There's a professor

that I absolutely admire.

She just exudes confidence and is totally comfortable with herself, and you can tell that she loves what she does.  She's super down-to-earth, totally unpretentious, but she's literally a genius.  She's won crazy fellowships and awards . . . but she's so real.  She has this long mass of tightly coiled spiral curls and a nose ring that somehow, on her, comes off as understated and appropriate and not "young professorial rebel."  She always dresses professionally, occasionally brings coffee to class, and expects the best from us.

She arranged for a Dominicanyork performer to come to campus.  It's just awesome.  We read the performer's work, (it's basically choreopoetry), got a chance to see her in action yesterday evening at a university sponsored event, and now today, she's coming to our class so we'll have a chance to interact with her on a more personal level and ask questions about her work.  I'm just kind of in awe of the fact that my professor cares enough to want her students to have face time with someone we're reading and writing papers on for class.  My professor also invited me and a few others to have lunch with the performer and a few other professors before class today.  I'm totally nerding out.

I had a moment last night when I was talking to my professor and she was giving me more details about meeting for lunch today.  I wasn't planning on it (most of my moments happen unexpectedly) but I started tearing up when I told her that I think she's awesome, I appreciate her inviting me, and appreciate her making the effort to bring the performer here, etc. Ugh!  I'm such a baby . . . it's so embarrassing.  She was all like, "Stop! Now you're going to make me cry," and gave me a hug.  What is wrong with me?

I know she thinks of me as "cute."  I sit up front like a dutiful little nerd, actively participate in class discussion but often get tongue-tied because I get nervous when trying to express myself in Spanish (in front of my majority native-speaker classmates).  And now I've outed myself as a softie.  Awww, how cute.  How sweet.

I want to be that confident, I've-got-it-together woman.  Sometimes I am that woman.  But sometimes I slip back into that awkward little girl.  I guess I have to accept the fact that the little girl is always going to be there somewhere, no matter how old I get.

Soundtrack to My Last Post

Hit play and reread yesterday's post.

Yes, the original version, not the Rascal Flatts remake.

Road Trip

I was thinking as I was driving home from visiting a buddy this weekend, that one of the times I feel absolutely intrepid, like my whole life is ahead of me, like the world is mine to explore, is when I'm on a solo road trip.

There's something about getting out on the road, embarking on a journey, having a clear destination, that makes me feel empowered.  I can go anywhere, do anything.  I am fearless, undaunted, liberated.  I am the mistress of my destiny.

I'm thinking about other trips I have coming up soon, anticipating that feeling.  The knowledge that I'm connected to other spheres.  On the move.  A newness to places I've already seen.  Somehow remembering places I've never been.  Meeting new people who seem familiar.  Observing with bittersweet clarity that people change almost as much as they remain the same.

You can never sit still for long, can you?  It's not that, exactly.  It's just that I have the freedom now.  I may not always.  So, until something (or someone) settles me down, I'll keep trekking.

Four Pages

Yes.  Again.  You know how it be.  The same song and dance.

OmgIhaveapaperduewhatamIgoingtodoI'maprocrastinatorI'msotired.  Whine, whine, whine, whine, whine.

O wretched woman that I am!  Who shall deliver me from the body of this paper writing?

Let words flow through me.  Let smart ideas come to me.  Let big, academic, Spanish words enter my brain space and fill up screen space.

Four pages?  Gettheheckouttahere.  Back in my day, we had to write 50 pages!  On typewriters!  With no correction fluid!  Barefoot in the snow!

Four pages?  Guh, you crazy.  Shoo.  Sittin up in yo chair, hair lookin all crazy, talkin bout some "corporality and agency."  What chu talkin bout, guh?  Don't nobody care bout dat junk.  Ackin like a four page paper be somethin.  Guh, sit back.

Four pages?  Blimey.  You poor, poor dear.  Come in, have a spot of tea.  Meet the missus.  Can't have you standing out in the beastly paper writing cold, love.

Dear Lord, in all of your paper writing splendor and majesty, fill my fingertips with the Holy Ghost so they can ecstatically type under the anointing in another tongue.  (Spanish.)

Amen.

