Mid-Twenties

Thursday, I officially entered the world of the mid-twenties. Technically. I mean, usually 20-23 is considered “early twenties,” 24-26 is “mid” and then 27-29 is “late,” right? Or maybe I can sort of hang on to early twenties just for this year. I’m not yet on the other side of 25, which is the true midpoint, I guess.

It was fun. I taught my Spanish class, and afterward my family and a few friends accompanied me to my favorite Mexican restaurant. My parents got me a digital camera, which is something I wanted for a while, and my brother got me a couple of t-shirts from one of my favorite movies, Napoleon Dynamite. One said “Pedro’s Got Your Back” underneath an outline of Pedro’s cousins in their ghetto ride. The other one said “I Voted for Pedro” underneath a dopey looking picture of President Bush. I had a really good laugh. And those of you who have heard my laugh know what that means . . .

Speaking of good laughs, earlier that day I was listening to my students’ final project presentations. They have to choose a Spanish-speaking country, create a travel brochure (with specific info included that I’ve outlined for them) and then give a presentation about it—I try to let them have fun with it, give them a chance to bring food, etc., so it’s something the kids look forward to. One particular student, an 8th grader, chose the Spanish-speaking country in Africa, Equatorial Guinea. (I didn’t even know there was a Spanish-speaking country in Africa until pretty recently.) Anyway, some of their main foods, she explained, are plantains and dried fish. “And speaking of dried fish, well, I brought something.” All the kids were expecting this, I suppose. It must have been the talk of the day. “Well, see, my pet fish died a few days ago. His name was Rainbow.” Apparently, instead of disposing of him, she set him outside to dry. I refused to believe she had actually done this until she produced him out of the plastic cup she had for the class to see. There he was, dried, perfectly preserved, and eyeless. (Yeah, she had even gone as far as to remove the deceased fishie’s eyes.) The whole class erupted. I know I’m supposed to be the teacher and in control and everything, but that was too much—I lost it. For several minutes straight we just all had a belly-shaking, tear-jerking laugh. I mean, that’s dedication. To dry out your dead former pet, take out his eyes, and bring him to school in a cup, all for a Spanish presentation. Wow. She also brought banana nut bread to share (they eat bananas and nuts in Equatorial Guinea as a main food source also), and before she could lift the little covering she had over the plate of banana nut bread, kids in the class yelled, “Wash your hands!” Dried fish germs. Yeah.

I want to give a shout out and a thank you to all of those friends who remembered me on my birthday. You guys sure made me feel special. ¡Muchas gracias!

Addendum

I've never blogged more than one entry in a day, but I just have to share this, and it seemed wrong to try to add it on the end of what I previously posted. Though the previous entry was posted just a few minutes ago, it was actually typed earlier in the evening. Now, I'm just getting back from church. This was given to me by a brother who's been attending church (as well as my Spanish classes) consistently for a while now. He signed it with a pseudonym (I'm not exactly sure why . . . I guess I'll ask him later) so I can share it with you in its entirety without compromising anyone's identity or whatever. It was very sweet and encouraging. See for yourself:

Christ knows all about your struggles.
He will never leave you or forsake you.
A is for the amazing smile that you have.
No weapon that is formed against you shall prosper.
The Lord is your shepherd, so you will not want.
Every one of your enemies will be made your footstool.
Lean not to your own understanding.
Love the Lord with all of your heart.

Note: I just typed this so that I could encourage you. I can discern in my spirit that Satan is trying to make you feel that you are less than what you are. But God wants you to know that he loves you, and that he always will.

Today, I Was Back on Top

Yesterday was the first day of my still relatively new career that I have ever taken an official sick day. I mean, I’ve gone to school feeling a bit under the weather before—I like to think of myself as a tough cookie—I can usually weather it out. But yesterday morning was like “waa-waa-waaaaah” (you know that sound where someone gets something wrong on an old game show or like if something bad happens on some cartoon or on Sesame Street?). Sore throat, congestion, and it felt like the right side of my face was swollen or puffy or something. It wasn’t happening.

