this? No, ma'am. I have trusted God more than ever from the beginning of this whole journey. From the time I first moved here and had my first cup of Earl Grey tea in my new apartment, something was going to be different, something had to change. And it's that I've finally begun to learn how to really trust God. He is faithful. And He has come through for me each and every time. This is more work than I've ever had to deal with academically. And I remember during times when I had much less to do in other stages of my academic career how much I freaked out. And more recently, I still have the taste of how much I freaked out during my low spiritual points, during my horrible job, during my emotional turmoil before I decided I needed a change and that I would apply to this program. What's different this time around is not that I haven't been stressed out, but it's that I haven't freaked. No meltdowns. I haven't had this worry consuming me that I wasn't going to get it done or that I wasn't good enough or that I wasn't strong enough. I now know how it feels to finally begin to give that worry to Him. And I have finally begun to see that when I do that, I can't lose.

Now. If I can trust God to do it in my academic life, I've got to believe He can do it in other areas of my life as well. I am so thankful. It's what flows over me every time I lift my hands. I have so much to be thankful for.

In Time of Silver Rain

by Langston Hughes

In time of silver rain
The earth
Puts forth new life again,
Green grasses grow
And flowers lift their heads,
And over all the plain
The wonder spreads
Of life,
of life,
of life!

In time of silver rain
The butterflies
Lift silken wings
To catch a rainbow cry,
And trees put forth
New leaves to sing
In joy beneath the sky
As down the roadway
Passing boys and girls
Go singing, too,
In time of silver rain

When spring

And life

Are new.

When I have children, I'm going to have them memorize this poem in the springtime.

Research Moment

Dude. I have moments. They are sometimes prompted by external things, and often prompted by internal things. But never while trying to skim articles to write an annotated bibliography right quick.

The "familial gaze," blah, blah, blah, "politics of memory," yadda yadda yadda, but good God, this hit my heart like a train:

"It is a worn, hand-colored image of a Vietnamese man, dressed in a military uniform, with a young girl beside him, both seriously regarding the camera. The note that accompanies it reads:

'Dear Sir, For twenty-two years I have carried your picture in my wallet. I was only eighteen years old that day we faced one another on that trail in Chu Lai, Vietnam. Why you didn't take my life, I will never know . . . Forgive me for taking your life, I was reacting the way I was trained, to kill V.C.'

The American soldier who had removed the photograph from the pocket of the Vietcong soldier he killed left it by Washington's Vietnam Memorial with a letter addressed to his victim."

Whoa. Okay. Get out my little pocket Kleenexes, get it together, and get back to work.

Up for Air

Road-weary traveler extraordinaire

So, my little carry-on still has sweaters and belts spilling out of it on my bedroom floor. I got back to my cozy little apartment last Sunday night (after a "different" Thanksgiving without my two brothers) and literally hit the ground running. Back to back, off the chain presentations, paper proposals, side job preparations. Madness until Thursday. It somehow got done. Then I hit the road again to celebrate my poetess friend's rousing recent successes. Now I'm back again, after a patience-testing interval of being stuck on I-20 forever, getting songs like "Rock the Casbah" stuck in my head because my car's CD player is on the fritz and the weird multi-decade hit station was the only thing passably listenable.

Get it together

Now it's time to get it together because if I thought it was madness this week, it's going to be sheer lunacy next week. I will have to descend back down into the troubled waters of paper writing and crank these suckas out. These are the fateful dates I must keep in mind as I venture back into the heart of darkness:

1. December 8 - Afro-Hispanic Identity - I'm writing about the transatlantic black diasporic dialogue between African-American poet Langston Hughes and Cuban poet Nicolás Guillén. My one fount of inspiration is how fine these brothers were back in the day. Check Langston here and Nicolás here. Lawd, hep me.

2. December 13 - Spanish Cinema During the Transition - I'm writing about a 1951 Spanish film called Esa pareja feliz (That Happy Couple). Got a pretty good framework going for this one, just gotta fill in the gaps, baby.

3. December 14 - Gender and Violence in the Narrative of the Southern Cone - I've got this thematic thesis going on about the "presence of absence" in a novel called Estrella distante (Distant Star) and a documentary called Los rubios (The blond ones). Basically, absence in both of these works allows the generation of a creative force in an attempt to fill the space which becomes a strategy to overcome collective and individual trauma (Los desaparecidos and La Guerra Sucia and stuff).

All three of these babies are between 15-20 pages. En español. (sigh.) I will emerge victoriously. I must.

For now

Finally unpack my suitcase, clean up my junky apartment, wash some clothes, pay them bills, prep for the last training session of my future side job (Yes!) and get ready to go back into the trenches. What I can't decide is whether I'm going to leave in my side cornrows (thereby allowing me to continue to whip my hair back and forth) or take them out.

One last musing

This stuff is no joke, but I am so thankful I haven't felt stressed out. I mean, I've felt stressed out, but not to the point of feeling overwhelmed and freaking out. Because I really, really don't miss that. Even when I know I'm not operating at my best, the good Lord still comes through for me. Even though I turned in an uberly sucky paper proposal, I still made an A. Either my professor is suffering from grade exhaustion or Jesus put my mediocrity under the blood and it was invisible to her. And I just bought a t-shirt online that says "Geek is Gangster." Time to get to it.

Thankful

1. A close family.

2. Everyone who cares about me.

3. The adoration and innocence of children.

4. A (finally) paid off car!

5. A father whose face lights up when he sees me.

6. Good teeth.

7. Cute monkeys.

8. Sunflowers.

9. Lavender things.

10. The opportunity to further my education.

11. Waking up in the morning feeling content.

12. Good smelling things.

13. Starbucks.

14. Pepperoni pizza.

15. A mother who is endearing with her ways.

16. Brothers who make me laugh.

17. Friends who are like family.

18. Second chances.

19. A pluses!

20. God's grace, mercy and love.

The Day Before Thanksgiving

I'm going home today to spend the rest of my break with my family. I love them and I'm looking forward to seeing them.

However, today, I'm also leaving. And I'm bad with goodbyes.

I know it's not that serious. Really. In our modern age, people are a phone call, a text, a tweet, a Facebook message, a video chat away. It's really not that serious. But there's just something inherently melancholy about the aspect of leaving. Yes, I know I might see you again sometime and that I'm always welcome to visit if time permits. Yes, I know we can very easily stay in touch. But it's not the same as in person. It just isn't.

What also gets me is the idea of something ending. No, not the friendship or the relationship or whatever, but the experience. Experiences are what they are because they begin and end. They exist in an ephemeral space and the only proof that they ever took place is that we remember them. That's all you're left with. The memory. (Or, in the case of a car wreck, a scar and an asymmetrical collarbone).