The Big Sea

Ugh.  I'm about fed up with this interminable Afro-Cuban novel.  It's not that I dislike it, it's just going on and on and I'm ready to wrap it up.  I have to write a paper about this joker for Thursday.  Tomorrow's going to be a long day.  (Sigh.)

Anyway, my night stand reading is Langston Hughes's autobiography (the first one) called The Big Sea.  It's lovely.  I would have been in love with him.  Completely in love with him.  He even tells a story about one of his students falling in love with him.  He was only 18, living with his father in Mexico, and he began teaching English classes for a bit of extra cash.  I love this passage:

Six months anywhere is enough to begin to complicate life.  By that time, if you stay in one place, you are bound to know people too well for things to be any longer simple.  Well, that winter one of my pupils fell in love with me.  She was a woman in her thirties, to whom I had been giving lessons two afternoons a week.  She lived a secluded life with her old aunt, no doubt on a small income.  And she had never been married because, since childhood, she has suffered with a heart ailment.  She was a very delicate little woman, ivory-tan in color, with a great mass of heavy black hair and very bright but sad eyes.  I always thought perhaps she was something like Emily Dickinson, shut away and strange, eager and lonesome, as Emily must have been. 

But I had no way of knowing she was going to fall in love with me.  She read and spoke a little English, but she wanted to be able to read big novels like Scott's and Dickens's.  Yet she didn't pay much attention to her lessons.  When I read aloud, she would look at me, until I looked at her.  Then her eyes would fall.  After several weeks of classes, shyly, in a funny little sentence of awkward English, she finally made me realize she must be in love. 

She began to say things like: "Dear Mister, I cannot wait you to come back so long off Friday." 

"But you have to learn your verbs," I'd say.  "And it will take until Friday." 

"The verbs is not much difficult.  It's you I am think about, Mister." 

She seemed almost elderly to me then, at eighteen.  I was confused and didn't know what to say.  After a few such sentences in English, she'd blush deeply and take refuge in Spanish.  And all I could think of to tell her was that she mustn't fall in love with me, because I was going to New York as soon as I had saved the fare.

I also love the way he describes how he was inspired to write one of his most famous poems, "The Negro Speaks of Rivers."  I won't type it all out here, but suffice it to say that it filled me with an overwhelming warmth and brought tears to my eyes.  I love the idea of beginnings.  How it all came about.  He was on a train, right outside St. Louis, on his way to Texas.  He says: "The thought came to me: 'I've known rivers,' and I put it down on the back of an envelope I had in my pocket."  He wrote it in about 10 or 15 minutes.  He was only a teenager.

Okay.  Maybe a chapter or two more of The Big Sea and then to bed because I've got to get up early to get right back to the interminable novel.  This too shall pass.

Outrageous Fortune

Why I woke up this morning with Hamlet's to be or not to be soliloquy rolling through my mind, who knows?  I had to memorize it for Literature in 12th grade.  Yeah, that was the same teacher who made us memorize the general prologue to the Canterbury Tales in Old English.  Surprisingly, out of the two, the Old English passage is the one I still know by heart.  Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote . . .

"Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune . . . " Outrageous fortune.  That's what I zeroed in on.  It just seemed like a fitting title to a blog post.

Fortune.  Chance.  Ups and downs.  The rain: The just and the unjust.  Everyone thinks "it rains on the just and the unjust" means that bad things happen to good and bad people alike.  But I was enlightened a few years ago.  We only think it means that because we usually consider rain something negative.  Rainy, gloomy, messy, wet and gray.  In the Bible days, however, rain was a blessing.  It meant crops would be watered.  It meant a bountiful harvest.  It actually means that good things happen to good and bad people alike.  I say this on a gray, rainy day, in a modern culture where rain is now associated with gloom.  And I can't help it.  The rhythmic drops making me want to stay wrapped up in my comforter cocoon.