I called in and soon dragged myself out of bed so that I could run by the school real quick to drop off copies of a test my students were to take. As soon as I got home, I collapsed into the bed and didn’t get up again until something after 10 a.m., and to the doctor I went.

Thank goodness it wasn’t strep or anything. The doctor advised me to accept a shot of cortisone to relieve the puffiness in my face. The catch? The shot would be administered in the derrière. I was down, I mean, whatever. It was supposed to make me feel better, right? The cortisone shot did work quickly, as doc said, but then I spent the rest of the day with a slight dull ache in the hiney. (sigh) Ya win some, ya lose some.

I didn’t even think of the possible scandalousness of the shot situation until after I told my dad, “Yeah, I got prescribed some antibiotics, I had a get a shot in the (you know what),” and my dad was like, “It wasn’t a cute hottie that gave you the shot, was it?” “Dad!” I exclaimed prudishly, “C’mon, it was a lady.” The thought that it could have been a hot male nurse administering the shot had never crossed my mind until my overprotective dad said something. (The following said with a trembling Southern drawl:) The good Lord knew I couldn’t have handled it if it were. He never gives us more than we can bear. Oh, praise Him.

Anyway, today, I felt 100% better. I was ready. I bounded out of bed early. I got my little lesson together for my elementary babies. I had those old quizzes graded and ready to be passed back for my middle schoolers and got the stuff together to grade their final projects. I put grades in the system and updated them on our little online thing. I responded to emails, I was knocking stuff out left and right. Today, I was back on top.

::sighs deeply::

Like I said last post, not much of a break. But it’s been a fruitful one, I guess. I got 2 out of my 5 response papers done, and I’m well into the reading for response paper #3. That’s pretty good, I guess. I went ahead and sent them in, and my future professor wrote back and said they looked good. Awwrright! (And for those of you who know of my obsession with professorial praise, you know how big of a deal that is. lol.)

I went on a little detour last post and went on and on about how rewarding my job is and stuff, but I must issue a caveat: Teaching is not for those who hate grading papers—especially quizzes that most of your students did atrociously on. Here I am, at the end of Spring Break with quizzes that remain ungraded. Well, I started grading them . . . I think I even got through a class, but I was just bleeding red ink, and I lost hope. ::sighs deeply:: I’m just going to do this: If a student receives a worse quiz grade than the first one he/she took, I’ll throw it out. If it’s better than the first, then I’ll count it. So, it’s a win-win situation . . . sort of. The kids are excited about Spanish, and I’m thrilled that they have so much enthusiasm about it, but there’s a difference between having enthusiasm about learning something and actually retaining the info. Yep.

I did something I thought I’d never do today. I was enticed into Lifeway Christian Stores to buy the accompaniment track to this beautiful song called “Held.” (Not saying I’m going to sing it at church, but I sort of want to. Gotta practice it first, though.) But then, I found myself wandering over to the “Single Living” section. I usually avoid that section of the Christian bookstores like the plague. All of the titles ooze desperation and/or announce “I’m officially entering into old maidhood”: What to Do While You’re Waiting for Mr. Right. Living Whole Without a Better Half. If Men Are Like Buses, How Can I Catch One? ( I almost embarrassed myself laughing out loud at that one.) And they’re usually geared towards women. There was only one I saw geared for guys, and it was titled something like How to be God’s Gift to Women. Ugh. So anyway, I never wanted to be that single girl who had a collection of “waiting for a man” books. But then I gave in. ::sighs deeply:: Well, I won’t say it’s a “waiting for a man” book. It piqued my interest, which is very, very, hard for a book of its genre to do. It’s called Revelations of a Single Woman: Loving the Life I Didn’t Expect. Hmmm . . . I picked it up and started reading. The author cites a Newsweek article on the first page, which talks about “a generation of women who, now living between college and marriage, have been raised to believe that the world could be theirs. And now, out in that world, these women are ‘unsteadily navigating a barrage of choices our mothers never had the chance to make.’” That is so me. I was sold. So, maybe my faith in the Christian “Single Living” genre will be revived. We’ll see.

