Laugh

I laughed so much last night on the phone with my friend.

My laugh is boisterous.  It is reckless.  As a person who is still so caught up with how I might appear to others, with trying to wash myself of the stain of awkwardness that I can't seem to ever rid myself of, my laugh is the one thing I possess that honestly, purely, 100% does not care.

Someone told me that when I laugh, it looks as though I might be about to cry, and interestingly, it is sort of a thin line.  I guess we laugh for some of the same reasons we cry.  It's that spark of recognition, of human recognition, of truth, of absurdity, of the interchangeability of the two.

I'm just thankful for those people I can laugh with until my stomach hurts.  Uproariously.  Freudian dream interpretations.  Domestic squabbles.  Pride-hurt poets from the past.   ("You were young and in love, I was old and not."  Even though you don't know the context, isn't it obvious?  Isn't it side-splitting?) Men thinking that fulfilling their responsibilities is bestowing a favor.  Girlish fantasies of a Regency-era relationship born of correspondence.  ("Dear sir, I pray my letter has reached you in good spirits.")  This just a few of the things enveloped by my unfettered laugh.

No matter where I am in life, my laugh will always remind me of my inherent joie de vivre.  I'm embarrassed by it, but I'm thankful for it.

Noooo! Didn't you hear me? I said "pleasant" surprises.

Ugh.  My worst fear materialized today.  Of course, I have to write about it without giving too many particulars.

Part of my reason for getting out of this town, as in, the town I'm in at the present, the town to which I go to visit my family, was to get away from people.  This sounds cold-blooded and absolute, but if I could, I would unequivocally banish certain people from my life.  I would put a real life Facebook block on them.   You cannot see me, you cannot see anything that I'm doing, you cannot contact me, I cannot see or contact you either.  You unexist in my life.  But real life doesn't work that way.

I know I'm dramaticizing this.  But it's just maddening, in a way.  I'm sailing on, doing my thing, in a 100% better place, and here you come to try to get your manipulative little paws back into my lifespace.  The few times that I've dared mention him, I've referred to him as Lord Henry.

This is what was shocking:  Not that I saw him, but that he was the same.  Exactly the same.  Looked the same, smelled the same, said the same things, explained away the same kinds of things.  Not one iota of him had changed.  That's what unsettled me. I guess I thought that if I happened to run into him one of these days that he'd be arrogant and imperious, try to belittle me, show me that he'd moved on too.  But no.

That unbelievable sameness is what I wasn't prepared for.  And it hit an emotional trigger that brought me back to that same place, just for a moment.  That terrible place that I never wanted to revisit ever again.  That's what unsettled me.

In the end, it's fine.  I think I handled myself pretty well.  I am not the same.

Pleasant Surprises

I'm me, and the me I am can be quite sentimental.

I know it isn't much.  I know it doesn't really mean anything, but at Christmastime, sometimes you hear from people you don't normally hear from.  And it's a pleasant surprise.  It gives me a warm fuzzy feeling to know that someone is thinking of me.

And, I've mentioned this a really long time ago, way back in the day: my wedding dress.  Well, the lady who volunteered to make it for me has been working on it off and on for several years.  She called me and said that it's almost finished.  She said it will definitely be done before classes start back up in January.  I'm so excited!  I can't wait to try it on.  Not that I'll need it anytime soon, but . . . who knows?  I'm always up for a pleasant surprise.

Not My Christmas Wish List

1. Got my hurr did yesterday, so I'm looking fresh to death.

2. Sipping some English breakfast tea.  Delightful.

3. Finished shopping.  I guess I need to wrap stuff now.  I might go out one more time to just make sure I'm done.

4. Better send off those Christmas cards and quick.  It won't really matter to my European friends . . . their Christmas lasts until Jan 6.

5. Cake balls.  If you haven't had a cake ball (proper name: chocolate truffle), you haven't lived.  Bake a chocolate cake.  Dump it out in a bowl.  Mix in a can of chocolate frosting.  But it in the freezer for a minute until it gets firm enough to mold.  Form balls out of the mixture.  Dip the balls into melted chocolate.  Put sprinkles on top if you like.  Stick it in the fridge and voila!  Instant holiday decadence.

6. Going to a Christmas wedding tomorrow.  That should be lovely.  I don't know if I would want a Christmas wedding, though.  I guess it takes a lot of the work out of decorations and finding matching colors, etc.  I want an end of summer/beginning of fall wedding.  I want a sunflower harvest wedding.

7. This is all I really want for Christmas: scarves, tights, pajamas and stuff that smells good.  And maybe some gift cards on the side.

8. I've been calling all those people I've been meaning to call.  It's nice to have time to do that.

9. I'm so glad I haven't had any awkward run ins while being home.  It's honestly one of my worst fears.  That I'll be out shopping somewhere and run into a blast from the past that I'd rather not have to interact with.  I really do thank God that hasn't happened.  I'm not even going to add 'yet.'  lol.

10. A friend asked me about New Year's resolutions, and I told him that instead of a list of resolutions, I've begun a tradition for the last few years of just coming up with more of a singular resolution/theme.  2012 was "I will rock it." And he was like, "Yeah, I can totally see how you've accomplished that this year."  Yes!

More Moments

What it means to be six
An adorable boy: honey-skinned, gap-toothed smile, hazel eyes, wheat-colored hair in cornrows.  He runs up to me because even though I hadn't seen him in a very long while, he remembered me.  Clinging to me like a koala, burying his face in my neck.  "I miss you!"  Moving him side to side in a bear hug.  "I miss you, too!"  When I put him down, a crowd of women (who are marveling at how big he's gotten) hover over him as he announces the following: "I'm six!  I'm big! I can do a front flip and a back flip!"

Iceland
Pandora is a mixed bag.  It thinks it knows what you like, and sometimes it does.  Sometimes it doesn't.  But this time it did.  Of Monsters and Men.  An absolutely charming folk group from Iceland.  I fell in love.  And I was reminded about Iceland and my curiosity about it.  It's my secret place I want to go, a place to which no one would imagine going on their honeymoon, but that I do.  I imagine it as lovely and strange, darkly romantic, full of charm and haunting, rare beauty.  A lonely, cold, wistful, sweetly melancholy place that would welcome you with open arms to explore it.

Post-symposium blues
A(nother) professor who lights up the nerd center of my brain.  Symposium at the new rare books library. She's presenting with a collaborator, come if you're interested.  At 9 a.m. on a Saturday, most of my classmates weren't.  But I had to.  The reasons boil down to a special concentration of uber-nerdiousness, professor worship, and knowledge that she was presenting on a topic on which I was writing my final paper.  The Battle of Lepanto.  The epic poem writer in Latin, the black former slave Juan Latino.  I went.  She didn't use a microphone so, "Let me know if you can't hear me back there, Chantell."  (Another way of saying, "I noticed your presence"?)  All bodies and eyes momentarily bent towards me.  A fleeting feeling of wanting to disappear, but onward.  Wonderful, well-done, footnote stories of research and collaborations and rooting through obscure archives and getting published by the I Tatti Renaissance Library of Harvard.  Impressive.  A tearful drive home because I listened to something telling me that I would never be able to do what she does.

I guess I should wear my hair up more often, but . . . 
We were having a Christmas celebration Sunday night.  Invite lots of people!  (I invited someone and he was set to come, but a few hours before, texted his regrets.)  We were wearing our choir robes that night (a rarity, a specialty), so hair up, ladies!  I guess it had been a while since I took the time to curl and twist and pin my hair in an up-do, but I did that night.  When I walked in, you'd think I had worn a neon green burqa because of people's looks of surprise.  Your hair!  It's SO nice!  Wow, I didn't even recognize you at first!  You look SO pretty with your hair like that!  I mean, thanks, guys.  Wow.  I was very flattered.  I guess I'll wear it up more often.  But . . . I couldn't help but wonder, was my hair just looking to' up pre-up-do?

Moments

Sometimes missing the bus isn't that bad
Fantastic. As soon as the bus stop is in sight, the bus pulls away.  Then I have to wait another . . . oh, wait here's a city bus.  That wasn't too long of an extra wait.  I step on, swipe my card, and who do I see with an empty seat beside him and a smile?  The handsome Brazilian.  We chat, we get off a stop earlier to take a lovely walk and get some exercise.  In a charming accent: "Thank you for taking a walk with me."  So darn adorable.  If I had caught the bus I missed, I would've missed my little Brazilian excursion.  Sometimes we miss the bus we wanted to catch because there's a better bus already on the way.

Mortification in the produce section
After church, so I'm in a zebra print blouse (admittedly, a tad outside of my usual fare) a black skirt, a red belt and boots.  All I want are lettuce and tomatoes to make a salad to go along with my pasta.  But as soon as I round the corner, he spots me.  An old Southerner whose great-grandfather probably fought in the Confederate army, reduced to a stockboy at Kroger.  Old enough to be considered old, but young enough to not be senile and know better.  "I like them boots" was our introduction.  Me, thanking him sheepishly, just wanting a bag of pre-washed lettuce.  Then, LOUDLY, "Whoo-wee!  I like how you dress.  Good Lord, I'm bout to fall out over here! You looking real good.  Yo husband must take good care a you."  Me, stuck between flattered and utterly mortified, noticing the curious stares of passersby.  "Look!  Look over here at this gal!  Don't she look good?"  People actually looking.  And laughing.  Can I silently sink into the floor right now? "I'm sorry, but I'm not a shy man, ma'am."  Me, finally finding a voice, "But I am."  A million apologies, and I finally grab my bag of lettuce and get out of there, praying that I don't run into him again before I make it to the check-out line.  "Guess you better be careful bout what you wear to the grocery store next time," calls out one of the amused passersby as I was on my way to get a packet of garlic alfredo sauce mix.  Can I die right now?  Bam.  My worst fear realized.  He caught me again.  "Boy, I tell you, you could be a model.  Are you sure you ain't a movie star?"  Then he gets just a little too close for comfort, looks me right in the eye and reassures me, "You gonna be all right, girl.  You gonna be all right." And then walks away.  Um, thanks?  Did I appear as if I thought I wasn't going to be all right?  Note to self: NEVER go to that Kroger on a Sunday afternoon ever again.