Chance.  Ups and downs.  Sunday morning blues.  That static-filled AM gospel station on the drive there like the smell of collard greens.  Not pleasant, but you know it's good.  I'm a crier.  My eyes rain on the just and the unjust.  Asking God to help me push past myself as a rousing chorus of guitar-backed contemporary worship floods my ears. God, help me get over me.  Raindrops. When I finally found that belt I was looking for and clasped it around my waist, it hit me.  It's not that I don't want to have to take care of myself.  I just don't want to have to take care of myself alone.   Still trying to push past myself when, like a twist of fate, a long-haired, soft-handed sister zooms in beside me.  Even though she doesn't know, she knows.  With that comforting prayer hand on the back and those whispered, scripture-inflected words of encouragement. He knows. Was it because it was Family Day and the family I do have isn't with me and the family I want to have is not even on the horizon?  He knows.  From my heart to the heavens / Jesus be the center / It's all about You / Yes, it's all about You.

Ups and downs.  Hugs and clasped hands and smiles.  That off sister.  You know that off sister.  She's awkward, overeager, well-meaning.  Her face says, "Would you?" with that constant smile and she waits to see how you will respond.  As nicely as I could, I don't think I'll be able to, er, participate with your Mary Kay sales.

Now that I'm back at my apartment and the blues have subsided: Warm up that chicken broccoli alfredo I made (It's good).  Read that Maureen Dowd column.  Strum on that guitar.  Make that cup of orange spice tea.  Take that nap.  Or read that novel.  It's up to me.

Me to Me

Me: Ugh, you get on my nerves!  Look at you.  Super lazy with a mountain of work to do.  Sitting around inhaling Girl Scout cookies.  You've barely read that novel.  What do you think this is?

Me: Chill out and get off my back.  What have I gotten on all of my graded work so far?  A's.  Yup.  What news did I just get?  That my abstract submission was accepted.  Yup.  So, it's not like I haven't done anything.  You get on my nerves, too.  Old anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive . . .

Me: Oh, so it's like that, huh?  You got a few little A's on response papers.  Whoop-dee-doo.  Do you realize that you have to have a paper proposal along with an annotated bibliography due in a couple of weeks?  Have you lifted a finger to even get started on that?  You think you're gonna be able to whip that up in a couple of days?  No, honey.  And you think you're hot stuff because you're presenting at the grad student panel and at Stony Brook?  You still have to actually get the paper in a presentable form.  As it stands, it's still 18 pages long and in Spanish.  Um, can't present that in English in 20 minutes, now can you?

Me: Leave me alone!  I deserve a break sometime, don't I?  You just wanna work, work, work, work.  That's why you stay cooped up in your apartment all weekend.  When do you ever do anything fun?

Me: Okay, you're saying that now.  But let me tell you something, when you're all tired and cranky and bent out of shape and frazzled because you procrastinated like a lazy procrastinating lazy bum, and then start freaking out when you realize you don't have a lot of time to get a lot of work done, I don't even want to hear it.  No, ma'am.  You bring that crap upon yourself and then have the nerve to complain about it.

Me: Really?  Who doesn't complain about the work they have to do?  I'm a human being.

Me: I have absolutely no sympathy for you.  Do you think anyone really cares about all the work you have to do?  You're in a PhD program.  Duh.  It's supposed to be a lot of work.  This is what you signed up for.  And you're not doing yourself any favors by putting things off and "giving yourself a break."  I'm telling you, I've really had it with you.  Entitled, lazy, procrastinating, Internet-addicted, junk food junkie.  And your hair, good Lord.  You need to do something with that.

Me: Shut up.  My hair is fine.  And what does that have to do with anything anyway?  Everyone said they liked my hair the other day.

Me: See, that's another one of your problems.  Always caring about what everybody else thinks.  Always comparing yourself to other people . . . it's so sickening.

Me: Why are you always so mean to me?  Sit back and stop berating me.  I know I'm not perfect.  I never will be and you need to deal with it.  I'm going to get done what I need to get done when I need to get it done.

Me: (Throws hands up.) All right.  (Nods head knowingly.)  Okay.  Go ahead.  Like I said, I don't even wanna hear it when things get down to the wire.

Me: (Rolls eyes.) Whatever.

A Single Girl's Valentine's Day Reality

This post is the companion piece to yesterday's post, "A Single Girl's Valentine's Day Fantasy."

First let me give a little preamble.  (Go ahead and sigh.)