Well, back to procrastinating on grading these blasted quizzes (meant to be said with an angered British accent). ::sighs deeply::

Not Much of a Break

This upcoming week is designated as Spring Break. Ordinarily, I’d veg out and sleep in and just have a glorious week of do-nothing bliss. (Quite unlike my rather well to do students who are going to Cancun and Disneyworld and stuff). But oh, no. Not this time, baby. What am I going to be doing? Grading papers that I’ve put off grading for the longest and spending every possible shred of time reading and writing response papers for this Paul class coming up at UGST this summer. If I don’t do it now, over Spring Break, it’ll never get done. And I just have to . . . I just can’t let May 29th roll up on me being unprepared. I won’t have it. Yes, I do claim the title of Queen of Procrastination—I serve my loyal subjects like no other queen would, but then my anal retentive side kicks in and gets the ball rolling. And once anal retentiveness (AR) kicks into gear, it’s over. See, AR don’t care. AR don’t play. He busts up in the place and forces the Queen to abdicate, or else. If I procrastinate the night before, AR makes sure I’m up early enough (even if it’s 3:30 a.m.) to get it done (and done right) the following day. If I’ve been procrastinating for several months to get some books read, say, AR will make sure I get it done in a week. Hence, the title of this post.

In other news, I just realized that my brother is cool. Well, I have two of them; the one I’m referring to is the 21-year-old who moved out not too long ago. When I moved back home, and he was still living at home, he simply got on my nerves (Lord knows I probably got on his). He was like the bane of my existence. He’s this 6-foot hulk who was always in the way and could be downright rude with characteristic brotherly nastiness. He always seemed to barrel his way into everything, would leave the bathroom an intolerable wreck, and would sit at the table and slurp his cereal. Grrrrr. But once he left, the dynamics changed. I began to miss my little hulk. Whenever I see him at church or when he stops by the house every once in a while I always give him a big hug and we actually talk and laugh and have meaningful conversations. In fact, I’m going over to his place tonight to chill and eat pizza and watch a movie. Who would ‘a thunk it?

And last little random side note: If you need a self-esteem booster, become a middle or elementary school teacher. Though I get germs and sicknesses from my little dear ones, I also get lots of love. I get hugs and compliments every day, even from the big kids. That is not to say that teaching doesn’t get tiring and that the kids are all perfect angels. Absolutely not. Oh . . . I have my days. But teaching has a way of making you put your best foot forward, even when you don’t feel up to par, and making you put a smile on your face for the sake of the kids, even when you don’t feel like it. And soon, you realize that you really are happy, because you are doing what you love. (sigh) I hope my optimism about my profession doesn’t wax cynical with the passage of time.

Well, anyway, if there’s a blog drought for a little bit, you’ll know that it’s not my will, but AR’s be done. Like I said, he’s no joke.

80 Percent Off

Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity (Ecclesiastes 1:2).

It was insane. The Parisian at Montgomery Mall is going out of business, and everything, I repeat, everything, is 80% off.

I mean, that is like glorious paradise to people who like to shop for clothes . . . like me. I mean, I felt like a kid walking into a candy store and the owner saying, “Okay, everything is a penny.” Or like going into Red Lobster and the manager saying, “Okay, you can choose 5 entrees for a buck.” Or like, going to a travel agency and the lady saying, “Alright, you can have 10 round trips to Spain for $2.50.”

See, and I had just told God I was going to stop. I used my $10 off and 30% off coupons as an excuse to shop at New York & CO last weekend. And then, for being a “valued customer” I got a 20%-off-of-your-favorite-item coupon in the Lerner catalog, and they had this smashing denim dress . . . come on, I had to use the 20% off before it expired!

But then I had to get real and tell myself to stop using “I have to use this coupon before it expires” as an excuse to buy stuff I don’t really need. Isn’t the purpose of my living at home for now to save money?

But to top it off, Parisian had to go out of business. And you (well, those of you who are well-versed in the shopping realms) know that Parisian stuff ain’t cheap. But 80% off basically turned it into the Salvation Army. At my mom’s simple suggestion to “just go out and see what they have,” I caved in and tagged along.

