We interrupt your regularly scheduled paper writing madness for this report . . .

This is really weird.  Okay, I've written fiction for youth Sunday School literature for a few seasons in advance (the next series penned by yours truly should be out this summer, so if you teach the Youth class and your church uses Word Aflame Press literature, be on the lookout!).

I wanted the very last series I wrote (due out Winter 2012-2013) before I declined future story writing ventures because of this PhD madness to be out of the box, if you will.  I've always had an affinity for sci-fi, so this time I wrote a futuristic series, filled with flying cars, androids, and all kinds of invented iGadgets.

Part of my story was about government sponsored android labor to minimize offshoring.  I was flipping out when I saw this story in the NYT last year: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/07/12/science/12robot.html?_r=1&src=dayp

But now, another one of my futuristic story features is an acutal phone app! I wrote a story about a girl who finally got what I called a Smartglass.  She would stand in front of it, it would scan her features, and it would give her an attractiveness rating.  Look at this!



Crazy.  Now back to the paper writing show.

Crazy Time

This is a poem 'bout Crazy Time.
For me it comes twice a year.
"What," you may ask, "is Crazy Time?"
The end of semester, my dear.

Papers half written
And hopelessly smitten
With visions of post-finals life.

Grades I'll be gettin
The books I'll be hittin
Dear God, let it more than suffice.

This is a poem 'bout Crazy Time.
The end, tantalizingly near.
Lord, help me get through this Crazy Time,
Gotta kick myself into gear!

Open Letter to a Future Suitor

Dear Future Suitor,

I chose to address this to you, in the singular as opposed to an imagining of a multiplicity of suitors, because ideally, the next person I allow into my lifespace in a significant manner will be it.

I know, that sounds kind of "do or die" or whatever you want to call it, but that's how I feel.  Not "do or die" necessarily, but I guess what I'm saying is that I'm not playing around with you and don't have the time or energy to deal with your indecisiveness.

I guess that sounds kind of mean, and maybe after reading what I just wrote you don't want to be my future suitor anymore, and that's cool.  If you're the indecisive type who needs someone to help you figure out what you want, I get it. I do.  I used to be the Indecisive One.  But now, it's kind of like, dude, figure it out first, and then we can talk.  Seriously, don't suck me into your existential guy issues.  I used to be the girl who was willing to help the guy figure out what he wanted.  In fact, I kind of relished the role.  It allowed me to be noble and I had ample opportunities to nourish the hope that I was what he really wanted.  All I had to do to try to convince him was to let my goodness shine.

But no more.  If you need convincing, you ain't about that life.  No, really.  If you need convincing, then I'm going to have to ask you to go sit back down.

I'm reasonable, Future Suitor, believe me.  I'm not saying don't even approach me unless you have a ring in your pocket, a date marked down in your day planner and the color for the cummerbunds already picked out.  If you did, that would be kind of creepy, not to mention a little presumptuous.  All I'm saying is, you need to already know what you want before you approach me and not assume that I would be available to you to help you figure it out.  If you do your homework like a good Future Suitor, it won't take you too long to know whether I fit the bill.  Because if I did fit the bill, (and, presupposing you even had a conception of what "the bill" even looked like) you wouldn't then begin to languidly mull me over as if you were trying to decide whether you were thirsty enough to take a swig of warm Gatorade.  You would pursue me as if you were a pizza connoisseur and I was a piping hot box of pepperoni made in Little Italy.  That's all I'm saying.

I want you to be clear and stick to it, Future Suitor, that's all.  If you think I'm ya girl, let's talk about it.  If you have doubts that I'm ya girl, then keep it moving.  Don't try to keep me in a no man's land of  "I don't think I really want you, but I don't necessarily want to completely close the door on you, either."  Naw, son.  That right there is what will especially prompt me to tell you to go SEET down.

So, just a few things to keep in mind, Future Suitor. I look forward to meeting you in the near future.

Sincerely,

Me

AWKwaaarrd

1. Talking to my Turkish friend about wedding customs.  Turkish women have henna parties, American women have bachelorette parties and lingerie showers.  Why did I have to bring that up?  And why did I have to offer the gift I gave my friend for her shower as an example?!  It was hilarious, so I thought it would be a good laugh as well as explanatory, but awkward me starts talking about it and I realize that I've just talked my way into weirdness.  Well, what was so funny about my gift?  Well, it was partly a gag gift that had, well . . . (Oh, great.)  Explaining why toy handcuffs and a "special" deck of cards are even fathomable gifts for a bride-to-be to someone who is not American, Christian or fluent in English is just . . . ugh, open mouth, insert foot.  And makes me look like a depraved weirdo.