I love Valentine's Day.  Even though being a singleton has been my lot for a while, I still love it.  Maybe because Valentine's Day is mushy and corny, and I get into mushy, corny stuff.  Maybe because I believe that if you want love, you should show love, and Valentine's Day is a perfect day to show love.  It's also a perfect excuse to wear a cute red dress and go on a sugar binge.

As you may have guessed, I did not get a surprise gift from The One.  In fact, if that had actually happened, I don't know if I would've actually shown up at East West Bistro at 6:00 p.m., because the more I thought about it, the more The One seemed like a creeper.  He knew all of this detailed stuff about me, and we hadn't even met before?  Creeper.  He'd even talked to my overprotective dad without mentioning anything to me?  Um, a little presumptuous.  And even if you do already know what I want to order because you're a mind reader or you just know me that well, it's still actually kind of chauvinistic to order for me.  So, The One, maybe you need to sit back for a minute.

So.  Let's distinguish the rest of my fantasy from reality.   The sun was SO not shining today.  It was super dreary.  But I did rock the frilly red dress and the wavy hair.  Wassuppp!

I wanted to share some Valentine's Day joy.  What better way to do that than cupcakes?  I brought these to class this afternoon.  Cupcakes conquer all.

My classmates didn't eat them all, so I was a little Valentine's Day elf, giving them out to classmates and professors on my way back downstairs, and sat the rest right in the main lobby of the department for any to partake of.  Those bad boys were gone so fast . . . I also got a little surprise in my box from the Valentine's Day Fairy.

So, dear reader, let me tell you how this realistic Valentine's Day is going to end.  It's Tuesday.  Which means I can get a large pepperoni pizza from Papa John's for $4.99.  And just because I didn't get flowers from The One, does that mean I can't have them?  Whatever.  On my way back from picking up my pizza, I'm going to buy some sunflowers.  I know there will be some there for me.  Special things like that are always saved for me.  And though I do have a lot of work to get done (presentation tomorrow, et. al.), I shall have a bubble bath tonight.  Yes, darling, I shall.

Happy Valentine's Day!

A Single Girl's Valentine's Day Fantasy

The sun is shining through my blinds and the light softly falls across my face, and I wake up to the birds singing the sweet songs of morning.  I already know what I'm going to wear.  Red.  Frilly, blushing, Valentine's Day red.  The red dress I choose is stunning, made for a Valentine's Day like this. When I unpin my pin curls, they come down perfectly and my hair is a mane of soft, wavy glory.  Right as I open the door to my apartment to walk to the bus, I find a bouquet of beautiful, bright sunflowers with lavender, heart-shaped balloons attached to the vase at my doorstep.  Right beside it is a cute little stuffed monkey holding an envelope.  When I open up the envelope, I find a Starbucks gift card that will allow me to get a free white chocolate mocha every day for a whole year, as well as a Papa John's gift card that will allow me to get a free pepperoni pizza every day for a year.  There is also a note.  It says:

My dearest Chantell,

It is not enough to say I love you.  Instead, I must tell you what I love of you.  I love the light in your almond-shaped eyes, the cleft in your chin, and the sun in your toothy smile.  I love the joy in your ebullient, sudden, infectious laugh and the way you girlishly cover your mouth because you're afraid it's too loud.  I love your slender fingers and the way you absentmindedly crack your knuckles.  Though it may annoy some, the sound of those pops is music to my ears.  I love the way you walk slightly hunched over from years of carrying a heavy backpack in high school.  Yes, you were and are a nerd, my dear.  And I love your nerdiness.  I love the GRE words you use and your obsession with Maureen Dowd columns because of the vocabulary she uses.  Everything about you, your voice, the way you roll your eyes, the way you respond to things with "whatever" even though you're almost 30 years old and not a teenage valley girl, even your exaggerated disappointment when the automatic stapler doesn't staple your printed articles exactly the way you want it to, all of these things have endeared you to me.  