She already knew what I was going to ask
Shopping at The Gap with a Chinese friend on Black Friday.  The way we became friends was quite simple, yet amusing.  In Auburn, coming home from a night of studying.  We crossed paths.  She introduced herself with the perkiness of an 8-year-old on a sugar high.  "Hi!  I have been in the United States for 40 days!" she said, proudly.  How can you deny friendship to someone like that?  Back to The Gap.  Surrounded by a gaggle of Asian kids, speaking unintelligibly (to me).  I wondered if she understood them.  I wonder if they're Chinese, too.  All I did was look at her and she said, "They are not Chinese."

Nerddom at its awkwardest
I decide to write my final paper on this art housey Argentine movie.  Not a whole lot of scholarly criticism about it, but I put my searching skills to work and rustled up an article written about it in 2011!  A rush of nerd juice to the head.  I spotted my professor in the hall and asked her if she was familiar with it.  Sure, I'll scan a copy of it for you right away.  Got my teacher's pet on, scanned the article, sent it to her, she posted it on eLC.  I didn't actually read it.  I scanned through it, though.  It was enough that it was recent and about the movie, right?  Wrong.  In class the next day.  Professor: "Did any of you read the article I posted?"  Student: "Yes, and you were cited in it, weren't you?" (Me in my head: Wait, she was? Flips to bibliography.  Bam.) Professor: "Yes, honestly, I was a little embarrassed about it because the article writer criticized me for not blah, blah, blah."  (Me in my head: Oh, snap. And I recommended it!  Awkwarrrd!) I might as well have said, "Hey, Dr. Such and Such, wanna read this article that lambastes your work?  I'll scan it for you right now!"  Note to self: READ articles in their entirety and check that bibliography right quick before that nerd rush to the head incites you to share it prematurely.  Geez.

Filing and Freaking Out

So, my end of the semester tidy-up duties are at hand.  I had papers and articles strewn about my apartment like a scatterbrained mad scientist.  So I'm in OCD mode, labeling file folders, organizing everything and putting it away for future reference.

I'm heading back to my hometown (?) tomorrow.  We're having a little Christmas banquet tomorrow, and I thought it would be fun to whip out my old bridesmaid's dress to wear and get all dolled up.  Except . . . (record scratch) . . . it doesn't fit anymore!

AARRRGH!

I feel like having a temper tantrum.  Like reverting to a 3-year-old, falling out and proceeding to scream and flail about because mommy told me I couldn't have another cookie.

Bridesmaid's dress, get your skinny butt over here right now!  Who told you not to fit me anymore?  Answer me!  I asked you, WHO TOLD YOU NOT TO FIT ME ANYMORE?  Did you ask me?  I don't think so. No ma'am, you did NOT get permission not to fit me anymore.  What was that you said?  Oh, that I could still barely get the zipper up?  I don't call that fitting, you skinny, shimmering, pool blue rag.  Yeah, it might fit if I held my breath all night, but I don't want to pass out, and I would actually like to eat at the Christmas banquet without cutting off the circulation in the lower half of my body.  I fit into you just fine three years ago, and just when I want to wear you again you decide to shrink.  Bridesmaid's dress, you ain't about that life!  You don't want this!  Girl, I will cut you.  I will snatch off your wig.  I will yank out your weave, snap off your press-on nails, call up your baby daddy and tell him to Western Union that child support check to ME!  See, you ain't ready for me!  Nawl.

I can't even look at that bridesmaid's dress without wanting to fight the air.  This. Is. Not. Allowed. To. Happen.

So, I'm back. And I'm done. Almost.

Sigh.  The hard part is over.  Finally got my final papers cranked out.  You want to know what they were about?  Aw, how sweet of you to ask!

1. A Spanish detective novel called Fácil de matar.  Easy to Kill.  Oooh.  In this genre, the detective is usually a man, in this one it's a woman.  In Spanish detective fiction, the setting is usually Barcelona, in this one it's Beirut.  How do these differences affect the expectations of the reader?  How do these characteristics (and others) reflect postmodernity?

2. A 1970s Argentine novel called La condesa sangrienta (The Bloody Countess) and a 2002 Argentine film called Tan de repente  (Suddenly).  I proposed that talking about power in masculine terms is insufficient and generalizes the dynamics of power and that we need to talk about power in ways that aren't codified by gender.  These works, in which women exercise power over other women, give examples of power dynamics that are outside of the language of male domination.

3. An epic poem in Latin called the Austrias carmen written in 1573 by a former black slave who lived in Granada named Juan Latino.  The poem celebrates the European victory in the battle of Lepanto and the exploits of the war's hero, John of Austria, the illegitimate son of Charles V.  After finally being recognized, John was continually denied noble status by his older half-brother, king Philip II.  I proposed that part of the reason Latino chose John for his epic's hero was because he identified with him due to their shared marginalized status--Latino as a black former slave in Spain, John as an illegitimate son. I focused on the ways that Latino praises John, in his language that compares him with his father, suggesting nobility, and in his comparisons of John with Caesar Augustus, borrowing imagery from the Aeneid.

My last hurdle is a project that I should have been working on all semester for my major professor, but that I must finish up by Friday.  Not nearly as intense of writing three papers, so I'll be able to pull it off.  When I brought all of my books back to the library, I think got a tiny taste of how Jesus Christ felt carrying the cross.

Anyway, there's lots I want to write about, and I have a nice stretch of time ahead of me where I can give my brain a break.  I'll probably start with reflections of amusing moments that have kind of stuck with me during my blog break.  Until then, back to finishing up this project!

Media Break

It kind of hit me today that I waste a lot of time online in general and with social media in particular.  I deactivated my FB account, and I've decided to take a break from blogging for a little while as well.

Sometimes we need to take a step back from things for a little while in order to reorder our priorities.  One of my goals is to be a better time manager, and I see that a lot of my online activities are starting to impact the way I manage my time in a negative way.  So, I can't allow that to continue unchecked.

I'll be back. :-)

God really does have something better.

I know this.  Like, I really believe it.

So . . . I got a double dose of bummer last week.  I didn't want to specify what they were because I was . . . bummed about them.  But today, well, let's say that "God has something better" when He closes a door is not mere cliche.

I mentioned the Cuba program in previous posts.  Suffice it to say, in the end, last week, I got a letter that I wasn't chosen as the program assistant.  Hence, part one of bummery.

It was just perfect for me.  It was.  I would have had the chance to finally go somewhere outside of Western Europe, and visit a country about which I've done previous research.  I was a strong candidate because of my research interests, my previous experience managing students, specifically in living situations (teacher and instructor at a variety of levels, Resident Assistant) and my previous experience in study abroad programs.  But it wasn't to be.

Until I got a call today from one of my professors who wrote me a letter of recommendation for the program telling me that she spoke with the program director.  She felt that I was a very strong candidate and didn't feel that the selection process was entirely fair.  Without any prompting on my part at all, she determined to at least bring it up with the director to see if there were any other options or opportunities available for me with the program even though I wasn't chosen as the assistant.  In the end, it was decided that if I am able to get additional funding from other sources, the program will take care of my room and board as well as securing a research visa! It's highly likely that I could secure funding for my ticket to and from Cuba and any additional travel through a particular travel grant for which I would have seniority because of my participation in the Latin American and Caribbean Studies Institute certificate program.  They are literally begging people to apply for these travel grants so that they don't lose funding.  Other funding could possibly come from certain research grants available to graduate students through a University sponsored center. So, it's not a sure thing, but it seems very possible that I could pull it off.

The reason it would be "better" this way is because I could go with the support of the program, but I would be free of the obligation to (let's be real) babysit undergrads and would have the time to devote to research.  Another reason is that if I am able to secure research and travel grants for an overseas research project, it would look awesome on my CV.

There's also the question of bummer #2, which was not getting accepted to present at a conference in Texas.  There is another conference going on during the same time at a university much closer to home which I still have time to apply for.  I'm going to go for it, and if I am accepted to this one, I'll go with expectation, hoping to uncover some "better" reason for that as well.  I don't mean to overspiritualize anything, but who knows?

Here's the thing: It always sucks when things don't work out the way you hoped they would.  No matter what it is, it hurts.  It's disappointing.  But in the end, I just have to make up my mind to believe that God truly does have my best interests at heart.  He really does have my back.  What's really great about these "better" possibilities is that they have built my faith.  If God can use a disappointment to make way for a greater opportunity concerning going to Cuba or going to an academic conference, He can do it concerning other areas of my life as well.

In sum, I have absolutely nothing to worry about.  God cares about what I care about.  He will supply my needs and He will give me the desires of my heart.  I am going to be just fine.  And I can't wait to find out what else He has in store.

Bummed. Again.

Geez, it just ain't my week, is it?  Double dose rejection up in here!  (Sigh.) You win some, you lose some.