The fact that this is a rather dreary morning doesn't help, either. A dash of goodbye, a sprinkle of drear, a spoonful of morning airport drive . . . the perfect recipe for golden brown, bittersweet melancholy.

Folks Be Misspelling My Name For Real

Not cool, Starbucks. Not cool. As much time as I've spent with you and you still don't know how to spell my name right? Shooooot.

Superspiritual

I'm not superspiritual. Church folks know what I'm talking about. You can always hear superspiritual people praying out loud during prayer. Superspiritual people like testifying, and their testimonies consist of stories of going to WalMart and boldly walking up to people asking if they can pray for them. Right there in the middle of WalMart.

I'm not one of those people. I guess I sort of prided myself for not being one of those people, in a way.

But yesterday I was at the airport. I had just gotten off the plane and had to go to the bathroom to freshen up. Not soon after I walked in, so did another young lady who apparently worked at one of the food places in the airport and one of her friends. She walked in crying and proceeded to tell an ugly story about a man she was supposedly engaged to (because he had given her a ring) and how she had walked in on him with another woman, and how he had tried to use the fact that he had given her a ring to manipulate her and tell her that no matter what he did she was (supposedly) still his woman and was still going to be his wife, and how she was so stressed out because she was trying to move out of her mother's house and how she was stressed out about work because they were not giving her enough hours . . . it went on and on and she kept crying. I could not just stand there and brush my hair in the mirror and act like I wasn't hearing this.

My heart just went out to her because she was so young and beautiful and was in a situation where she was being manipulated and made to accept garbage. I hate it and I know that frustrating feeling. I hate it when women are in situations like that, frustrated, feeling like they have nowhere to turn, like they have no solution because I can feel the evil in it. It's palpable. It is a reality of this world. "The World" is more than just this tricky little thing that wants to pull you over to the dark side and make you want to start smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. It is an insidious system. A system of lies that people are deceived into believing, and when I see it in such concrete terms, it makes me sick.

So I did a superspiritual thing that I've never done before, and walked up to her (à la WalMart prayers) and asked if I could pray with her. I told her that I wasn't trying to get in her business, but I couldn't help but overhearing what she was going through and I wanted to tell her that she does not deserve that, that she deserves much more. She started crying even more and started thanking me and telling me that she needed to hear that. She said that I could pray with her and I just prayed that God would comfort her and give her encouragement and strength to overcome her circumstances in Jesus' name.

I'm still not superspiritual, though. I'm really not.

Old Professorial Loves

So, I got a friend request from one of my professors from undergrad today.

I remember the first time I saw him. I was a freshman. Idealistic. Naive. Susceptible to professorial crushes.

He strode in. Tall, lanky, hair coiffed in a tidy afro, bespectacled. He stood at the podium and grasped it. Silence. After a few seconds pregnant with expectation, he spoke. He didn't introduce himself, didn't speak sentences, he simply began to slowly, calmly intone single words:

"Myths," he said. "Ideology," he continued. "Constructions. Dominance." He paused and looked up, breathing in the spellbound air. He introduced a phrase that branded my tender, green, budding academic mind and the imprint has ever remained: "Dominant ideology."

I learned, and have never unlearned, the fact that everything, everything in this world, no matter how near, how far, how related, how unrelated, can always, unequivocably, undoubtedly be traced back to dominant ideology. Why is the drink I'm sipping out of a straw right now called Dr. Pepper? It's because the dominant ideology of the culture in which this drink was manufactured created the myth of Dr. Pepper that we accept as a soft drink. Why did I wake up this morning and take a shower? It's because the dominant ideology of American culture mandates that we bathe daily so that we can all comply with the myth of the "Clean American." See? Everything can be traced back to it.

He changed my life. When I beheld that tidy afro, those lanky limbs, and saw myself reflected in those bespectacled eyes, I knew I was a changed woman.

I began to hang around after class to "ask a question" where we would finish our conversation in his office. He asked who my favorite writers were and when I answered with such trivialities as "Edgar Allan Poe" and "Shakespeare" (both steeped in dominant ideology, no doubt) he took it upon himself to enlighten me. My gratefulness was boundless.

After one of his rants against the system, I asked him, oh, so innocently and politely, "What political ideas do you espouse?" He paused, and a roguish smile slowly spread across his face. He replied, "Let's just say that I believe in . . . sharing."

In seriousness, though, he was one of the first professors to encourage me to pursue a PhD. And at long last, here I am. Though my crush has long since abated, I still look back upon that enraptured time with fondness.

Procrastinator's Prayer

God, I know this is getting redundant. Please forgive me. I do this same thing over and over: I apologize and berate myself for being a poor steward of my time, and then I fall back into the same procrastinatory pattern. Despite this awful pattern, somehow, I still get it done, and I end up still getting good grades. I know it's not me, though. I know it's You. I'm trying to break out of my procrastinatory mold, though. For example, I'm going to try to write this Afro-Hispanic Idenity paper today even though it's not due until Tuesday. I guess part of the reason is that I know that I better do it today because I'm not going to really have time Sunday and definitely not Monday night. Unless I want be delirious come Tuesday morning.

God, You're so sweet. I mean, You try to help a sista out as much as You can. I just want to avoid that dreaded thing that's always floating around in the possibilities of my fears. That one day I'll fall back into my procrastinating ways and then come to at the last minute and shake myself like Sampson, but not realize that Your come-through-in-the-end power had departed from me.

That idea really fills me with dread. The idea that I'll have to come face to face with something less than a final A at the end of my first semester of a PhD program, when there was absolutely no excuse for that to have happened. If it happens, I won't die, but part of me is afraid that You will allow it to happen to teach me a lesson. Don't do it, God. I'll understand if You do, but I'm kindly asking You not to. Watch me finish this paper tonight. Oh let not the Lord be angry, and I will speak: Peradventure I finish this paper tonight. And he said, I will not do it for the paper's sake.

The Careful Blogger

I've learned throughout my years of bloggery that getting personal, even in pseudonymical, hypothetical terms, on the World Wide Web is a bad idea.

So I've kept everything pretty devoid of other characters for a while now, and for all intents and purposes, I plan to keep it that way. I mean, I suppose I do mention my family and close friends every once in a while, or the occasional person I come into contact with during this new gig as a PhD student, but that's about it.

I like that people come to my blog to read what I have to say. It's nice to have a little . . . platform, if you will, to share a few thoughts and experiences from my corner of the world. And therein lies the rub: I know that people are reading this and so I've (wisely, I think) omitted a lot of things as well.

However, part of me feels like I can't just act like stuff isn't (potentially) going on.

I've been so consumed with work lately, that I haven't had time to think and ponder over the implications of a journey I am to embark upon next week. And in a way, I'm really glad for that. I've been so focused on getting done what I have to get done that I haven't had time to sit and ponder and obsess over it. Because I really hate when I do that. It's annoying and it's draining and a very poor use of mental energy.