2. Trying to find a gift for my buddy.  There's a hilarious book I read called How to Be Black by Baratunde Thurston.  It's part memoir, part satire, part political commentary.  I died the entire time I read it.  So I go to Barnes and Noble, go to the African-American section, and can't find it.  A book called How to Be Black HAS to be in the African-American section, right?  Where else would it be, right?  I wandered all over the store for a while, really not wanting to go to Customer Service to ask a Southern white lady about a book called How to Be Black.  But I was wasting time, and Customer Service is there for a reason, so I mulled over how I was going to approach it.  Of course, I chose the awkward route.

Me: Um, hi.  I'm looking for a book called, uh, the title of the book I'm looking for is, um, How to Be Black. (nervous laugh).  I looked in the African-American section, I mean, because a book with that title would surely be there, (nervous laugh), but I couldn't find it.  I was wondering if you could check for me?  (Ugh!  Was all that explanation even necessary?!)

Lady: (Looking it up in the database) Here it is.  How to Be Black by, uh, Bara . . tun . . de . . .?

Me: Yeah, Baratunde Thurston.

Lady: It's actually in the Humor section.  (She leads me over to it.)

Me: (sheepishly) Thanks.

Aaargh!  Awkward, clueless woman that I am!  Why did I not fathom that the book that was SO funny could possibly be in the HUMOR section?!  And the awful explanation I gave.  Ugh.  I really didn't want to ask her, but still, I could have done without the preamble of what section I thought it would be in (i.e. It's the section I think you would think it's in too, white Customer Service lady.)  SO awkward.

3. Driving home listening to Christian radio.  The radio station sponsors a Father/Daughter Date Night at Chick-fil-a or something.  When you think Father/Daughter Date Night, you think, "Awww," right? I'm a Daddy's Girl, aww, that's so sweet, Daddy's little girl.  Awww. But tonight the announcer was like, "We've had Father/Daughter Date Night, and now we're going to sponsor Mother/Son Date Night . . . " Um, record halt scratchingly awkward!  Why does Father/Daughter Date Night sound sweet and sentimental, but Mother/Son Date Night sound creepy and developmentally delayed?  LOL.  I could not stop laughing.  Mother/Son Date Night just sounds emasculating, Oedipal, and awkward.  I don't know why.  Maybe it's just me.

Desaparecido

During the 70s in Argentina and other countries in the Southern Cone, state-sponsored terrorism produced a group of people who suddenly, were “desaparecido.”  Disappeared.  Some of the people taken into custody were anti-government militants fighting against state repression, others simply held views of the opposition or were just suspected of having anti-government ties.  Some were even children, babies, who were kidnapped and either never seen again or even raised by those who had victimized others.  People who were kidnapped were interrogated, tortured and killed. 

Last semester, I took a Southern Cone course, and near the end the semester, we watched a movie called Garage Olimpo, which was based on one of the most notorious clandestine detention and torture centers.  Yesterday, I had the chance to meet one of the men who survived that center and many others.  In fact, one of the characters in the movie, a man forced to repair an instrument of torture, was based upon this real-life man’s experience. 

Some people would say Mario Villani was fortunate because most people were killed shortly after being taken into custody.  The main reason he was able to survive was because, as he had training in engineering, he was skilled in repairing electronics and he proved useful.

Just the thought that this man lived through all I had read and all I had seen in movies brought tears to my eyes.  It was just unbelievable.   I cannot even begin to explain how it made me feel. He questioned how far he should go in “helping” the torturers, he questioned whether there were really any side, he questioned why he survived.  I can’t even begin to understand the mental, aside from the physical anguish.

Here’s what he said that really got me though, he said that he believed that there was really no black and white.  That everyone, victimizers and victims, were in a sort of gray area.  He said what he realized through his experience that the same force that would motivate someone to torture another human being was in him as well.  That it's in all of us.  

When I went up to get my book signed, unable to hold back tears, I told him thank you for sharing his experiences.  He wrote: Para Chantell, con la esperanza de seguir compartiendo.  With the hope of continuing to share.

Tiny Baby

My friend has a tiny baby in her stomach!  That's all I can say.  I'm so excited!

I love you, friend, and I'm with you, 100%.

The Trouble with White Boys

Just because something is racial doesn't mean it's racist.
                                                    — L.L. Etnach

Humor me as I attempt to suss out exactly what it is about the lighter side of the guy spectrum that is giving me a particular kind of pause.

Because of how I've grown up and the paths I've gone down and the situations in which my life has placed me, I'm pretty much resigned to the grand possibility of marrying someone who might not be black.  When I say resigned, I don't mean it as a negative thing.  I just mean it as recognizing it as a not-unlikely reality.