It's always darkest before the dawn or something, right?  lol.  Tomorrow, I better get news of something awesome.

Well, actually, I take that back.  I've already gotten news of something awesome.  Baby twin nieces!

I need to be thankful for the things that have worked out.

Bummed

It's the 21st century way of saying "disappointed."

You'd think I was used to things not working out the way I wanted them to because I have experienced several instances of it throughout my life, but at the end of the day, I'm still not used to rejection.

I mean, any time I throw my hat in the ring for something, especially something that I really, really want, I know there's the possibility of rejection.  It's always there in the back of my mind.  But despite it all, when I really set my sights on something and it seems like it would be perfect for me, I just know that it's going to work out.  I just know that the opportunity + my desire + its perfectness for me = a sure thing.  Many times, that equation has held true.  But when it hasn't, my ensuing disappointment has always surprised me.

I don't know if I'll ever get used to rejection.  I hope I never do.  But for now, can I be honest and say I'm just kind of bummed?  Yeah, I'll get over it.  I always do.  Yeah, I know "God has something better." I would say that I can't wait to find out what it is, but I have a feeling that patience is something I need to continue to work on . . .

The Awkwardness of Being Me

It seems that I always find myself in awkward spaces.  Or is it just that I'm an awkward person, so the spaces I find myself in are awkward by default?

Even so, I should be okay with being awkward, shouldn't I?

This is what I don't like: Being in a spot where I feel I have to force a smile or fake amusement, and being in a spot where I feel obligated to hold back my boisterous laugh.  I usually lose on the last one.

You know when you see someone you know from a distance and you're walking towards each other, and you know it's them even though you're really far apart?  But you don't want to try to wave or otherwise acknowledge them when you're too far apart, because that would be awkward.  You have to sort of look down and pretend to be engaged elsewhere, and then when you get close enough, look up and smile and wave and say a quick greeting as you pass each other.  I hate having to do these awkwardness-avoiding things.  Because it makes me feel even more awkward.

Waiting for the bus in a hot black shirt because you didn't think it was going to be that sunny or warm.  Standing out there in your boots, even, sun beating down.  Yeah, it cooled down eventually, but for those awkward minutes out in the sun, waiting for the bus, constantly shifting your weight, folding and unfolding your arms, tingling beginnings of sweat formation.  In late October.

To your colleagues, you're a prude.  With your skirts and your tights.  I even sent a FB message to someone letting them know I deleted a couple of their comments on my posts because they contained profanity.  They probably didn't even notice I had deleted them, but I felt like I should be honest and explain myself just in case they did.  Why do I still feel antsy and awkward about having done that?  They weren't offended and totally understood.  But now, what's going on in my mind about what's going on in their mind: squeaky clean, Pollyanna, nervous, repressed, squeamish little self-righteous rabbit.

To the church-bloc, you're an unmarried anomaly.  See, that's why.  With all of your worldly knowledge.  Forever in school.  Obama-loving liberal.  I just don't understand how . . .  of course you don't.  How could you?  Even when I'm smiling that toothy smile during meet-and-greet, what's going on in my mind about what's going on in their mind: liberal, weird, proper-talking smartypants, lonely single old maid.

Stop thinking and start being.  What else can you do but learn to be consistently comfortable with yourself?

Work on Now

Yes.  I will preface.  I will preamble.  I will backstory.  It's what I do.

I'm usually not into certain . . . stuff.  (sigh.)  You know, that church series stuff.  That let's watch a churchy cookie cutter series on Wednesday night stuff.  That's the kind of stuff I'm not into.  Especially when the title of the series is "Love, Sex and Dating," by Andy Stanley, shown especially for the benefit of the (younger) young people, but presumably for the benefit of all.  It makes me want to skip church. (Egad!)

The whole "Single people, I'm telling you . . . " gets on my nerves sometimes.  I know it's meant well, but it's annoying.  Thank God I was able to get over myself.  Because it was actually, surprisingly, really, interestingly good.  It was fresh in a way that I didn't expect.  

Here's the question that was kind of the focus for the series: "Are you the person the person you're looking for is looking for?"  I know, kind of corny, but if you stop for a minute, it's actually pretty thought-provoking.  Here I am, telling myself, "Okay, I don't want this, I do want that," focusing on some hypothetical person, when I should be focusing on a real person that I already know.  Me.

The possibility that maybe I haven't happened upon the One (which, as I've put as an aside in many previous posts, I don't really believe there is only one person in the universe out there who could meet my needs) yet is because I'm not yet the person that the person I'm looking for would want is kind of sobering.  Don't get me wrong, I don't believe there is some inherent undesirable thing about what makes me me that's holding me back or turning people off.  I mean, come on, just one look at that smiling mug on the sidebar should be enough to tell you the devil is a lah.  (har, har.) But there are some things that perhaps I could stand to work on now to better stabilize myself and better prepare myself so that when Mr. Right does come along, I'll be ready.  I'll be in a position not just to make a commitment, but to be able to fulfill that commitment.  To be able to carry it out.  To be able to back that stuff up.

There were several practical things my man mentioned at the end of the series that he suggested we could stand to work on now.  I'd like to list them and see how I'm doing on each count:

1. Get into the habit of forgiving.  Hmm . . . I'd say I'm usually a forgiving person.  I really am not one to hold grudges or stay angry for a long amount of time.  Maybe that comes with growing up with brothers?  We always got into it and then always made up.  I will say though, that I have become less tolerant of flakiness.  Like, I used to justify flaky guys' behavior towards me a whole lot.  I used to give people mad chances and mad benefit of the doubt.  But not so much anymore.  Like, if you want to be a wishy washy flake, I don't have time for that anymore, boy, bye.  If you want to come at me with some half-baked lameness, nawl, son.  Don't waste our time.  If you want to "just see where things go" indefinitely, umm, I have a seat for you right over there, go saddown.  If you think you're a player who's going to try to manipulate your way through, I've dealt with the likes of you before, too, so go spit that asinine game elsewhere cuz I ain't falling for it.  So, all of that to say, I believe I am forgiving, but I admit that I'm not as tolerant as I used to be.  

2. Address unresolved childhood issues. Messed up childhoods and family situations growing up really do create messed up future relationships if things aren't worked through.  I am quite thankful that I had a positive family experience.  Not perfect by any means, but we were (and are) a functional family, I have very supportive and loving parents and even though my brothers are knuckleheads, they're actually really sweet and love and respect big sis.  I really am thankful for that.

3. Get out of debt.  Yeah . . . about that.  lol.  I'm actually in pretty good shape, though.  The only debt I have is "good" debt, namely student loans.  And the amount of student loans I've taken out has been relatively minimal.  I'm pretty conservative when it comes to taking out loans and the like.  I don't have any credit card debt to speak of (praise the Lord), and I've paid off my latest car (knock on wood).  What I'd like to work on is building up my savings, (which is kinda hard to do as a grad student) and establishing some type of IRA for retirement purposes.  I do technically have a couple of things floating around out there from when I worked in the real world back in the day, but once I finish this puppy up, I'd like to consolidate them and have something established.

4. Break your bad habits.  What are my bad habits?  I pop my knuckles a lot.  I bite/pick at the skin at the bottom corners of my thumbnails. When I chew gum I have a tendency to smack and I love popping it.  I take really long showers.  I shed a lot of hair, so it ends up everywhere if I don't sweep and vacuum it up regularly.  I slobber when I sleep ( I can't really do anything about that, though.  I'm asleep).  I'm a little heavy-handed so I tend to slam and yank things unintentionally.  I procrastinate.  When I get excited, I talk loudly and inadvertently interrupt people.  I can be very snide when I'm in a bad mood.  I'm often impatient.  I'm a crybaby.  I'm often dismissive of people I perceive as ignorant and unintelligent.  I have a tendency to slip into this melancholy/spacy/detached/easily annoyed mode from time to time.  I'm sure I can think of more.  But one thing I can say is that I'm a pretty tidy person.  That's not to say that my apartment is never a mess.  But it doesn't stay that way for long because if my living space is unclean, I can't focus.  

5. Postpone the physical component of your dating relationship for as long as possible.  100% agree.  Once you cross any physical boundaries too soon, it definitely 1. speeds things up, and not in a good way, or 2. complicates things up, or worse, 3. cheapens things up.

6. Get involved in your local church.   Well, halleluyer.  Choir girl, Sunday School girl, nursing home girl, volunteer girl and most recently, guitar girl over here!  But it's not simply a matter of "getting involved."  It's a matter of service.  It's a matter of making meaningful connections with people.  It's a matter of being and working in an environment where you're most likely to come across someone like-minded.

There are a lot of other things I'd like to work on.  I'd like to be more consistent in spiritual disciplines.  Despite being a liberated woman and all of that liberal business, I'd like to improve and broaden my cooking repertoire.  I'd like to become a better manager of my time.  I'd like to become better at keeping in touch with my long-distance friends and extended family.

See, I have my work cut out for me.  I'm not waiting around for anybody.  I'm rolling up my sleeves and getting down to business.

Irons in the Fire

So, just got finished updating my CV and writing a letter of intent for the Teaching Assistant position for the study abroad program to Cuba next summer.  A million other people are applying, but I have a special feeling about it.  I dunno . . . I've had special feelings about other things that ended up not working out, so . . . lol.  It's just that the program director has mentioned something to me about it on more than one occasion, so it seems like he really wants me to go for it.  Which doesn't hurt my chances.