At the same time, however, I don't want to trivialize it. Go into it flippantly, shrugging my shoulders, with the air that this is just a routine stop on my way to wherever. I certainly don't want to imbue anything with meaning that it doesn't have, yet I don't want to ignore the potential it does have.

In the meantime, I've got to get more work done. (Imagine that.)

Procrastinatory Testimony

I know I need to get my work done. I need to delve into it with abandon. I need to get my act together and envelop myself in this mass of work. I need to wrap myself in a work cocoon and not come out until it gets done.

These are things that I know. And these are things that I don't do as purposely as I should, and so I find myself hanging onto God's coattails, relieved that somehow it got done. And I raise my hands and let the gratefulness wash over me. Part of my worship is letting the panic wash away, purposing in my mind to believe that He's going to get me through it, thanking Him for already getting me through things thus far.

This inertia, this reluctance, these habits. They're not an excuse. But maybe they're what keeps me grasping onto God's coattails, so to speak. They're what keeps me all too aware that I can't do this on my own and that I never have.

Academese

1. agency - Usually used with the verb "exercise," agency is self-will. If a character in a text "exercises agency," that means they made a choice or took action on his or her own terms or to exert his or her own will.

2. centric - Academics love to talk about centric stuff. Eurocentric, afrocentric, phallocentric, ethnocentric . . . we can't get enough of it.

3. construct - Used as a noun to describe what everything is. Commonly used with the adjective "social." Race is construct. So is gender. So is class. So is language. For academics, nothing you can think of in the world is preexistent, so it is a construct. That's a fancy way of saying we made it up.

4. de - Academics like to "de-" things. Demystify, deconstruct, delegitimize . . .

5. deconstruct - No academic worth his or her salt could get by without deconstructing something. Whatever it is that has been constructed, it just means to break the joker back down.

6. demystify - Not to be confused with "demythify" which is deconstructing a myth, demystify is to take either an esoteric, misunderstood subject, but more likely a taboo, usually erotic subject and "expose" it (read: talk about it ad nauseum) so that it loses its mystique.

7. dialogue - Used as a verb. It's a way to describe what happens when two discourses meet over drinks. The feminist discourse dialoguing with the racial discourse, or how class dialogues with gender for example.

8. discourse - Used to denote any kind of speech, thought or concept. Feminist discourse, national discourse, hegemonic discourse . . . the list goes on. Just add "discourse" after any adjective, and you've got an instamatic academically smooth term to bandy about.

9. dominant - Whatever is white, male, European, upper class, has political power, is slave-owning or colonizing.

10. hegemony - Composed of or held by whoever or whatever is "dominant". The adjective form "hegemonic" is also a favorite to be used in tandem with "discourse."

11. ideology - More or less a synonym of "discourse" except it usually has a negative, propagandizing connotation.

12. myth - What some ideology or other ends up constructing that academics end up taking on the burden to deconstruct for the greater good.

13. neo - A prefix academics add to make an old, played out concept fresh again.

14. phallus - No matter what you're talking about or where you are, the phallus is going to pop up in academic conversation. It's bound to. So get ready.

15. post - Another prefix academics add to make an old, played out concept fresh again.

16. wave - For some reason, for academics, feminist thought arrives to the world at large in waves.

This is my 1001st post!

What? I guess I have been blogging on this thing for a minute. My first post was a couple of months before I graduated from undergrad in 2005. Crazy. I've been blogging for almost 7 years. That's off the chain.

All I was going to do was tell my girl Gert that I finally finished her paper. Don't worry hun, I'll put a really cute picture of you on my PowerPoint. Girl, I'm gonna present your novel so good, it'll make Ignacio wish he put a ring on it. The only reason anyone even knows his trifling behind ever existed was because you wrote him mad love letters. Ha! His entire life has been reduced to "that guy Gertrudis was sweatin." Mmm, mmm, mmm. If you only knew how much brainpower people through the ages have invested in you, Gert. You'd be proud of yourself.

Back at This Thing

Spanish film paper must get done tonight. Still have my abolitionist, feminist, romantic paper in the works. Gotta finish that puppy up too (not tonight, but real soon).

I'm having some late nights, no doubt. Actually, I'm going to be nonstop until Thanksgiving break, pretty much. But thank God I haven't had this overwhelming feeling of despair. Seriously, thank you, God for that.

I'm feeling like, I should be freaking out right now. I should be feeling overwhelmed right now. But I have this feeling of like, it's going to get done. And it has been getting done, and it will get done. I thank God for just . . . I dunno, general calmness.

I really don't miss freaking out. And I don't want that freakoutingness to ever inhabit my mind again. Thank you for calm, focus and peace. And sweet chai tea to keep me awake.

Feminist, Abolitionist, Romantic Cuban Writer Ahead of Her Time

Ah, Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda, little did you know that one day your radical little 19th century novel that you tried to front on (yeah, we know you tried to act like you didn't write that junk when you conveniently left it out of your "Complete Works" that you published later) would be the cause of internal anguish for a poor little first semester PhD student with a propensity for procrastination trying to forge her way through the vast, unfamiliar land of the upper echelons academia.

I like you, Gertrudis, I do. I think we would've been friends. I would have called you Gert. Wassup, Gert! Gert-TAY, what you up to, girl? Oh, lamenting your life because Ignacio de Cepeda's being a jerk? Forget about that guy, girl. He ain't worth it. I mean, his name is Ignacio. Boo. Super unsexy name. Gert, I read this little passage you wrote in your diary, and I hope you don't mind that I share it with everybody. I think it embodies what a passionate, misunderstood woman you were, bound by the limitations of your gender and the expectations of your society:

"Where is the man who could fulfill the desires of this sensibility as fiery as it is delicate? I have looked for him for nine years in vain; in vain! I have met men; men, all similar to each other: none before whom I could prostrate myself with respect and tell him enthusiastically: 'You will be my God on earth; you are the absolute master of this passionate soul.'"

Gert, you are no joke, are you girl? A little dramatic, but I feel you. It's that Romanticism, I know. Anyway, back to my paper about your novel. If you only knew what a fuss we're all making about you now!

The One Thing I Can't Control

I haven't done the single thing in a while, but here we go.

One of my FB friends posted this article link from Relevant, and I thought it was pretty spot on. Spot on as in, this is exactly how I feel. What I like about this article is that it's not a lament; rather, it articulates exactly why being single has proven frustrating to me in the past. Because it's the one thing I can't control.