It's just when I examine my interactions with the opposite sex throughout the years, I've found that the white boy instances have been rather awkward, troublesome or drama-laden, and I'm starting to wonder if they're more trouble than they're worth.  The age-old question: Causation or correlation?  To be fair, I must recognize that the overwhelming majority of people in the Deep South, where my post-pubescent years unfolded, didn't have the European military brat upbringing that I did, so that had something to do with the "trouble," I'm sure.  The fact that a vigilant, overprotective black father was (and still is) in the mix probably added to the "trouble" as well.  My dad's the greatest guy you'll ever meet, but it wouldn't be unfair to consider the possibility that whiteness was perhaps an added reason for wariness and heightened vigilance where guys were concerned.  And, I must add that in a few of these instances, there were other factors that didn't have to do with race directly that were a larger part of the "trouble."

Now, all of this is not to say that non-white guys haven't caused trouble as well.  Lord knows I'm a lie if I led anyone to believe that.  My utter disavowal of the phrase "It is what it is," is a direct result of a couple of black guys employing it to justify their flakiness.  Naw, son.  It ain't just what it is.  And we shall skip over discussion of other non-white nationalities and ethnicities who have needed to sit themselves down at various points in time as well. Ahem.

But back to the white boy question. I guess I've been pondering it lately because white guys have been a little ubiquitous as of late.  They're my mild-mannered professors with adorable nervous mannerisms, my guitar instructors, my buddies, my FB wall posters, my texters.  And concerning the last category in particular, I'm just asking myself, Do I really want to go there? I just don't know.

I mean, maybe it's just my past experiences that are making me feel iffy.  I used to be one of those "color doesn't matter, love is blind" people, but my idealism has been tempered with reality.  Maybe part of me feels like they're a maddening mixture of presumptuous and oblivious.  Sometimes people don't think about things or consider things not because they're horrible, apathetic people, but simply because they don't have to.

It just seems like it would be easier and less awkward to settle down with someone else of color.  Probably so.  As my former students would say, that's real talk, cuz.

But in the end, one thing is for sure: Whoever he is, whatever color he is, wherever he's from, however he grew up, God is going to have to be all up in it.

He's Alive!

So glad the ick of yesterday wore off.  I felt like I was swimming in molasses that day.  I was so happy when I got done with that paper proposal.  Took me forever to find sources.  

So, I got up this morning all bouncy.  Happy the paper proposal slavery was over (for now), happy that it was Easter, happy that I was going to wear my favorite color and put my hair up and was listening to my Ron Kenoly Easter song . . . got a phone call, chattering away while getting ready for church.  But then, sad news.

It knocked the wind out of me.  I feel bad for my mom because when she called me, she knew all along she was going to have to deliver the sad news and she knew how I was going to react, but had to tell me anyway.  Ah, well.  I started flipping out a little because I didn't get a chance to see her . . . the last time we went to the hospital we didn't make it for visiting hours.  It's okay, we'll come next time.  But you don't always get a next time.  My mom is so sweet.  She reminded me that I did get a chance to see her . . . that time a group of us went over to her house when she got out of the hospital the first time.  I brought my guitar and we sang some worship songs and she had enough strength to go over to the piano and play herself.  "You ministered to her that day."  She was basically everybody's grandmother and she had already overcome SO much.  Why wouldn't she pull through again?  You just think people will always be around.  But it was her time.  Rest in peace, Sis. Geraldine.

It's so bittersweet to reflect on death on Easter.  We're human and eventually succumb to death.  Jesus Himself died.  Willingly.  For us.  But he overcame it.  Every time I think about it, I'm encouraged.  He conquered death.  Here's an Easter thought that I'd never heard before until this morning: When the stone was rolled away, it wasn't to let Jesus out of the tomb.  It was to show the Marys who showed up that morning that he was already gone.  In Matthew, the angel was just like, "He is not here."  When God rolls away the stone, it's not to show you what He's doing, but what He's already done.  I have a tendency to work myself up over what I'm going to do about whatever, how whatever is going to work out, and all the while, God's like, "Girl, I've already handled that."  Like we're praying, "God, just tell me what You're going to do, show me how it's going to happen," and when He pulls back the curtain, it's already done. 

Happy Easter!

Me and My Contradictions

God, help me finish writing this paper proposal.  I've been hit with a wave of sluggishness.  I need to sleep better/eat better/start working out/not procrastinate/start taking vitamins.  The usual.  If I could bundle these things into a gelcap, pop it, wash it down with some Italian creme-laced coffee, let it work, and then miraculously spring into action, would it be enough?  Or would the blame lie yet somewhere else afterward?