I also cast an abstract upon the waters of a conference going on in Texas in February.  The conference theme seemed to fit beautifully along with a paper that I wrote last semester, so I went for it.  It's a really awesome, well-known conference in my particular field, and would give me the opportunity to hear from and meet top scholars in my area of interest.  I had a moment the other day when I was passing along some articles and book chapters I gathered from research last year to a colleague of mine who is interested in a similar area, and I recognized the name of one of the authors of a book chapter as one of the conference organizers!  "Why, hello, Professor.  While making a copy of one of the chapters from your book, I realized you were one of the ones who read my abstract!  Har, har.  How splendid to finally put a face with the name!"  Er . . . maybe not.  Shall it return unto me after many days?  We shall see.

I'm also getting my guitar game on point.  Kind of crazy, but I've been asked to play a song with the worship team this Sunday.  A little scary, to be honest, but cool in a weird way.  Like, a year ago, I never would have pictured myself seriously playing the guitar in church.  But here I am.  Ten thousand reasons for my heart to find.  God really does have a way of doing things.

I'm learning just how short a year really is, but at the same time, just how much can change in that short amount of time.  I'm already in the 2nd year of my PhD.  As in, next semester is my last semester of coursework.  Ever.  Like, if I never wanted to take another class for the rest of my life after next semester, I would still get a PhD.  But knowing my nerdy self . . .

(Sigh.)  Time will tell.

Politics as Entertainment

I'm indicting myself on this one.

The truth is that people don't watch presidential or vice presidential debates to make up their minds about who they're going to vote for.  Please.  Nobody watches it to get more informed on the issues, none of that.  The supposed "undecided" voters the networks always round up beforehand are so fake.  Acting like you "undecided" so you can get on CNN.  Sitcho self down.

It's a pure style contest.  Who's got it, who doesn't. Who looks "presidential," who doesn't.  (How do you look presidential?  If you're the president, don't you technically look presidential by definition?)  We don't want to hear facts and figures.  Nawl.  We want to hear gaffes so we have fodder for parody Twitter accounts.  We want to hear zingers to inspire us to create memes to spread through the Facebook ranks like wildfire. We want to see blood drawn.  We want a political cage match so that we can say who crushed who.

Yes, I am criticizing this behavior because it shows how an arena as crucial as politics has been reduced to theater.  Though that's nothing new, it's still striking to me that even in the face of domestic and world crises, we still want our show.  Here we are now, entertain us. 

I'm guilty of it.  I am.  I will admit that I'm looking forward to ol' Mad Dog Uncle Joe Biden bringing the crazy on Thursday.  I'm sure his handlers have him on lock, so he won't be totally off the chain, but I will admit that I hope some craziness will slip out.  I don't really know what to make of Paul Ryan other than that his budget is whack.  But he looks like a sad-eyed, hangdog pup wanting to be nurtured.  There's a tiny part of me that wants to bake him chocolate chip cookies and read him Curious George stories.

Awkward Mingler

Hey, you.  Yeah, I'm talking to you.  Hey, awkward mingler.  You, nervously smiling, nervously laughing, not knowing where to stand, feeling like you're in the way, twisted, nervous Spanish coming out of your mouth.

I made you go.  Yes, I did.  I wanted you to go and socialize and get to know people in the department better, even though you didn't want to.  I didn't want you to be holed up in your apartment, so I made you go.

You need to get over it, you do.  I'm trying to break you of it.  I'm trying to stop you from being so self-conscious.  I know, I know.  You were the only grad student there and the rest were professors, lecturers, instructors and their families from the department.  But so what?

I'm trying to stop you from focusing inward all the time.  This was a chance for you to get to know people, to show people who you are outside of the classroom.  It wasn't the time to think about how awkward you felt, how out of place you felt.  It was the time for you to forget about that crap and be relaxed and confident and enjoy yourself.

You looked nice, didn't you?  Your hair was just right, you wore a simple polka dot dress with a belt that actually goes with something else and your bright red platform sandals, didn't you?  Didn't people compliment you?  But you couldn't accept it gracefully.  You accepted it embarrassedly.  And I don't understand why.

But I know one thing: Until you learn to get over it, I will continue to make you go.  I will drag you there every time.  I don't even want to hear it.  You are a grown woman and I'm going to force you to learn how to be comfortable in situations that are out of your comfort zone.

I was wondering

how long it would take for me to get here this semester, but here we are.  Tonight is the first night.  My first procrastinatory late-nighter post of the semester (I don't do all-nighters, did I tell you?).  It seems like last year, my professors required mad response papers but this semester at least, the matters at hand are a boatload of reading, sprinklings of presentations, a few "process" items (outlines, bibliographies, rough drafts) and then the big mama final paper at the end.

"So, what do you want to do with your degree?"  "If you could do exactly what you wanted to do, what would it be?"  "What's your ideal, dream job?"  "Where do you see yourself 5 years from now?" "Hispanic studies?  Do you have Hispanic in your background?  No?  Well, that's kind of odd."

These are questions coming from people at whom I smile tensely and fakely nicely.  You don't really want to know what I want to do, do you?  You just want to hear me try to justify why I'm spending the time and effort to get a PhD.  If I said I wanted to be a trash collector after all of this, what difference would it make to you?  And to the lady who told me it was "odd" for me to be interested in Hispanic Studies because I'm not Hispanic?  The concentration of sense you have in your brain is 0.00%.  Girl, bye.

And for those who are reading this and really want to know what it is I want to do, are you ready?  If I could  choose whatever it is that I wanted to do, do you really want to know what it would be?

Nothing.

Stop clutching your pearls.  If it were up to me, I would do nothing.  I would sleep in, lay around all day, eat Popeye's 3 wing combos with red beans and rice and watch episodes of The Mentalist and Scandal. But noooo . . . I have to contribute to society and pull myself up by my bootstraps and get out there and get my hands dirty and make a living and realize my full potential.  So, here I am.  Writing late night papers about Delmira Agustini, organizing student panels, submitting conference abstracts, applying to be a program assistant to Cuba, tutoring and presenting test prep stuff on the side . . . doing stuff.

But we all know what I do best.  It's what I'm doing right now.  Pro-crass-the-nation.

Home

I like to think that my sense of home is unique, but I know, in the grand scheme of things, it isn't.  I like to think that there's something special, peculiar, even, about the sense of having an island of home on a sea of never quite at home.  But there really isn't.  I know.

Home, for me, is a house.  It's embedded in a neighborhood which houses all three shades of middle-classhood.  On a street with a funny name.  When giving it out over the phone, I don't even say it, I just spell it out.  It's a neighborhood which can tell a tale of two suburbs: The one before and the one after white flight. I suspect it's undergoing another cycle, as have many places which have been touched by the white flight fever, of a Southern version of so-called gentrification.  I've been noticing an increasing number of pseudo-hipsters jogging with their dogs lately.

The shutters and door of the house has undergone a revival of more vivid recoloration.  The doorknocker replaced after years of begging my dad (it still had the name of the previous owner engraved) and the doorbell re-installed.  That was a while ago.

The piano that my mom bought for me when my Casio keyboard just wouldn't do is still there.  That repository of knicknacks.  Dad jokes about my supposed abandonment of the instrument now that the guitar is my hot new thing.  "All those years of paying for piano lessons . . . give me my money back!"  My eyerolls that make my dad grin from ear to ear.  I'm his only daughter, he reminds me.

My brothers.  Those rare, holiday-like occasions when we're all there together.  Laughing, making fun of one another, ganging up on one another.  Pledging to play Monopoly.  It's just the game we play together.  And one of us always ends up quitting before the game is over no matter how old we get.  The same crass brother burps, the same obnoxious brother joking and jostling.  The same inconsiderate brother leaving the toilet seat up, the quintessential mark of brother presence.  Thank God I don't have to share a bathroom with them any more.

Church.  Ties and heels, father preaching and mother singing and brother wisecracks.  "Why does mom always do that?  She looks like a back-up singer doing that stuff."  (Mom exuberantly gesticulating during song service.)  Trying to use me as an excuse to go somewhere other than Golden Corral after church.  "Yo, Dad, Chantell talking about going to Carrabba's." (Knowing good and well THEY'RE the ones who want to go.)  And the obligatory post-church message critique over fried calamari.  "Honey, sometimes you joke around too much."  Mom to Dad.

The smell of strong coffee coming from the expresso pot Mom brought from Italy.  She stays up till midnight making tiramisu because that's what she likes to do.  I made sure to put some in a Tupperware container to bring back with me.  On the rainy, drear ride back to my home away from home, melancholia swirling around and Bach fugues on NPR my only company, the container of tiramisu beside me provided a bit of comfort that only home can give.

Things I Observed Sitting Outside at Starbucks Downtown While I Was Supposed to Be Reading "Caliban" by Fernández Retamar

1. A happy toddler with no shoes on in his mother's lap who smiled and waved at me.  He had on a Grover t-shirt, which was appropriate since his name was Graham.

2. A leather-faced man sit on a ledge, pull out his guitar, hit raspy chords and sing with a golden twang.

3. A group of black-clad, neck-tattooed band mates? Bikers? Smoking at a table far enough away for me not to be able to smell the smoke.

4. A school bus pull up to the curb and a multi-ethnic gaggle of obnoxious teenagers disembark.  The chaperones (I guess) exited last, chatted about lunch, and as soon as the bus pulled away, the male chaperone remembered something and went after the bus, trying to get the driver's attention in vain.

5. A colleague and my Portuguese instructor (the same person) come over, scare the life out of me by his sudden appearance and proceed to chat about the insanity of teaching classes + preparing for comps + trying to get started on writing a thesis.