I feel like I'm just now realizing what it means to trust God. To finally let go of the reins. It's had to do with the move, I know it does. Like somehow, moving here, to literally start something new was a physical manifestation of a spiritual move God was working out in my life. Making this move was actually finally refusing to give in to a certain fear that I'd harbored for a long time—that if I made another move and committed more years of my life towards pursing something as time consuming and challenging as a PhD, that it would plunge me back into instability and take me even further from finally "settling down." Honestly, the control thing in my life was not limited to my singleness, and the author makes a point of that in the article. I like this quote:

"There is nothing more gracious than areas of our lives that remind us that we don’t have control. Praise the Lord that I don’t have control over my marital status. The pain of losing control reminds me that I actually never had control – in any aspect of my life. Some of you reading that might find it offensive, but it’s so gloriously liberating."

I never had control in the first place. It's almost funny. And it is gloriously liberating.

When we were little, my dad used to play this game with us. We loved the Christopher Reeve Superman movies and my dad used to make us think we could use our "powers" to change the TV channel. We would make a laser sound, point our hands in that way you do when you have powers towards the screen, and the channel would change. We'd do it again, and the channel would change again. We didn't know that dad was secretly using the remote control to do it. Then when he'd get tired of changing the channel, we'd use our "powers" again, but the channel wouldn't change. And then we'd get frustrated. "Dad! My powers aren't working anymore!" But we were never the ones doing it in the first place. We never had "powers." Dad was controlling it all along.

This is not to say that we do not have the power of choice. Even when dealing with singleness, it will ultimately come down to making a choice should the time arise when you would be single no longer. Mind you, the Superman game my dad would play is not an exact analogy . . . it just underscores the point of not having ultimate control. Resting in the knowledge that the One who does have ultimate control is good is what is liberating.

These Realizations

1. I have a presentation coming up in Afro-Hispanic Identity. It's a split level (grad/undergrad) and split department (AfAm Studies/Romance Languages) class. My presentation partner is a spunky, funny girl who's a sophmore. We make a pretty good team. I am 10 whole years older than she is. How did that happen? Just a couple of years ago, I was her. I still feel like her. But then I look back and think. I suppose I have done some things, been some places and had some experiences that would merit my being ten years her senior.

2. Pride is not just believing in your own ability, thinking you can do it on your own. It's also thinking you can't do it, thinking that it getting done nevertheless depends on you. Whether you think you can or think you can't, the problem is that you think it revolves around you, when it really doesn't. If you believe you can, don't forget that God is the one who does it through you. If you're afraid that you can't, believe that God is the one who will do it through you still.

3. Love is much less romantic than I used to think. Love is not romance, and romance is not love. Romance has its place, but it should not be conflated with love. Lots of people are unhappy today because they've failed to make that distinction.

4. Consistency. Waking up every morning, and doing it. Day after day. Some might argue that it leaves a bland taste in your mouth, it makes your movements robotic. Nah. Being consistent doesn't mean being inflexible. Here's what I can say: I don't miss the roller coaster.

Earthquake in Turkey

This is so horrible.

I feel especially touched by it because I've become friends with a really sweet young lady from Turkey through this program I signed up for with the International Student Organization. In fact, Saturday night she invited me over, and her boyfriend (also from Turkey—they actually met when they were in the same intensive English program when they arrived in the States), who had come down for the weekend, made a traditional Turkish dinner we all enjoyed. It was so sweet of them. They were so welcoming and hospitable and I felt so privileged. I felt that feeling I always feel when I am allowed access into a world apart from my own. When I'm able to begin to gain some sense of understanding of a different culture. I feel enriched, I feel like I'm a part of something bigger . . .

I immediately contacted my friend to express my concern and to ask if her friends and family were okay. When I read her response, this line brought tears to my eyes:

"My family and friends are ok, thank God, but my people are so bad situation. I am so upset for them."

The only thing I could do was offer to pray.

Current Song

Everlasting, your light will shine when all else fades . . . Never ending, your glory goes beyond all fame . . .

When productivity mode descends . . .

Oh, finally. It feels so good. Knocking these suckas out. I think I might even earn a gold star today.

My friend just had a baby,

and I'm so overwhelmed, and so happy, and wish I could be there so badly.

This is a friend I grew up with, from back in the day. Back in the Italy day. Before I moved back to the States and got culture shocked day. My only real childhood friend. And then we went to college together. I mean, I have other friends with babies, but this is the first time a friend of mine that is super close has had a baby and I'm just so excited. He's my first "nephew."

I can't wait to hold him. He is so beautiful.

Praise and Worship Repertoire

So far:

"Mighty to Save"

"Heart of Worship"

"The Anthem"

"How He Loves"

They're not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but I'm so happy. There's something about strumming hippyish, dude-we-totally-love-God kinds of songs that fills my heart with Jesus-rock gladness.

Literature and Friendship

I realized today, while talking excitedly, sometimes talking over each other, about symbolism, themes, allegories, and the significance of certain plot points of a Joyce Carol Oates novella with a friend, that one of the things that makes a friend a really good friend is being able to talk literature with them.

There's something about engaging each other literarily that adds an element of dynamism to a relationship. There's something magical about being able to incite each others' minds to acts of critical thinking.

I'd venture to say that bonding over the written word is one of the most intimate forms of bonding. When you truly engage with a piece of writing, to some degree, your heart gets caught up in it. When you're able to share that ardor with someone else who taps into that same reserve, your brains become friends. There's something special about that.

Kinky Gazpacho

Just finished reading a memoir of an African-American woman who studies abroad in Spain and falls in love.

There were so many things I identified with, I just devoured it. Her identity issues because of the environment in which she grew up, her penchant for foreign language and culture, in some measure, as a way to escape the binary, the "Are You Black Enough? Police" as well as the "White People in Charge."

And then Spain. The places she explored were the same places I explored. Madrid, Salamanca, Sevilla, Cádiz. The liberation of being considered American before being considered black, but at the same time, the issues that arise from being black in a country where there are very few blacks and ideas about black people are heavily based on stereotypical representations and skewed towards exoticism.

And then her search for black culture and African presence within Spanish history. I sort of saw it as a parallel to my interest in Afro-Latin American studies.

It was a quick, engaging read. I don't know why, but it's funny when I'm presented with the fact that I'm more like other people than I think. I've always kind of clung to the idea that I'm a unicorn, a unique being who exists in a category of my own because there is no one else who has grown up the way I have AND has had the experiences that I've had AND believes the way I do AND is doing what I'm doing with my life . . . but not only is that kind of thinking a little absurd, it has allowed me to create and claim a place of tortured individuality. A self-imposed melancholy solitude due to the burden of "not being like everyone else." I am an individual, but I'm beginning to see that maybe I'm more like everybody else than perhaps I'm willing to admit.