I know you may be wondering who I am, my dear.  Though it may be hard to believe, I am he.  I am the one you've always wished existed, but whose existence you feared wishing for was unrealistic.  No, my dear, I am a living, breathing man who exists. I am tall, I am erudite, I am bespectacled, I am curly-haired, long-lashed, and rather dashing.  I am also a bit older than you, and I know you like that because I am settled down and established and know exactly what I want.  I have a Colgate smile.  I quote Shakespeare, Langston Hughes and Malcolm Gladwell.  I speak all of the Romance languages, including Romanian.  But most of all, I am Apostolic, I speak in tongues at least once a day, and I wear pants.  And, if you haven't already gotten the point, I love you.

Meet me at East West Bistro downtown at 6:00 p.m. where I have reserved a candlelit table for two.  You'll know me when you see me.  I will be waiting.

Sincerely,

The One

P.S. - I also love your blog.  Now you'll have to change the title from "Where You Can Find Me" to "I Have Been Found."  I found you, my dear.  I have been searching for you all my life, and I have, at long last, found you.

I detect a faint whiff of a delicious, manly fragrance as I study the note once more, then hold it to my nose and inhale.  Ah.  Eternity for Men.

The entire day goes by wonderfully.  I get compliments on my wavy hair and my stunning dress.  The cute Peruvian guy in my program gives me a box of dark chocolate and asks if I have plans for the evening.

"Sorry," I say, "Yes, I do."  He looks after me longingly as I pick up my graded essay on my way out of class.  A plus.

Finally, 6:00 p.m. arrives.  I walk into East West Bistro, and I see him.  The One.  As the note said, I know him as soon as I lay eyes upon him.  When the waiter comes, he orders for me, because he already knows what I want.

"Listen," he begins.  His voice is velvet.  Like dark roast coffee flavored with Italian creme creamer.  "I know what you're thinking, and I want to calm your worries.  First of all, I know you're in the middle of a PhD program.  Don't worry.  I won't be a distraction.  Second of all, your father.  I've already taken care of it.  Check your phone."

I pull out my phone and see a text from Dad.  It says: "Say yes."

He continues, "Just from reading my note and observing me thus far, your gut is telling you that I'm a dedicated man who will take care of you and who will love you for you and will let you be you and wants to have lots of fat brown babies and who will go to church every time the doors are open, isn't it?"

I nod.

"I realize that it will take time for you to get to know me.  I want you to feel comfortable and I don't want to push you into anything.  I am not so presumptuous as to think that a mere Valentine's Day present and a dinner would win you over.  You deserve the very best because you are valuable, you are beautiful, and you are worth it.  I will wait for you.  I will fight for you.  I will support you.  I will be here for you.  And I love you.  Always."

Tears well up in my eyes.  I'm speechless.  "I-I don't even know what to say."

He reaches out for my hand.  "You don't have to say anything.  Let's just enjoy one another's company."

THE END

Stay tuned for tomorrow's companion piece, "A Single Girl's Valentine's Day Reality."

You're beautiful.

Someone told me this tonight in the most sincere and heartfelt way.  It was really unexpected. God knows we need to hear it.  I'm thankful for small, quiet blessings that leave my heart lighter.

New Guitar

Middle bro has been extremely generous of late, and gave me what I'll call an early birthday present for me to buy a new guitar.  The one I've been playing doesn't belong to me, is old and warped and even though it's playable, it's basically past the state of repair.  The action can't be lowered and getting it restrung might cause it to buckle (for you guitar enthusiasts who wanted to know the details).  So, since I'm serious about the guitar, my only recourse was to get a new one.

I asked my guitar instructor for a recommendation, went out this morning, let the store guy know my budget, strummed on a few, and made a decision.  I decided to get one with a slimmer neck because it's easier to grasp, and even though I could have gotten one with a smaller body which would have made it easier to hold, I decided on sticking with a larger body because it produces a fuller sound.  It came with a gig bag (cooler than a case) and I even got a free t-shirt. (And you know I'm all about free t-shirts.)

So, I should be happy, right?  I should have been delighting in my brand new, much easier to play guitar, gleefully rocking out on Mumford & Sons tunes (I can play Mumford's part in this song . . . not as well as he does, of course, but I can do it), improving my attempt at an original song, marveling at the ease with which I can switch chords now on "Mighty to Save" and "From the Inside Out," right?

