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.