Chopped

I absolutely love this cooking show. It's like an adrenaline rush. But this time the stakes were so much higher and it was so much more exciting. I know, it's a cooking show and I'm not a foodie or anything even close, but I can't explain its allure. I had to post it this time, though, because at the end, I teared up. Omg. You just have to watch it.

Today is not a day for lunch bringers.

No benches, no sitting in the sunshine, no visions of inhabiting a grassy knoll with my guitar. Today, I think the sun thought we took it for granted. Basking in those sun rays in as late a month as October as if you were entitled to it. It had been holding on to that hurt. Still trying to shine as if it didn't matter, but finally realized that it did matter and couldn't hold it in any longer.

A constant shower. Finally putting it all out there. Getting it off your chest. Desahogándose. Not even caring that you can say in one word in Spanish what it takes 5 to say in English. And not caring that it also works the other way around. That's okay, sun, sky, clouds and the rest of you celestial things that conspired (perhaps in sunnerly solidarity) to make this day the world of wet that it is. Knowing my carefully sculpted curls are going to give in as soon as they have an encounter with the sultry humidity.

I have something a lot of you weren't counting on. A sunflower umbrella. Oh, yes. Though I trudge through the valley of the puddle and mud, I will fear no evil. Stay in your gray. Go ahead and wallow, sun. I know. Sometimes you just have to have it out. But I've got my own rays. And I'm still bringing my lunch.

Knowing vs. Believing, Part II

After Sunday morning service. And I couldn't believe that one of the main points of the message was "comprehending" vs. "apprehending." Different words but the same idea I was pondering last night. Comprehending (knowing), apprehending (believing).

While comprehending is cerebral, an acknowledgement, apprehending is motivational, in the most literal, concrete sense of the word. It causes you to move. It impels you towards action.

When you know something, it is the acknowledgement of a fact. When you believe something, it causes you to embrace and apply that knowledge to your life.

So, maybe another way of articulating the difference between knowing and believing is that knowing is acknowledging truth while believing is living by truth.

Knowing vs. Believing

Productive Saturday. Finished a Chilean novel (and was first to post on the comment board for the class! #gettingmynerdon) Washed clothes and hair. (That's a lot right there. Especially the hair.) Made myself a nice dinner (+chocolate chip cookies). Now I'm about to get my chai tea on and get cozy with a (non-Spanish) novel.

My mom called earlier and we chatted for a while about everything. I call her "lady" and she calls me "daughter." I don't know when we started doing that. And during our conversation, I said to her, "I guess I always knew it, but I'm finally starting to believe it."

I knew what I meant when I said that, and she knew what I meant when I said that, but afterward, I kept thinking about it, and wondered how I would explain it to someone else.

What is the difference between knowing something and believing something? At face value, they seem to be the same. If you know something to be a fact, that must mean you believe it to be true, right? But then I thought about it this way: A long time ago, and I remember this as clear as day even though I must've been only 2 or 3 years old, my mom set an iron up on the ironing board and said "Don't touch it. It's hot." I knew that it was hot. I had watched my mom iron before and had seen the steam rise. I knew that it could burn. But I guess her telling me not to do it made me want to do it. And I put my whole hand on it. I got blisters. Maybe that's what it took for me to believe that it was hot? To experience it myself?

But then I realized the "experiential" argument didn't hold up either. There have been times in my life where I have experienced the goodness of God over and over and over. There's no doubt that He's good. He's proven it to me time and time again. But why can I say then that at one point in time I still didn't believe He was good even though I knew it from experience?

I think I've come up with a more satisfactory explanation. Knowledge is temporal. Many times, the validity of something is based on a set of circumstances. In this particular circumstance, God was good to me. On another occasion, He was good again. In this situation, He was good yet again. But what was the measure of God's goodness based upon in those instances? The outcome. I knew that God was good because He allowed good things to come my way. I knew He was good because things worked out positively in my favor.

But believing that He's good is holding fast to the idea, no, the truth of His goodness regardless of the outcome. I'm finally starting to believe that come what may, He is ultimately good. It's like a breath of fresh air. That's why the worries that used to cloud my mornings no longer have any sway. It's an unburdening. A catharsis. Those things I used to grasp so tightly were never my responsibility. Never in my power to control or change. They were never my burden to take on in the first place. I know things aren't always going to work out as I hope. But rebuilding dashed hopes is a part of His goodness. Leading me towards an ultimate plan, what may lie outside of the scope of my hopes, is a part of His goodness.

The prospect of turning 30 next year used to clench my stomach in adrenaline-drenched knots. Still unmarried, still unsettled, still unsure. And 30. As if when March 30th rolls around, the death knell is going to sound, my fertility levels are going to drop precipitously, and I will transform into a shriveled shell of my former, once youthful self, left to be further sapped by leeches of instability. The beginning of the end.

If that isn't the furthest from the truth. Thinking like that is what leads people to make unwise choices. It feels like I'm finally starting to live in the freedom God has always offered me, and it is beautiful. It is believing.

The Forty Rules of Love

I'm reading a lovely novel by a Turkish writer named Elif Shafak called The Forty Rules of Love (recommended to me by a new Turkish friend). Without getting into all the details of the plot, one of the main philosophies utilized in the book is Sufism, a mystical sect of Islam. I don't really know much about Sufism apart from one of its iconic figures—the whirling dervish.

Anyway, one of the characters in the novel within a novel is a dervish (so far, no whirling involved) who often cites certain Rules of Love that are related to the situation at hand. Some of the rules sound kind of New Agey and hippyishly mystical, but some of them are strikingly beautiful. This one about patience really caught my attention:

Patience does not mean to passively endure. It means to be farsighted enough to trust the end result of a process. What does patience mean? It means to look at the thorn and see the rose, to look at the night and see the dawn. Impatience means to be so shortsighted as to not be able to see the outcome. The lovers of God never run out of patience, for they know that time is needed for the crescent moon to become full.

I guess I've always associated patience with waiting and defined waiting as passive. Like, if you're being patient, you're just chilling indefinitely. That really isn't true. If you believe God (not just believe in God, but actually believe Him), then you believe in the truth of His nature. He is good. If you really believe God is good, then you trust He's not going to leave you hanging. When you are truly waiting on God, you're not just hanging out in this amorphous netherworld of uncertainty. You know that He has no choice other than to perform His Word.

One of my little bro's phrases would be "I got you," meaning, he would pay for my food or whatever it was I wanted (or that he was going to hook me up with some chicken or an ice cream cone when he worked at Chick-fil-a) or that he was going to take care of some detail or other that I either couldn't do myself or that I was worried about. I can see him now with his goofy grin: "Giiirl, you know I got you!"

Strange that I would compare my little brother's phrase to the nature of God Almighty, but it's true. God has always been like "I got you." Being patient is actively trusting that He really does.