6. A girl next to me drop a piece of paper.  I picked it up before it blew away.  She thanked me.

7. A panhandler rejected by a guy yelling, "I can hear d-mn well good!  Why don't you get off the street and go get a job!"

Is somebody trying to tell me something?

So, today on my way to class, I saw the director of the Cuba program and he stopped, pointed at me, and said, "You need to apply to be an assistant for the program."

Well, alrighty then.  Lo voy a hacer.

I don't really know how to explain this.

It's the thought that I don't truly measure up to positive perceptions others have of me.

It's so dumb and I wish it would go away, but it comes back to haunt me every now and then.  It's this thought that people only think that I'm such-and-such, but I'm really not.  My rational mind knows this isn't true.  The reason why people think and/or say whatever positive things about me is because they have proof, reason to believe that it's true.  In my irrational mind, though, I feel like I should be doing much, much more to deserve being considered as such.

For example, my department is sponsoring a new study abroad program to Cuba.  How ridiculously awesome . . . I would LOVE to do something like that.  There is currently a search on for a graduate assistant for said program.  The graduate program assistant would have the opportunity to conduct research (as well as have the responsibility of teaching courses and managing cultural activities for the students), and being able to do that in a place like Cuba would go right along with my interest in the Black Diaspora in Latin America, maybe getting my hands on some primary sources, maybe interviewing writers who live there . . . the prospect of it is pretty exciting.

But the fact of the matter is that I don't feel that I'm a strong candidate because I haven't done any university-level teaching since I was an instructor in 2009, because my Spanish is not as strong as most people at this level of study and because I don't even have any clear-cut research plans.  

Part of me wants to do it, but part of me isn't even sure if I should apply.  There are going to be like a billion people applying and one candidate chosen.  I feel almost crazy for thinking of applying.  I asked one of my professors what she thought, and she's encouraged me to do so, offered to write me a letter and even spoke to the selection committee on my behalf!

I feel very honored that she would think I have a "very good chance."  But that irrational thought pops up and says I don't even know what I'm doing and my professor has a skewed perception of me.  Part of me says that she likes me because I'm personable, easy going, (usually) cheerful and I try to get involved, etc., but that apart from that, there's nothing serious about me academically that is impressive or attractive.  Like, I'm not a serious, competent scholar.  I like to read and I like talking about interesting things, but I haven't done anything substantive.  That's really how I feel.  It's so crazy how I can honestly feel this way, yet at the same time know that it's unfounded.

Sometimes I feel very passive.  And I hate it.  Like I'm this passive person who allows things to slide and lets things fall where they may.  Like I'm just kind of getting by.  And it's maddening.  I want to be more active.  More sure and purposeful and confident.  If I could just shake this passivity, if I could sort of do a mental shift from what people's supposed perceptions of me are to the matters at hand, like tilt my brain and let all the jumbled up energy on the worrying side just slide right over into the side where that energy is harnessed into productivity and focus, then all the background noise would be shut out.

GRE Breakdown

What happens when you have an emotional breakdown suddenly thrust upon you?

Do you freeze like a deer caught in the headlights?  Do you try to minimize it/act like it didn't really happen?  Do you cluck like a mother hen and consolingly dole out tissues and rub backs?

It splattered out of nowhere, it seemed.  Clicking through a GRE practice test.  Let's look up this word. Does that make sense?  Let's predict an answer.  Proper voice on, speaking in Kaplan-cutter phrases.  But then, whoosh!  A red faced, tear-spilling breakdown!

A small part of me was shocked into a new awareness.  Where did that come from?  Me, emotional of emotionals, shocked at a display of emotion.  She got frustrated.  She's hard on herself.  It seems like she can't do it.  She gets close, but she keeps getting them wrong.

A mother of sorts rose up in me.  I always have a pocket-sized package of Kleenex handy.  I know how it is.  Criers are always prepared in the event of a cry.  I think I nursed her back to realizing the GRE is conquerable, that she's making progress, that at the end of the day, we have to focus on our strengths rather than our weaknesses when it comes to scoring high on the test.

I know, sometimes, you just need to get it out.  Let it spill out, messy and teary.  Purge yourself.  And then dry your eyes, take a deep breath, and move on.

I guess since I've always been the crier, I'm not used to how it feels to be the cryee.

Toddler Teacher

So, today was the first time in a while that I've been in Sunday School teacher mode.

I forgot how much I missed being with little people.  3 and 4 year olds, attention spans the size of a flea, listening with rapt attention as I told the story of Moses's mommy putting him in a basket and sending him down the river so that he would be safe.  Scribbling multi-colored, outside-the-lines versions of a baby Moses in the basket.  Gluing pieces of blue construction paper around the basket to symbolize the water.  Learning a memory verse: "I will be with you."  Clamoring for star stickers, animal crackers, playdoh.  The prize they wanted before they left: a tiny container of liquid to blow bubbles.

Back home, pull into a parking space.  Hands resting on the steering wheel.  One of them is decorated with a glittery orange star sticker.  It was because she wanted to the red one, not the orange one, so I decided to keep the orange one for myself.

Um, That's Not a Compliment

Why is my blog getting cluttered up with stories of awkward racial encounters?

I went to the dermatologist the other day.  (You already know where this is going, don't you?)

She was a pleasant, older white lady, and I appreciated the fact that she let me know that she was knowledgeable about the special considerations of people of color when it comes to certain skin issues.  I really did.

But she should have stopped there.

I know in her mind, she was trying to compliment me/help me feel better about myself when she said the following, but it was kind of too much and, frankly, not a compliment: "You have the MOST PERFECT skin tone.  Ah, that caramel-colored skin you have is the most beautiful.  You and Vanessa Williams.  God, just perfect."

Um, thanks, but no thanks.  Really.  Telling a black woman that she's beautiful because she's "caramel-colored" is not cool.  So, if I were a darker-skinned black person, would I just be out of luck?  Ugh.  I don't consider myself more anything or better than anybody or prettier than anybody because I'm on the lighter end of the black folk's spectrum.  And you shouldn't either, lady.

And you also should not have said anything about how flawless Oprah's skin is.  Really?  I'm glad you know the names of famous black women.  Congratulations.  But Oprah is a billionaire and she can get whatever the heck she wants done to her skin to keep it looking that way.

(Sigh.)  I didn't say anything to old girl because I knew she meant well.  But it's frustrating when people who think they get it really don't get it at all.

Dear Handsome Brazilian,

I've been doing really, really well with not nursing any frivolous crushes, and I plan to keep it that way.  But noooo, you had to show up with your winning smile and dark good looks to try to bring out my inner 14-year-old.

I'm that girl who always raises her hand to answer.  Especially in the Portuguese class I'm auditing.  When I want to learn something, I'm going to learn it.  But when you gave your little "special guest" presentation today and asked review questions, I didn't dare.

Later on, when I absconded to the faculty lounge to eat my lunch and read Borges in solitude, you sauntered in to warm up your lunch and we chatted for a bit.  Before you left, you thanked me for my company and said you enjoyed our conversation in a charming accent.

I know you were just being polite, Handsome Brazilian, but I'm going to have to ask you to stop being adorable.  I have work to do, and I don't want to have to start worrying about what I look like if I happen to run into you in the lab or in the lounge somewhere.  The only thing you might be useful for is to motivate me to improve my dismal Portuguese.  Other than that, keep your disarming smile and your easygoing charm to yourself.  Thanks.

Sincerely,

Me

Stereotype Anxiety or Not All Black Girls Can Sing . . . Like That

This is so ridiculous, I can't believe I'm writing about it.

When you're a black woman, there are things people assume about you.  Not all of them are negative.  One of the biggies, especially if you're in church, is that you can sing.

My home-away-from-home church is more or less diverse, but predominantly white.  I'm comfortable there and I thank God that I found a good church to call home while I'm doing this PhD thing.  Everyone makes me feel absolutely loved.

So, as I've mentioned in previous posts, I've joined the choir.  It's been about 2 months now.  I was asked to join without even a formal tryout.  Apparently, my voice could be heard while sitting a pew behind the choir director when we were all singing acappella one night, and that was good enough.  Which, ordinarily, would be flattering, but, as can be deduced from the title of this post, I have stereotype anxiety.  Did she really think I could sing well, or did she just think I could innately sing?  Why couldn't I be okay with the fact that she did hear me sing and maybe just thought I had a nice voice?

After I joined the choir, after church, I'd get pats on the back from well-wishers in the congregation telling me how great it was to see me in the choir, and some claimed they could even hear me.  Ummm . . . really?  Why is it good to see me?  Do I stand out?  Lol.  And you know good and well you can't hear me.  Why couldn't I be okay with the fact that maybe people are just excited to see a new face in the choir and that maybe they like me and are just glad that I'm getting involved?

So, a few weeks ago, I was asked to sing a solo.  Oh, no!  I even tried to explain to the choir director that I couldn't really sing . . . like that.  I'm so terrible.  She assured me she understood but said she simply felt the song fit my voice.  (Duh, Chantell.  That's usually the reason choir directors ask choir members to sing solos.  Not based on some idea of the brassy, soulful innate singing ability of "your kind.")

So, tonight was the big night.  I sang my little solo and did my little fill-ins, but I couldn't really hear myself that well and was just praying that I sounded okay.  I was mad nervous.  But in the end, I was just like, it's not about me anyway.  It's unto the Lord.  (What all good platform singers are supposed to think.)  Afterward, people told me that I did a great job and were proud of me and was even told "I knew you had it in you."  Wait . . . you knew I had it in me?  How did you know?  What is this it that you speak of?  Lol. I wondered if my African-Americanness just blinded (or rather, deafened) everybody to my vocal foibles and in everyone's mind I was "good" a priori.