But instead, I felt this massive wave of buyer's remorse.  Even though everything about the new guitar was "better" than the old one, it somehow wasn't as good as I thought it was going to be.  I didn't feel as great about it as I thought I should have felt.  It was the weirdest thing.  It's so dumb, but it (as do many things, I'm afraid) brought me to tears.  What the heck was the matter with me?  I had just bought an awesome, really nice guitar. It was what I wanted.  Wasn't it?

I sat there and realized a few things: First of all, I'm spoiled.  So, I needed to sit back for a minute and handle my spoiled girl problems. Second of all, I realized that despite it being hard to play and being messed up, the old guitar was what I was used to.  I guess I had gotten attached to it, in all its worn-out glory.  It's going to take me a little while to break the new guitar in and get used to it. Thirdly, this mini-moment allowed me to craft yet more life lesson analogies.

Analogy 1: Sometimes we get so used to a messed up way of thinking/living that when presented with the chance for a brand new, better way, we have a crisis.  Even though you know that you need a better way, that the old way can't sustain you, that something has to change, the messed up way is so ingrained that it clouds your enjoyment of and freedom in the better way.  So ingrained, in fact, that for some, the only resolution to the crisis is to go back to the old way.  Because some people would rather stick with the comfort of what they know even though it sucks than branch out into something awesome because it takes some getting used to and takes making some changes.

Analogy 2: Don't expect finally receiving what you've hoped for to fulfill your every need.  (This kind of scared me, actually.) One of these days, I will eventually get married.  I don't know when, but I believe that I will.  One day someone will get smart enough to snatch me up.  But when that day comes, I can't expect it to complete me.  I can't put so much stock into finally finding The One (SN: I don't really believe there is only one person out there in the universe who can fit the bill) that it's anticlimactic when I realize I'm the same human person with the same human needs that I was before The One swept into my life.  I know I'll be happy.  I know I'll be grateful.  Because, let's be honest, it's going to take a particular kind of person to love me for me. But I have to keep reminding myself that it won't be a cure-all.

Thank you, Lord, for turning my emotional moment into a learning moment.  And now I can go play my new guitar with a new perspective.

Overprotective dads

want their sons to get married like mad, but don't mind a bit if their daughters stay single till kingdom come.

I'm Weird.

I'm taking this class on New World literature.  Like Columbus talking about finding the "Indies," Hernan Cortes talking about how he defeated the Aztec, the Indians thinking the Spaniards were white, two-headed beasts (men on horseback), the Spaniards freaking out about human sacrifice, all of that.

When I was little, we had this condensed, illustrated encyclopedia, and if my mom made me look something up (as she was wont to do), I dreaded accidentally flipping to the "Aztec" entry.  It had a drawing taken from some codex or painting of a man with a little indention in his chest and a priest holding up a heart.  What really freaked me out was a picture right next to that of a bejeweled skull.

Now, I'm on the Indians' side.  Folks got their whole world turned upside down.  Reading all this stuff, I sympathize with the Aztec so much that I'm starting to think of human sacrifice as something awesome instead of something brutal. Not awesome, as in, this is cool, but awesome in the original sense, like, awe-inspiring.

The men who were sacrificed considered it an honor to be sacrificed.  Their bodies were being offered to the gods.  The Spanish criticized them because it seemed a disregard for human life (funny coming from them).  But in fact, they placed a very high value on human life.  So high, that human life was the only thing acceptable to sacrifice to the gods because they were offering their most valuable, their best.

Still glad my God doesn't require human blood for the world to continue, though.  Well . . . I guess He did, in a way.  He offered up Himself.

Snippets

"Cuz you don't have that . . . slang talk, you know?  But I betcha you could do both, right?" Umm, what the heck are you trying to say?


"Your email means a lot to me." You're welcome.  Your class is awesome, and the little complainers need to chill out.


"Have a blessed and safe day." Thank you, bus driver lady.  We need to hear a lot more of that these days.


"No, darlin', we only have size 5 and 7 1/2."  Blast my long foot!


"I meant to tell you that I was impressed that you used a walking bass line in your song."  Thanks . . . I didn't even know that's what that was.