Genesis: Protective Brothers Gone Wild

Genesis 34.

I have two brothers, and despite the fact that I was a quintessential bossy big sister (and still am when given the opportunity), they are pretty protective of me.

But Simeon and Levi took it to the next level. Chillax, guys, I know the prince got at your sis (and it's not like he didn't try to be honorable about it and make it right), but was slaying all the men (while recovering from having just circumcised themselves) of an entire city as well as pillaging the place really necessary? Sheesh.

Genesis: Biblical Mean Mug

I think Laban should be credited with the first recorded mean mug in history.

And Jacob beheld the countenance of Laban, and, behold, it was not toward him as before.

—Genesis 31:2

This was hilarious to me. What kind of look did Laban have? Bear in mind that Jacob had bamboozled Laban out of some cattle, so I'm sure he wasn't happy. (I guess he forgot about how he did Jacob dirty concerning his daughters.)

In any event, I think the Bible makes it clear that at some point in time Laban began mean mugging Jacob, after which Jacob took it upon himself to secretly deuce out. Nothing good can follow from a mean mug.

Weekend

It's always nice to go home for a little while.

Got my hair done, saw my people, showered my little babies with huggies and kissies, ate good food, had coffee with old friends, gave an impromptu guitar concert.

And now I'm back and ready to do this thing.

Genesis: Biblical Reality TV

Still re-reading Genesis. Why am I just now realizing how off the chain these people were? Mind you, these are the days before reality TV, et. al.

The whole Jacob/Rachel/Leah situation was a hot mess.

I nearly died reading Gen 30:1-13. It was like a baby-making war.

Rachel: Oh, you gon' have babies? Shoot, I'll just give Jacob my handmaid and have babies. Now!

Leah: Oh, you gon' give Jacob your handmaid? Shoot, I'mma give him my handmaid, too!

And then Gen 30:14-16. A mess.

Rachel: Girl, gimme some of your (aphrodisiac) mandrakes.

Leah: You must be outside yo mind. After you done stole my man?

Rachel: Oh, you fancy, huh? Just cause you got some mandrakes. Go head and get with him tonight with your trifling self.

Leah: (to Jacob) Wassup, baby? You gotta come see me tonight, sweet thang. I got some mandrakes that are gonna drive you wild. (to Rachel) Winning!

Jacob is strangely silent in these matters.

Another one of those nights . . .

Mmm, mmm, mmm. ::shaking my head like an old black lady thinking you oughtta be ashamed a yo'self::

I must exorcise the demon of procrastination before this thing is all said and done. But in the meantime . . . I gotta keep my head up, youknaaimean? That's what coffee's for.

II Corinthians 10:5

Yet, liberal as I claim to be, still I cling to the KJV:

Casting down imaginations, and every high thing that exalteth itself against the knowledge of God, and bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ.

Listening to the message this morning, this was the scripture that impacted me the most. I hear it all the time; it's so easy for me to let the usual just glide by. But today it stuck. Because today I realized (not that I hadn't realized it before, but I realized it again, in a way that I hadn't felt before) that not obeying this scripture has been the bane of my existence.

Decisions begin with thought. If something enters your mind, if you conceive it, and if you believe it, it will eventually lead to action. But what if what you allow to enter your mind is a lie? What if what you conceive, what you imagine, is a lie? What if what you believe is a lie? Then you make decisions and take action based on lies.

Isn't that what sin is? It's making a lie-based decision.

But back to thoughts. I have a pretty vivid imagination. I'm creative. I've used my creativity to benefit myself and others in a positive way. But there is a downside to imagination. A tendency to invent and dwell on thoughts that are destructive and fearful. If it's about tearing myself or others down, if it's based in fear, then it's not of God. And that is what I must constantly reject.

One of those Saturday mornings

listening to "Car Talk" and then "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me" on NPR.

drinking cafe au lait (though the "cafe" is American and weak) and eating a croissant (one out of a plastic container of 6 bought from WalMart, which would scandalize your average boulanger).

totally not looking forward to trudging through this Argentine novel. It's one thing to read a novel in Spanish. It's quite another to read a boring novel in Spanish. It's just so slow . . . women sitting around giving each other glances pregnant with ambiguity, subjectively remembering the past, having cloudy conversations which does zero to advance the action of the novel . . . por favor, sácame de esta miseria.

thinking about other blah things I must contend with. (Sigh.) What, did I think this was going to be a bright train ride through fields of sunflowery enlightenment? Naw, girl. This is work. Monotony, sometimes. So get used to it, and get it together.

* * * * * * *

The picture of the sunflower in my blog's header is one of the sunflowers grown with my little toddler's class I used to teach before I moved. We would go outside to water them every Sunday with a big, bright, yellow watering can. I miss my little kids. Little adorable, bad kids, crawling under tables, dumping crayons on the floor, spilling apple juice, putting playdoh in their mouths. Getting excited about stickers and animal crackers and bubbles and pouring dry macaroni into containers.

Sometimes I wonder how I will react when I have a baby that starts crying at inopportune times. Will the sound be shrill, annoying? Will I want to do anything to quiet the baby as soon as possible? Probably. But there's a part of me that thinks when I hear my baby cry it will be beautiful, every time. Like, of course I will want to quiet him/her down and alleviate whatever it is that made them cry in the first place, but there's a part of me that thinks I will be taken by hearing it. That I will feel this overwhelming feeling of "my baby is alive" instead of "omg, please stop." But I know that's probably another one of those things that will overturn my romanticism cart with an unmerciful swipe of realism.

Realism. Back to now. Back to the boring Argentine novel. Now.

Re-reading Genesis

Sarah, Abraham's wife, must have been the number one stunner.

I mean, homegirl was old as dirt and STILL had kings and stuff trying to holla at her! I'm sitting there thinking, isn't she like 90? She must've been something else.

I'm starting to realize

how serious this is. Whereas before, the focus was more on learning, taking in all the info, marveling at how interesting it all is, how this intersects with that, how this relates to that, sitting back in awe and observing how a great web of knowledge is being formed before my very eyes, now the focus is on producing. It's great that you're a lover of learning and whatnot, but now it's time for you to step up to the plate and make your own serious, meticulous, well-articulated contribution to the web.

I have to figure out how to make that jump. I have to nail down how to manage my time efficiently. I have to learn how to quiet the anxiety that rises up when what I'm learning becomes far outdistanced by what I'm finding out I haven't learned yet. The more you know, the more you know what you don't know. It's a fascinating and frustrating paradox.

A lot of it is in my head. The way I perceive myself. In a program full of native speakers who have what seems to be a better foundation in the traditions and history and context behind the literature I say I'm interested in it's easy to feel like a lightweight. Like someone who is tolerated and smiled at and even encouraged because of the obvious passion and interest and commentary I bring to the table during discussion, because I'm willing to put myself out there, but who lacks gravitas.