Down, girl.  Just chill out.  Stop being so paranoid, and just accept a compliment for what it is.  Geez.  This right here is what happens to your mind when you've been both in the South and in school for way too long.

I, Weirdo

(Sigh.) Here I go again, sighing and pontificating on my dichotomies.

I feel like an extra weirdo now because I've voted Democratically for as long as I've had the right to vote, and now that the Democratic party amended the phrase "God-given" and "Jerusalem" as the recognized capital of Israel out of their official party platform, I cringe at the onslaught bound to issue forth from my fellow Bible toters.  Guess I'll have to hide a few more overzealous posters from my FB newsfeed so that I don't start hating the world.

With my modestly-skirted bottom in a chair pulled up to a cubicle, I try to concentrate on typing this and not worry about the two lesbians horsing around in the cubicle next to me.  Over here, I read Spanish detective novels and letters written by conquistadors, switch languages a few times a day, and adore a professor who, when she was pregnant, told curious strangers who asked whether she wanted to have a girl or a boy that she wanted to have a gay boy so that she could have the best of both.

On weekday mornings I (try to) read the Bible in the NLT on my Kindle.  I skipped over the Song of Solomon because it's a little explicit and I want to keep my mind pure and I skipped over Revelation because apocalyptic prognostications depress me.  I just skipped over them for now.  I'll get to them when I finish everything else.

On Sunday morning I'm still the new girl in the choir.  I'm exuberant. I worship.  I love Jesus, and when gratefulness washes over me because of His love and mercy, I have no other option.  "I sure enjoy seeing you worship up there in the choir."  Well, I'm glad, but I wasn't paying attention to you at all.

What do people of African descent in Latin America have to do with choir mics?  What does a professorial proponent of the rights of undocumented immigrants and the LGBT community have to do with a red-haired man who respects the Word of God and preaches from his heart?  What does a pan-Hispanic, gringo, and a smattering of afro group of aspiring academicians have to do with down-home heart blessings and soothing prayer hands on my back during altar call?  Why does glossolalia rarely sound like French?

These are questions I do not have the answer to.  But here are a few things I do know:

My president is not my pastor, and my pastor is not my God.  My professors are not my parents, and my parents are my oldest teachers.  My friends are my family, and the children of God include more than my brothers and sisters in the Lord.

And by the time I finished writing this, the Democratic party put the God and Jerusalem reference back in the party platform.  Maybe I won't start hating the world after all.

Compliments

Every woman likes to be told that she's beautiful and charming.  That she has a nice smile.  That she's a quality person through and through.  It makes me feel like the star on top of a Christmas tree.

"You're going to make some man very happy someday."

Thank you.  Thank you very much, sir.  I'm glad you can see and appreciate the person I am and what I have to offer.  But you're married.  It would be nice if someone else, someone available, stable and mature who shares my goals and my faith, could see what you see.

It's pretty much bound to happen from time to time.

You know.  The morning after you have some very bizarre dreams.  I dreamt that the Joker had fallen in love with me and after sequestering me in a building that seemed to be a cross between a hospital and a hotel, sent me a note that said that if I didn't agree to meet him at a particular time and place to marry him that he would kill me and blow up my family.  I was determined to get out of it somehow and the Joker sent one of this thugs to come rappeling in through the ceiling to capture me.  I subdued him, Bourne style, and it ended with the thug's dead body slumped over the bathtub.  I escaped out of the window, got to some safe place somehow, and then my cell phone rang.  It was the Joker.  I didn't answer it, but a message scrolled across the display: "YOU HAVEN'T ESCAPED ME YET . . . I'M COMING TO GET YOU!"  I woke up.  It was so unsettling.

I usually get up to go to the rec, but I couldn't.  No matter how many times I hit the snooze button, my eyes still felt tired when I opened them.  And it's not like I went to bed late last night.

Determined to at least make it to Portuguese class, I made it out in time to catch one of the ridiculously crowded morning buses.  This morning was not the morning for me to be in crunched, uncomfortable quarters with people.  When you're in these uncomfortable situations, you can't help it, but you can make it a little easier, like, not facing the person you're right next to.  This girl got on and proceeded to stand looking me dead in the face.  What is the matter with her?  Can you turn yourself to the side?  Or at least turn your head to the side?  I turned my head away and looked away, but she was still right there.  I'm not saying she was staring at me.  But her face was right there, and it was making me want to unexist.

There was one crazy thought that, darn it, prompted a few tears to escape right there on the crowded bus: My mother wants grandchildren.

I hate it when I'm in a cloudy state of mind and people feel the need to comment on it and/or playfully wave their hand in front of my face because I'm staring out into space.  Stop trying to break me out of my introspective world.  I know I'm usually perky, but today I'm taking a break.  I left my perkiness on the shelf today next to the Nutella.  Which I ran out of the other day.

I hate it when I hear people appropriate African-American slang that they know they don't seriously use.  While waiting in the Jittery Joe's line (my plan for mood improvement was a white mocha and a chocolate croissant), I heard this pallid hipster say, "Yeah, I gotta go meet my boo. Ha, ha."  Shut UP.  You sound so stupid saying that.  You think it's cute and hip to say words like "boo" as if they're an exotic trinket you can nonchalantly flash whenever you want, but you actually sound dumb, and I wanted to step out of line and trip you as you walked away.

Geez, I am so mean today.  I'm glad that my meanness is introverted and that my niceness is extroverted.  That way, people think I'm nice.

So . . .

The semester's in full swing, which means I'm a busy little bee.  Got lots of little irons in the fire.  Reading galore, Kaplan tutoring student on the side, freelance translator on the side, pro bono editor on the side.  I've got Skype dates for language practice, I've got dates set for a graduate student panel I'm organizing.  I'm trying to make something Brazilian happen next summer.  I'm trying to present another paper this spring.  Keep it together, baby.  Keep it together.

Had my church guitar debut.  Not that it was anything so great, but just the fact that I was able to play and sing a couple of worship songs was something that I never dreamed I would be able to do just a year ago. It was a great feeling. It's been a year since I had my first guitar lesson.  And now my guitar instructor is gone! Still trying to decide whether I want to try to find someone else.

I'm enjoying getting more involved.  Getting more involved in church.  Getting more involved in the department.

There are still so many unknowns.  So many of them.  But I'm thankful that I'm able to live in the uncertainty. It's so wonderful not to be burdened by it.

There's a guy in the department who has apparently developed a little crush on me.  I can't address any passive aggressive letters to him on my blog because he's nice enough.  It's not like he's done anything inappropriate.  But he does sort of get up in my personal space just a tad.  And you know how I am about that.  And I despise being caught in the computer lab with him by myself.  It's just awkward.  I should have never let him know that I speak French.  And now he's asked when we're going to lunch together.  Umm . . . jamais?

I never thought I'd say this, but I'm kind of feeling the idea of marrying an old man with money.  Like, if a younger-than-my-dad older guy tried to holla at me who had some CHC (cold hard cash) in the mix, I would be down.  Pay off my (relatively modest bit of) student loans, travel around, have an artist's studio set up for me and I could take painting lessons and become an acclaimed local artist.  Have a couple of bambinos and I would make all of their baby food with vegetables I would grow in the garden.  Yup.

Internationality

Today I Skyped with a friend I met when I studied abroad in France a couple of years ago.  (Has it been two years already?)  She's from Barcelona and now she's pursuing a Master's degree in Germany.  During Spring Break that year she allowed me and another American friend to crash at her apartment in Barcelona . . .  we had a great time.  Anyway, in the course of our conversation we spoke English, Spanish, and even a little bit of French for old times' sake.  I even peppered in a few German phrases at the end for good measure.  What do I know?  Guten tag.  Danke schön.  Bitte.  Wie gehts? Tchuss! Ich liebe dich.  Auf Wiedersehen.

It just made me think about my life as a citizen of the world.  Born in Mississippi.  Spent my childhood in the heel of Italy's boot.  Spent the rest of my adolescence through college years in Alabama, sans Southern accent.  Took forays into Spain and France  (let me not forget about little side trips to Portugal and Germany, oh, and a Spring Break missions trip to Mexico), picked up and lost Italian, picked up and kept Spanish and French.  Currently working on Portuguese.  Able to smile at the surprise of Koreans, Chinese, Japanese, Arabs and now Turks that I can greet them in their language.  ("That's all I know, though!")

It's a life that I should be thankful for.  That I've been given opportunities to travel and learn and connect with people from all different cultures and walks of life.  So many worlds open up to you when you learn foreign languages.  So, where are you from?  Wait, so where were you born?  Okay, where are your parents from?  Ha.  In other words, what is my life story?

Two things I associate with my childhood: Kinder Eggs and Parmalat milk.

Ramadan

Tonight was the second time I've ever been inside of a mosque.

