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.