As I was gleefully hunting through racks of skirts and jackets and what not, I felt a stab of Solomonic conviction in my heart. “All is vanity” kept going through my mind. Then, the little wannabe activist in me rose up and started berating me for falling into our country’s classic vices of giving into excess and materialism. “You capitalist pig!” the inner wannabe activist shouted. While I snickered a little at the accusations of my inner activist, I did feel Solomon’s world-weariness. Why am I getting all this stuff just because it’s there to be gotten? All is vanity. I put a few things back on the rack. (Okay, I didn’t put it all back. I’m not up for sainthood any time soon.)

In the end, I got two skirts, a jacket, a suit, and one of those flower pins for less than $40. I didn’t go overboard, just got a few nice things for ridiculously reduced prices. I would have made Solomon proud. Maybe. Or maybe he would have seen me all dolled up in my new cute 80% off clothes and would have wanted to add me to his harem of concubines. Ya just never know.

Gospel Music and Me

I’ve never been a big fan of gospel music. The only time I ever used to listen to it at all was on Sunday mornings while getting ready for church, compliments of my mom. Now, when I say gospel music, I’m talking about the down-home, black folk, foot-stompin’, hittin’ a tambourine so hard and long that you rub your palms raw, Jesus-screamin’ kind of gospel. There’s only so long the ending of a song can be, you know what I’m saying?

But what kind of noise usually blasts itself from the speakers of my CD player? Christian rock, usually. Audio Adrenaline, Newsboys, Jars of Clay, tobyMac, Switchfoot—those kinds of folks. Why wailing electric guitars and driving drum beats seem to get me going more than more . . . soulful sounds is beyond me. I’ve stopped trying to figure out why my tastes are the way they are. To be honest, I used to be ashamed of it, and I always despised being criticized for not being “down.” But I guess I’ve finally realized that stereotypes rarely apply to real people living real lives in the real world, and that what I’m “supposed” to listen to is whatever suits my fancy. As I step down from my soapbox . . .

But I guess what has inspired me to write this is that I’m gaining this new appreciation for gospel music. It has slowly inched its way into my car radio listening time. Especially in the mornings, when I’m heading to work, it puts me in a positive frame of mind. I’m gonna start this day off right. It gives me this warm, nostalgic feeling, like the smell of blueberry muffins baking in the oven that makes me feel that everything is right with the world. One morning, this song “I’m Blessed” came on. I’m blessed/ Truly blessed/ I got my health/ and I got my strength/ Thank God I’m blessed . . . gospel music is starting to make light bulbs come on in my head. Like, simple revelations that somehow penetrate to the core. I mean, all of a sudden: What, for the love of God, do you have to complain about? You lack nothing. Didn’t you go to bed last night with a roof over your head? Do you ever go hungry? Don’t you have a great job and a loving family? Be thankful! Thank you, gospel music. I think I’m finally starting to see you for who you really are. I need your simple reminders and your nudging wake-up calls.

A Feeling I Can't Put My Finger On, Hypothetically

The way I'm feeling right now is sort of weird. Not uncommon for me, I guess. I'm not devestated, no. Quite far from that. I can't exactly say that I'm jealous . . . I mean, what for? Hmmmm . . . it's like a mixture of longing and contentment. Maybe I can explain by constructing a hypothetical situation:

Let's say a hypothetical girl and a hypothetical guy fell for each other. The hypothetical guy loved the hypothetical girl almost unconditionally, but the hypothetical girl always seemed a little unsure. In the end, the hypothetical girl broke up with the hypothetical guy. It hypothetically devestated them both, but they have hypothetically remained friends. Let's say that one day, the hypothetical girl puts two and two together and realizes that the hypothetical guy is most likely talking to another hypothetical girl now. Let's say that one day the hypothetical guy and the original hypothetical girl are hypothetically small talking and the hypothetical girl casually asks if the hypothetical guy is "talking to anyone." The hypothetical girl's hypothetical suspicions are hypothetically confirmed. How is the hypothetical girl, hypothetically, to feel?