The first time was when I was studying abroad in Spain several years ago.  One of the courses I was taking was "Cultural Diversity in Spain," and we went to the Islamic cultural center in Madrid.  Women were asked to cover their heads before entering, and all of us removed our shoes.  Our small group of idealistic young Americans was alongside a group of elderly Spanish seniors.  After a little intro from the guide, he opened up the floor for questions.  One of the seniors asked (in a somewhat belligerent tone) about the term "jihad."  Unfazed, the guide answered calmly.  Then I raised my hand.  I'm a question kind of a gal.  I had three questions: 1. What does it say on that sign? (there was large circular sign at the front of the room in Arabic), 2. Why do women have to wear a head covering? and 3. Why are Muslim men allowed to have more than one wife?  I heard approving murmurs from the Spanish seniors.  Buenas preguntas, eh?  The guide smiled.  Tu eres muy joven, he began.  You're very young.  1. I don't remember (as in, I literally don't remember what his answer was, but it was something about Allah), 2. Depending on country and customs, women are not obligated to wear a covering at all times, only when they pray.  3. Polygamy doesn't have to do with Islam, rather with certain Muslim cultures.  In some cultures, it's acceptable, in others it is not.  Then we went downstairs and had Moroccan food.

But back to tonight.  A friend from Turkey invited me to a Ramadan "breaking of the fast" dinner.  When we arrived, the prayers were in session.  We put on scarves to cover our heads, removed our shoes and went inside.  I sat off to the side observing as the imam intoned during the prayers.  The women bowed.  They rose.  They bowed their heads to the floor.  They rose.  Why was my friend speaking to some of the others in English?  Because they didn't all speak the same language.  Several languages were present; I'm guessing Arabic, Turkish, Urdu, and Farsi, to name a few.  After the prayer, we all went into another room to eat.  Rice with chickpeas, chicken, salad and rice pudding for dessert.  What was amazing to me was the diversity of everyone there.  I saw brown Pakistani women in sari-like dresses.  There were women with blue eyes and blond hair.  There were black women.  There were Arab women.  There were women with long sleeves, long skirts and a head covering.  There were women in jeans and a t-shirt with their hair completely uncovered.  Once we left the prayer area and sat down to eat, my friend took her scarf off.  So did I.

I relish the times when I'm able to get a peek into a world that's different from my own.  It's something I think we could all stand to do more often.

The Last Lesson of My 20s

I was doing some thinking today, and I think the last life lesson that I solidified before turning 30 is this: You can never, ever enter a relationship expecting the other person to change.

It's simply wrong.  It's selfish, misguided, and even risky. Like, if you're even thinking about going into something with the idea of changing someone as one of the stipulations of it "working out," it's a guarantee that it's SO not going to work out.

Like, think about it the other way around.  What if someone were interested in you, but had an underlying purpose of changing some aspect of who you are or the way you live your life in order to suit their purposes?  It seems almost offensive.  Again, it's just wrong.

It's human nature, though.  That's for sure.  I had to learn a few hard lessons before getting that one down.

Reclaim the Monkey

So, the new school year's about to get underway.  I'm all nice and registered for my classes.  I'm pretty excited about the lineup.  A Modern Latin American survey, a seminar on Spanish detective novels, and a Spanish Golden Age survey.  I might audit a Portuguese class or two.  It's really crazy how fast time is going by.  If all goes according to plan, this will be my last year of coursework.  Already.

Getting into my little workout routine.  It's funny how the more you do something, the easier it gets.  I started out going 2 miles in 30 minutes on the elliptical, working at level 1 and having to take a break every ten minutes.  Now I'm going 3 miles in 30 minutes, working at level 4 and taking no breaks at all.  Still not a workout queen . . . that's not even my goal.  But it's funny how something can go from exhausting to invigorating in a relatively short amount of time.  But now I'm trying to get my abs on point, and my middle bro is giving me these crunches to do.  No joke.  But the hardest one is the plank: Get into a position as if you were going to do push ups, but rest on your forearms instead of your hands.  Now, push your body slightly upwards onto your toes, keeping your weight rested on your forearms and keeping your body as straight as possible.  Can you hold that position for 30 seconds?  Ooh, but I could feel the burn.

Tonight was the release party for a new CD which doubled as a goodbye party for my guitar instructor and his family.  I am really going to miss him.  I started out knowing absolutely nothing about the guitar, and in less than a year's time, I've come so far.  I might find a new instructor, and I might not.  I like to think that we are irreplaceable.

I'm thankful for mentors that God has placed in my life.  Recently, I had a nice chat with someone who has been a professor, minister, counselor and a friend to me and it seems like everything he says is exactly what my brain and spirit need to hear.  It sounds weird, but people like him stop me from feeling alone.  He knows how to successfully navigate the worlds I'm navigating right now, and he is living, godly proof that I don't have to choose.  I refuse to allow anyone to force my hand.

I love monkeys.  Cute, cartoonish monkeys.  Particularly Curious George.  If/when I have children, everything they have is going to be monkey/Curious George related.  I really can't explain my attachment to him.  I just think Curious George is so cute and I love him and I want other children, especially my own, to love him too.  The tiny problem is that "monkey" has been historically used as a negative slur against black people, and do I want my kids to be branded with monkey imagery?  (Sigh.  The quandaries I create for my poor nonexistent children.)  But I've decided that the solution is to reclaim the monkey.  I will cleanse the stigma of monkeyness and I will refashion monkality for my purposes and rebrand it as a symbol of cute, fun-loving power.

I saw bunches of sunflowers on sale at Kroger for $6.99.  Oh, they were lovely.  Since I seem to be having trouble birthing my own sunbabies, I have no qualms about adoption.

Sometimes

I want a sunflower-filled refuge.

I want a place where I can have my cake and eat it too.  If I have a cake, how on earth are you going to expect me to not want to eat it too?

I want to be able to exist, tensionless, in this world.  I don't want you to make me feel bunched up in two extremes at the same time.  I want to be able to embrace you as you are and not feel forced to divide you up.  I put you over here . . . and I put you over there . . . and you can stay right here . . . and you move over just a little bit there . . . Like I'm placing an invisible sticker on everybody's forehead with a number that indicates emotional distance.  No.  I don't want to feel like I have on these covert layers.

I want to dash cognitive dissonance into a million pieces.  Away with you, dichotomies!  Away with you, either/or.  Away with you, pinched face, demanding lines in the sand.  I can like Curious George and Edgar Allan Poe.  I can want curly-haired, dimpled, chocolate-smudged faces and a PhD.  I can make a PowerPoint and strut in high heels and make mashed potatoes.  I can like Christian Southern roots rock and Motown oldies.  I can steel myself against self-righteous churchgoers and academicians.

I want my own language.  Don't force me to speak yours.  Don't try to shove words into my mouth or try to coax them out.  Especially if you aren't a wordsmith.  Especially if the mold of your own mouth was cast in a one-track block.  Especially if you don't know how my words form or where they come from.

I want the world-weary cynics to stop being so smug.  Do you think you're the only ones enlightened and tired?

I want that moment when my guitar sounds like a mellow bell.  When our eyes first meet.  When the sun gently nudges me awake.

Get Yourself Together

It's not just something that you have to do.  It's a state of mind.

Okay.  You've had your little trips.  You've done your little chilling.  You've had your little time.  Now it's time to kick it back into gear.  Now it's time to Get Yourself Together.

Fall semester is just around the corner and you haven't decided on your classes yet?  Um, I'm gonna have to ask you to Get Yourself Together.

Whining and worrying about people trying to talk to you, not knowing what to do, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.  Um, why are you expending precious mind energy on these cats?  You need all the brain juice you can muster up.  Who says you have to do anything concerning them anyway?  Talk to who you want to talk to and don't talk to who you don't want to talk to.  That simple.  No reason to go into existential mode.  Like, I said, it's time to Get Yourself Together.

Ranting about your slight weight gain?  Clothes on the verge of feeling uncomfortably filled out (even though you haven't officially gone up a size)?  Well, there's a rec center at your disposal with your butt's name written on it.  Ain't nobody stopping you.  Get Yourself Together.

Just cause you made a little extra dough teaching test prep doesn't mean that you don't have bills to pay and that you don't need to keep track of your spending.  Oh, I got your attention now, don't I?  I have a little 3-step program you need to follow: 1. Get. 2. Yourself. 3. Together.

Drive back to your little nest, make a shopping list and replenish your fridge, pay your bills, choose your classes and get to work!  Woman up, honey.  You know what time it is.  It's not time to mope.  It's not time to freak out.  It's not time to let your eyes glaze over in nostalgic reminiscence.  It's time to Get Yourself Together!

Meat on My Bones or Making Sense

This is not going to be another slight weight gain rant, but people keep saying stuff, for real.  Was I that skinny before?  C'mon.

Anyway, I'm thinking about some other stuff now.  I know this might not make sense, but I'm going to try to explain it.  And maybe I can make it make sense to myself in the process.

You know how there are people other people think you should be with?  Those other people are people with good intentions.  Those other people think you should be with particular people because it makes sense.  And I'm not even talking about the racial "sense" that crops up more often than not in the South.  I'm saying common sense.  Look, he's young, living for God, educated, stable, talented . . . why not?  I know.  Really, I know.  But while other people ask "Why not?" I ask, "Why?"

I don't have anything against them.  But neither do I have anything for them.  Do you know what I mean?

And part of me feels badly because it would make so much sense for me to be "open minded" and just be with them, but I can't because I'm too weird/picky/just not feeling them.

Mind you, perhaps some have tried, yet, because of my finicky ways, they got shot down.  But perhaps some haven't even tried though they've had ample opportunity.  And for the latter situation, what makes you (rather, those other people who think I should just "be open" to them) think they are even interested enough to want to try?

To be fair, I have been on the other end of the stick.  A person who "made sense" for someone else, but was ultimately turned down.  Not for any personal defect, I've come to realize, but just because.  It made sense, but that was about it.  I get it.

But sometimes I wonder if my aversion, if you will, to the people who make sense is as a result of other people wanting me to be with them.  Like, I subconsciously don't want to be with them simply because of the very idea of other people thinking that I should.  Oh, boy.