I have to learn how to channel the excitement I feel at the prospect of the developing Afro-Latin studies niche within the overarching Black Diaspora studies field, when all my synapses are lighting up when I can see how afrocubanismo and The Harlem Renaissance were two sides of the same transnational coin, into serious, weighty production.

Right now I feel like an academic butterfly, flitting from one interesting discovery to the next, my attention arrested by the outstanding, amusing, personally related things in the matters at hand. But that's not how dissertations get written. Enthusiasm only gets you so far.

I don't want to say I'm doubting myself. It's much too early in the game for any reasonable justifications for self-critique. But as one who is still obsessed with the big picture, with the destination, with viewing the overwhelmingness (which isn't a word) of what I've undertaken as a massive whole, I'm trying to condition myself to break it down. To enjoy the journey.

My New Favorite T-Shirt

On the subway

I dug the man digging on me

But the dude was hung up

In a mass of confusion

As to who I was

He thought he was trying to see

But you see, but you see

Me knowing me

Black proud and determined to be free . . .

This fills me with glee . . .

revealing a bit of undisclosed info at JUST the right time.

I want this positive me to last.

I've been on a pretty even keel since I've jumped into this new, still-not-quite-sure-of-how-it's-going-to-pan-out life. Like, I can't remember the last time I've had a true "hopeless" moment. I've had a few unsure moments trying to figure out what church I was going to go to and some other little things here and there (e.g. crying because I missed a guitar lesson, lol) but I haven't had an out and out, I am so emotionally broken trying to climb out of an abysmal abyss of abject despair moment. I'm so through with that stuff. I cannot tell you how glad I am that those dark days are over.

I'm starting to feel like the me I knew I always was. The me that is content with my little apartment and cups of tea and sunflower decorations. The me who always sits up front. The me who wants to learn new things and signs up for Global Friends and laughs at everything and wants to be passionate about whatever it is that I end up doing and wears flowers in my hair. The me who can't live without God's presence and finally wants to serve Him for myself and no one else.

I know my positive streak is probably going to be dealt a few negative blows. C'est la vie, really. But I feel so hopeful.

La liste du jour

1. Got up earlier than desired to finish reading for Afro-Hispanic.

2. Had a lovely lunch with my Caribbean grad school mentor. Lav heir acceint!

3. Brought a classmate double majoring in French and International Studies to la table francaise.

4. Trotted up to the museum for the inception of the Hispanic Heritage Month film festival. Viva la raza! Documentary Precious Knowledge is a must see. The Arizona school board and state legislature need to go saddown.

5. Shined up that paper proposal, and sent that baby off. Panel: "The Woman's Voice in the Americas in the 19th and Beginning of the 20th Century." Okay, how bout I write about Gertrudis Gomez de Avellaneda's linking of race and gender in her 19th century antislavery novel Sab? Awwww, whatchu say now?

6. Strummed some awesome sounding chords. Can't wait to bring my guitar out to get my hippie on sitting cross-legged in an open field!

Little Brother

Slim Jim, light-skinned string bean. He's a Reese's peanut butter cocoa puff coconut head. Banana smile boy. He laughs so hard his laugh is silent. His shoulders shake and tears stream down. He was a thumb sucker. So fat I called him nugget. Arms and legs with rolls like the Michelin man. He was a snaggletoothed kid. Teeth knocked out too soon from fallen toddles. A sensitive kid. He accidentally killed a lizard and cried.

He's a man now, though he doesn't look it. In my head, he's eternally 16. But he went off to basic training today and he won't be back for a while. He'll be fine. It'll be good for him. Give him some direction. But he will always be little brother.

Lizzie and Starbuck

For Madison

"Whereas ye know not what shall be on the morrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away."

— James 4:14

This is what I know. This morning, at the church I've just decided to attend, a red-haired girl sat in front of me. Her hair was a deep, coppery red. I caught flashes of her electric blue nails as she periodically inspected them. Tonight, at the same church, it was announced that this 15-year-old girl was dead. A four-wheeler accident.

I didn't know her. But she was sitting right in front of me this morning, and between the time I left morning service, went to WalMart, and came back for service tonight, she had passed away.

We are never ready to face the fact of our mortality. We will never be able to grasp that in an instant, we can cease to exist in this world. I prayed for her family with the rest of the congregation tonight. But a detached phrase kept ringing in my mind and bringing fresh tears to the surface: She was sitting right in front of me.

Today was a ridiculously gorgeous day.

Omg, I walked outside today and wanted to live it forever.

Remember that sternly-worded letter to D7? I'm so over D7. I put it in it's place a long time ago. Now I've moved on to full, rich, melodic sounding chords. I've almost got "Mighty to Save" under my thumb. LOVE that song. Call me Chan Dylan. Chantos Santana. I just gotta get a smooth way to change chords down. It's so funny how a little thing is bugging you like mad and when you get through it, you can't believe you used to be so worried about it.

I want to be outside frolicking in the sunshine, but instead I'm shackled to my laptop, translating an introduction to an account of a former Cuban slave for my faculty mentor. Esteban Montejo (the former slave, not my faculty mentor, lol), if you wanna get hip to the Afro-Hispanic identity tip.

I try not to look back, but sometimes it's good to do so to see how far you've come. What sticks out to me are mornings. Those moments of quiet lucidity after you first wake up. I used to dread mornings . . . once I got going it got a little better, but those morning moments, when I was faced with the prospect of another day, used to be so painful. Those moments when you realize you will always have to deal with yourself. I'd say those mornings started post-Auburn graduation, intensified post-France, and peaked during those days of the job that brought me to my knees.

Now, it's totally not that things have gotten easier. Rather, that my tasks, per se, have gotten easier. PhD is no joke . . . I'm just waiting for the hammer to fall during midterms. But now I wake up knowing I'm where I'm supposed to be right now. It's so reassuring. On bright days, I wake up bathed in sunshine. It filters in through my blinds and washes over me. The uncertainty still throws me off sometimes, but now I feel more secure within it. I thank God for my new mornings. I really do.

Best Comeback Ever

"My existence is celebrating the deliciousness of being me."

Take that, world-weary cynics bent on destabilizing the confidence level of PhD neophytes with your stifling, hegemonic discourse. Yo' dominant ideology ain't the stuff. This chick's got agency, youknaaimsayin?

Now, I shall weather another late-nighter (I don't believe in all-nighters) writing the second paper of my PhD career. We goin for the gold this time. Let's get it.

Today was the first chilly day.

Overcast. I wore a scarf. It is September, after all.

Today was the day I got back the first paper I've written in my PhD career. B+. Not terrible, but not great, either. I've got to step it up. This is a different ball game, honey. You've got to step it up.