What springs tears to my eyes is this thought, unfruitful as it may be: If I brought someone from church to one of my classes, they wouldn't believe how I could tolerate such liberal, academese-laced "agendas."  And if I brought one of my classmates to church, they wouldn't believe how I could tolerate such rigid, dogmatic "intolerance."  This seeming contradiction feels at the heart of me, and on those Saturday afternoons, bewailing my procrastinating ways, seeing the world thorough hormone-colored glasses (knowing it, but being unable to stop myself), it feels lively, tender and fresh.

The self-fulfilling prophecy of you-don't-wanna-get-too-close. I mean, I get along with everybody but I haven't really connected with anybody.  Because you-don't-wanna-get-too-close.  Excited your professor invited you to lunch on your birthday.  A genius/mentor who, at 33, an established professor, scholar and dedicated mother, is impressed with you.  The thinly veiled nervousness under the surface because in reality, you-don't-wanna-get-too-close.  You play the guitar!  Why don't you start coming to worship practice?  We'd love to have you with the worship team to play along. Flattered, but hesitant about the prospect of getting up there.  Because then you'd be exposed.  You'd suck inquiry and scrutiny into you like a vacuum, and in reality, you-don't-wanna-get-too-close.

It's not that the sunshine in me isn't real.  I laugh the same shameless laugh no matter where I am.  That much is true.  If you want a grasp of me, I can offer you funny and bright.  I can self-deprecatingly laugh my way through it and around it.  Sure, we can continue class discussions and talk about other stuff after class over coffee or dinner, sure.  Sure, we can talk about my awkward guy/fatherly overprotectiveness stories after church over pizza, sure. But I'm stuck with you-don't-wanna-get-too-close.  I'm stuck with the tension of that seeming contradiction.  And I know that I'm going to have to deal with it.  Resolving it is out of my hands, I guess.  But the realization that dealing with it will be constant.  The feeling that being put in the position of having to constantly deal with it seems somehow unfair.  Wondering if anyone will ever be up for the challenge of getting close enough to understand, and if they do, wondering if they'll be able to value what I have to offer.  Love me and my contradictions.

Letter to B+

Dear B+,

I don't get you.  No, seriously, I don't get grades like you.  Last semester you thought you were being slick by showing up on a response paper.  You know, it didn't count for that much of my final grade, you thought maybe I wouldn't notice or that I wouldn't care as much.  Oh, I noticed all right, and I certainly did care.  I just didn't say anything.  Not to you, anyway.

But now, this semester, you've gone too far.  This time you had the brazen audacity to show up on a midterm!  A midterm!  Naw, son.  Am I going to have to file a restraining order against your behind?

How else can I express to you that you are NOT WELCOME on my papers?  What, you think because you have a "plus" attached that I should be cool with you?  Psshh!  You're still a B.  And I don't get Bs.  That plus don't change a thing.  Get ya head right, B+!  You are NOT the business, you are mad unattractive, there is nothing about you that would make me want you, and there is nothing you can do to change my mind.  Stay AWAY from my papers.

I seriously can't stand you.  What made you think that appearing on a midterm was going to endear you to me? Get outta my life. You are rebuked from ever entering my lifespace ever again.  Go bother someone else who thinks your "plus" schtick is cute.  There are plenty of students out there who would gladly have you, I'm sure.

But not me, honey.  My standards are pretty high.  Call me picky, but there you have it.  It doesn't take that much more effort to transform into at least an A-, if my papers are what you think you want.  Come back as an A of any variety, and then we can talk.  Otherwise, stay the heck away.

Sincerely,

Me

Post-Birthday Musings

So, the big 3-0 has arrived.

I'm so glad that I feel good about it.  God knew what He had to do so that I could arrive at this point in my life and be content.

The me that I was before I moved to Georgia (well, let's say the me that I was post-graduation from Auburn, during and after France right up until the beginning of the summer before I moved) would have had such a problem with it.  Now that I can see some things in retrospect, I see more clearly than ever how I nearly let fear ruin my life.  Thank God I was able to refuse to let it dictate to me anymore.

It's such garbage.  Or rather, giving into fear gives you a tolerance for garbage.  It's like an ugly, self-fulfilling prophecy.  You make a decision based on fear, which then produces consequences which prompt you to make additional fear-based decisions.  Every step you take to try to get out of the hole is superficial, ineffective, counterproductive and insecure.  It's the flimsiest cover-up.  The saddest lie that you work tirelessly to convince yourself of in vain.

I promised myself never to go back to that place ever again.  I thank God for new days.

My birthday was a reminder that there are people who care about me, support me, and wish the best for me.  I'm encouraged and grateful.