But here's another little twist.  What about people who don't necessarily make sense, who other people wouldn't necessarily encourage me to be open to, but who meet all of the allowable criteria (faith, education, stability) and who (and this is what gives it a twist) are trying to holla at me and (here's what gives it another twist) who I might consider?

Well, what's the problem there? you may ask.  I know.  Sigh.  I know.  It's just that then I find myself kind of shutting them down, too because part of me feels like, dude, really?  Like, since it doesn't "make sense" for them to even try to talk to me, I subconsciously give them a hard time because I know they wouldn't be considered ideal by the other people with good intentions, and maybe even to me.  Like, what makes him think he's my kind of guy or that I'm his kind of girl?

Who cares about what other people think?  you may ask.  In my mind, I don't care.  But in reality, I do.

Sometimes I feel like my choices are 1. guy who makes sense but isn't particularly attractive (not looks-wise, necessarily, but just to me in general) or 2. guy who's interested and perhaps interesting but doesn't seem would be a good fit and I'm too hesitant to find out if he actually would.

Why can't there just be a guy who makes sense AND is interesting to me? It would make me feel so much more comfortable.  If other people were like, "he would be perfect" and I felt like, "I like this guy" at the same time.

I know, kind of crazy and self-psychoanalytical.  I'm probably making things much more difficult and convoluted than they really need to be.  But this is my brain, and this is how it works.  What can I say?

Passive-Aggressive Rant: Weight Edition

Dear people feeling it necessary to comment on my slight weight gain,

Ya'll are bringing out the tae kwon do in me.  For real, ya'll are making me want to right-hand strike folks in the throat and snap kick people in the gut.  You're bringing all of the moves I learned all the way back to the forefront of my mind.

I'm reasonable.  Look, I know that perhaps I used to be a stick, so any bit of weight I gain is noticeable.  I understand that.  I know you're not implying that I'm getting fat or that I'm overweight.  I get it.  Maybe even, in your old school minds, commenting that I've gained a bit of weight is some Southern version of a compliment.  I understand. But let me break something down for you:

First of all, most people who gain weight already know.  You know why?  Because they're THEM.  Do you know what I mean?  Guess who the first person who noticed that they gained weight was?  THEMSELVES.

Second of all, since when was it hunky dory to tell a grown woman she's put on some weight?  Or worse yet, to ask, "Have you put on some weight?" with a smile.  Do you really think that is a question I'm going to answer with a bubbly giggle?  Especially when you ask it within the earshot of several other people?

Third of all, sit back.  I'm still what most would consider on the thin side.  I still wear a size 4.  Yeah, I said it.   I WEAR A SIZE 4!  So stop acting like I've gone up three dress sizes or something.  Geez.

I don't know what it will take for you to realize that commenting upon my little bit of extra junk is not cool.  It's not.  It's not cool, it's not hot, it's not cute, it's not the business, and it's certainly not any of YO business. I'm young, I'm cute, and I wear a size 4.  Boom!  So, chill out.

Sincerely,

Me

On Confidence

Confidence, or the lack thereof, has been one of my big issues.  In fact, the decisions I've made, the things I think about myself and others . . . almost everything can be traced back to the idea of confidence.

First, let me back up and talk about a couple of moments I've had recently.

1. My guitar instructor is moving away.  Nooooo!  It took everything in me not to out and out cry in front of the poor man during our last lesson.  I reined it in and simply teared up a little bit.  Good me.  Like, I understand that he's doing what God has called him to do, and he's doing what's best for his family.  This awesome opportunity opened up for him, and why shouldn't he take it?  But I couldn't shake the sense that I was being somehow abandoned.  Like, it hasn't even been quite a year since I started learning the guitar, and I've come so far with him.  I'd gotten used to him and his teaching style, he's very familiar with the type of music that I'm interested in . . . it's like, I've just gotten started and now you're moving on bigger and better things?

2. Another friend of mine is moving to another country for a year to work.  Noooo!  I know he's bummed by having to leave his family behind for this gig, but he's doing his thing, moving on, enriching his resume, doing what he has to do to provide for his family.  I'm totally there with him.  I'm happy for him.  But again, I feel left behind.  Like, happy, but at the same time, somehow unsettled that positive, exciting change is happening to people around me.

3. Going to the doctor for annoying things that get on my nerves and make me feel insecure.  No need to go into detail, and nothing serious in the least bit, but sometimes it just makes me want to cry.  Why can't myself just be a normal self?

4. Babies.  I've fallen in love with my professor's gorgeous child, and apparently, he's pretty taken with me, too.  Beautiful eyes and long lashes and curly hair and dimples.  I went over to read him Green Eggs and Ham.  In Spanish.  ("Sam-I-am" becomes "Juan Ramón."  It had to rhyme with jamón.)  He was snuggly and sweet and cute and I just wanted to tear up.  My professor is amazing, only 3 years my senior and is this ridiculous genius with a career, husband and kid.  I'm going to see a good friend next week who also has a ridiculously cute little boy.  I have another friend with twinsies on the way.  Again, I have this overwhelming feeling of happiness that I'm being included in these children's lives in some way.  I'm glad that I'm a part of so many families.  But this tiny little "left behind" bug keeps buzzing.  Reminding me that one day my biological clock's alarm is going to go off and hitting the snooze button isn't an option.

I admit these insecurities because I realize that it boils down to confidence.  The reason I feel left behind or insecure or unsettled by what I'm experiencing and what others are experiencing is because I'm not confident about where I am, who I am, and my place in life.  It's really that simple.

I have to constantly take time to reaffirm my station.  My identity in Christ.  To own who I am.  All my irregularities, idiosyncrasies, and tendencies to cry. To be comfortable in this skin, in this state, and in this place where I've been planted for this season.

God is not going to give me a by on trusting Him.  He's not going to let me off the hook not trusting that He's a God of His Word.  Not being confident in what He's doing with me.  I must solidify the knowledge of His sovereignty and my fitness for His work.  My existence, as is, is worthy, appropriate and fitting, because it's being orchestrated by Him.  I have to let that nugget sink in, and step up to the plate.

We got issues.

"Issues" as a term is a little played out, but not to Christians.  We got issues.  Heaven and Hell ones, that is.

I was thinking about the concept of "Heaven and Hell issues" today when I finally quit playing and decided to heed my pastor's wife's call  for me to join the church choir.  Of course, there's the obligatory "commitment form."  Y'all know what I'm talking about.  Let me be clear, I have 100% no problem with signing a commitment form.  I think it's a good idea.  People need to be held accountable, they need to be aware of expectations, and they need to be in one accord with the teachings of a particular church if they are committing themselves to serving at that church, especially in such a public manner.

But I couldn't help but inwardly smile when she assured me that she doesn't feel these are all "Heaven and Hell issues."  In other words, "I don't think everyone has to do all of these things to get to Heaven."  I know, sister, I know.  I got you.

But like I said, it got me to thinking.  It got me to thinking about why we even feel the need to delineate things as Heaven or Hell issues or not in the first place.

I thought of this amazing analogy.  Okay, we have (we're supposed to have) a relationship with God, right? Okay, so what if you got married (maybe you already are, so this analogy will be even more powerful) and your man was like, "Hey, sweetheart, would you divorce me if I left the toilet seat up?"  And then you'd laugh, and say, "No, honey, how ridiculous!  I love you.  Why would you even ask that?"  And then the next day he was like, "Hey, babe, would you divorce me if I left my clothes in a pile on the floor?"  And you'd be like, "No, sweetie!  I would never divorce you over something that insignificant."  And what if the next day he asked, "Honey, would you divorce me if I forgot your birthday, our anniversary, and didn't get you anything for Valentine's Day?"  Now, you're starting to get a little worried.  This time you'd reply, "Baby, I don't think any of those things are bad enough to want to get a divorce over.  I could see if you cheated on me or abused me or did something else that broke our marriage vows, but . . . I don't understand.  Why do you want to know what it would take for me to divorce you?"  And what if he answered, "Because I love you, and I don't want to lose you, so I don't want to do whatever it is that would make you want to get a divorce."  And then you get really worried, because you realize how backwards that sounds. You get a little defensive and reply, "Well, if you loved me, then why wouldn't you want to know what it would take for me to want to stay with you?  To want to be with you all the time?  Why wouldn't you want to know what it is that would make me happy?  What you could do to please me?  What you could do that would bring us closer?"

Imagine that.  If you had a husband who said he loved you, but really only cared about not doing anything that would make you want a divorce.  I mean, what?  He's not doing anything wrong.  He's not breaking your wedding vows.  He's not neglecting you or abusing you or cheating on you or anything.  So, what's the problem?

I think that sometimes Christians are the husband in this analogy and the wife is God.  It's not exact, of course, and I know it's kind of crazy since God is always described in masculine terms, but I think it fits in this case.

All the "standards" I uphold are not salvific.  I get it.  But if you tell me that how I live my life doesn't matter, I respectfully disagree.  What "matters"?  That me and God are cool as long as I'm not violating his Word?

There is nothing I can do, in my human ability, to make God love me more.  There is nothing I can do, in my humanity, to earn His grace.  That's why it's called grace.  Because it's given to someone undeserving of it; it's bestowed upon someone without them having earned it.  But that doesn't mean that setting myself apart for His glory by my appearance, activities and behavior is therefore deemed irrelevant. If our commitment to Him is based on "Heaven or Hell issues," I think we need to reevaluate what it means to be in a relationship with Him.