Brother Says

Telling my brother about a church friend who happens to be Jewish, and he says, "What? He's Pentecostal and Jewish? Oh, you know he's going to Heaven."

You know those office signs

that say "Lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part"?

I wish I had a t-shirt that said "Ignorance on your part does not constitute a history lesson on my part."

LOL! #crackingmyselfup

Lemme tell you what dis gul did.

Maaan, dis gul. Tuesday dis gul went outside to catch dat bus, youknaaimsayin? On the way she saw some orange thing on her windshield and she was like whaaaaat? $40 fine for parking in the wrong area? Naw. Naaaaaaw. Dis gul ain't pay $180 for a parking pass to be gettin no fine, youknaaimsayin? She park right near her apartment, real talk. Den dat gul saw she had got a pass for lot S20. She be parked in S19. Hmm. Now you tell me, do that make any kinda sense? How she was posed to know dat? She requested S20 cuz on dat map it correspond to Building B, yo. Lemme tell you what dis gul did. She call up Parking Services. Parking services talkin bout some you can file an appeal online and you can transfer your parking pass. Hmm. She got online and wrote an appeal, youknaaimsayin? She put in for a transfer to S19. She ain't gonna be walkin crazy from one end of the apartment complex to the other.

Dis gul check her email today, yo. Ol gul got this letter from Parking Services:

"The appeals committee has reviewed your appeal of the below listed citation and has decided to uphold your appeal. Student Appeals has determined that either a violation did not occur or that your violation was unavoidable. The citation has been voided and you are not responsible for the fine. Please come to the parking services office to exchange your permit for a S19 permit. Thank you."

You know das right. Dis gul wasn't finna pay no $40. Shoooot.

Ugh, I'm up late writing a paper.

This PhD road is going to be paved with nights like these . . . might as well get used to it. Relax, keep plugging away, keep the coffee machine going. Honey, you're just getting started. This little ol' 4-5 page reacción crítica is the least of your worries this semester. For real. Save your whining for midterms. Or your monster-sized final papers. This party is just getting started, baby. Go 'head and get warmed up.

I put together a 5-shelf bookcase.

And I did it by myself. I am the woman. The queen of putting stuff together. That is all.

Whut?

Huckleberry chuckler: So you mean to tell me you went to Alabama then to Auburn and now you're going to Georgia? Whut? (chuckle, chuckle)

Me: (folksy chuckler mode) I just tell everybody I'm working my way through the SEC. (chuckle, chuckle)

Me: (unspoken sarcastic mode) (Steps up to the mic. Taps it.) Is this thing on? Oh, okay. I've been meaning to make this announcement for a long time now. I was hoping people would catch on, but I guess it's only fair and honest for me to spell it out. (clears throat) I. Don't. Care. About. Football. Yeah, I said it. I don't. I barely understand the game. It's too slow. A bunch of hulking guys group together. Then they crunch together and the game stops. They line back up, they crunch together again . . . like I said, I don't care for it. Gasping for air, are you? Listen. I wasn't raised in the syrupy, football-obsessed culture the majority of you were. Sorry. I'm one of those who chose to go to the schools I went to based on a mixture of financial and geographical reasons, not one of those who went for the football team or because mumma n' diddy n' paw paw went there so now I go there and I bleed crimson and white or orange and blue or red and black. By the time I got transplanted here, I was already too far gone to grasp the allure of scandalously paid coaches organizing their strategies in accordance to the amount of heat generated from enraged rednecks breathing down their necks. So, try to understand, y'all. I gulp down sweet tea, and I will tear up a plate of whatever Southern-fried, slow-cooked, ham hock-flavored, heart-attack giving concoction you place in front of me. I love it when your gentlemen let me go first and hold the door open for me. I do. I like magnolia trees and stuff. This is the only "home" I've ever known. But I don't care about football, people. I have a Bear Bryant hat and an Auburn t-shirt and I'm sure I'll get a little stuffed bulldog or something for kicks without any overwhelming sense of cognitive dissonance. I'm a traitor, har, har, har. Like I've never heard that one before. I think you guys got it. Whoops! Said "you guys" instead of "y'all"! (Puts mic back and walks off stage.)

Les événements de la journée

I watched a Spanish film in Spanish.

I wore my French t-shirt and practiced my French at la table française for a good two hours. Magnifique.

I saw a squirrel nibbling on a half-eaten burger still wrapped up in the paper that he dug out of the trash.

As I was sitting on a bench waiting for my bus, a car containing two stupid guys drove by. One stupid guy honked while the other stupid guy stuck his head out of the window and made kissing noises at me.

I was praying that my Autobiography of a Slave that I ordered from Amazon would come in the mail really soon because I need to have a bunch of it read by Tuesday. And what was in the mail today? Awww, yeah.

Dear D7 Chord,

I'm kinda mad at you right now because you've rubbed my fingertips raw trying to play you. Who gave you permission to do that? Who told you that was okay? You have frustrated me immensely. Grrrrr! It makes me so mad just thinking about all of my futile efforts today. It really burns me up when something as simple as correctly strumming a chord lies just beyond my grasp.

But let me tell you something. Don't think for a minute it's over. If you don't know anything about me, know this: I don't give up easily. I will win. You may have won the battle, but I will win the war. It's just a matter of time. I will persistently practice until I master you. I will dominate you, own you, subject you to my will. Just wait. Just you wait.

Quick Quips

So, my fingers are hurting from guitar. But I'm starting to play the blues, honey.

Have you ever unwarrantedly thrust yourself (and someone else) into an awkward situation? I have a knack for that. I'm the queen of awkward. An awkward situation magnet.

Before you start grad school anywhere and in anything, just remember this: Everything is a "social construction." You can thank me later.

I've narrowed things down to two on the Great Church Search. You're so glad to have me? Well, I'm so glad to be here. And I might see you again.

Please, please . . . hold your applause, hold your applause.

Mr. Wonderful . . . helloooo? I don't hear your banging down my door . . . hellooo?

Politically Incorrect?

On Thursday, the two Asian girls sitting next to me on the bus were speaking Chinese.

The dark-haired, dark-eyed, olive-skinned guy sitting across from me was wearing a t-shirt that said "Tony's Pizzeria - New York, New York."

The skinny, pale, nerdy-looking guy with a Star Wars shirt on sitting a couple of seats down from the Italian guy was glued to his MacBook.

The pretty, brown-skinned black girl who got on and sat next to me after the Chinese girls got off did smell like cocoa butter.

And me? I had on a long denim skirt and a peasant blouse with a flower in my hair, an oriental purse I bought for $5 in Chinatown and a scuffed up NPR tote bag. And I was on my way to Afro-Hispanic Identity (in the Physics building).