Well, hypothetically, I'd say on one hand, she is happy for the hypothetical guy. She truly and hypothetically wishes that things work out. She, after all, is the one who hypothetically decided that the hypothetical guy wasn't it. She hypothetically remembers wanting him to hypothetically find someone else who wouldn't be so fickle and unsure as she hypothetically was and that would hypothetically want him wholeheartedly, without reservation. Because that is what he hypothetically deserved. But on the other hand, I'd say the hypothetical girl feels this hypothetical longing. She still feels hypothetically drawn to him in a way, and hypothetically remembers when they were together. Perhaps it's because the hypothetical guy was the closest she's ever hypothetically had to the real deal, and the real deal is something she hypothetically longs for. And she sees that the hypothetical guy has hypothetically moved on, and she's left wondering if she has.

So, if, shall we say, the hypothetical girl were me, the way she would hypothetically feel would describe this weird feeling I have right now.

Spanish and Sudoku

Tonight was the debut of the first ever Spanish class sponsored by my church and taught by yours truly! I had almost 20 people show. The lesson tonight was on the sounds of the Spanish language. We had a ball rolling our 'r's and what not. Afterward, people told me that they enjoyed it; I enjoyed teaching it. So, I will have to say that it was a success. This will be a weekly deal, so maybe even more will come as the class progresses. Who knows what God is going to do? I just have a good feeling about it.

On a completely different note, I'm being sucked into the lure of Sudoku. See, I'm not usually one to follow the current crazes. I never read The DaVinci Code because it was like this craze and everyone was reading it. I'll probably read it sometime soon, now that the buzz has pretty much died down now. I just hate doing what everyone else is doing at the time. I never got into those cut-off jackets either. See, I don't even know what they're called. You know, those jackets (usually denim) that are like all the rage that have half of the back cut off? Never got into that. So, imagine my surprise when Sudoku made its entrance in my life. I just decided to try it, just once wouldn't hurt, right? But, oh, I'm starting to get hooked. The rules are so simple, but the logic it takes to solve them is almost . . . intoxicating. Ooh.

Something for the Grandkids

I don't know what it is . . . is it like, remnants of Valentine's Day lingering in my brain? Is it that there was a wedding at the church yesterday? Is it my non-existent love life propelling me to revisit things from back in the day?

I don't even know what made me remember that I had this saved in the archives of my old email. It was written as a final goodbye to this French guy that I met on my excursion to Paris while I was studying abroad in Spain. No, I never kept in touch with him once I left for the States; there was absolutely no earthly reason why that would have even been a consideration. Things lose the magic when you try to carry them on. Reality starts to overtake it. So, I kind of sent this out into the void, leaving things in the magical way that I remembered them, not expecting a response. He called that night, wishing me well in a thick French accent. C'est la vie:

Hola Stephane,

I know it's been a while, but I just wanted to tell you that today is my last day in Spain. I'm leaving tomorrow. Being in a foreign country has allowed me to meet people that I never would have met in my own country, and among those people is you. You were such an interesting guy, even from the first time I saw you. For some reason, it was so fascinating to meet someone that looked very much like me that had an authentic French accent and considered himself French before anything else and was from an island that I'd never even heard of before. And after that dream-like time in Paris, who would have thought that I'd ever see you again? But I did, and had another dream-like time in Valencia. I know that you are a busy guy, and that you have your own life in Paris (of all places!) and that you are not obligated to keep in touch with me for any reason. I'm not asking for that at all. I just wanted to let you know that for me, you were one of those people that you meet once in your life that maybe you'll never see again, but that you'll always remember. Take care, and I wish you the best in all you do.

Besos,

Chantell

Blank

There are moments of time where I will sit, stare into space, and do nothing. I become enveloped in a world of blankness in a near catatonic state. I have done this since I was a child; my mom told me once that she took me to the doctor because of it when I was a toddler. (The doctor said I was fine.) If I’m in the company of others during these times, someone is bound to wave a hand in front of me, summoning me back to earth. But when I’m alone . . .

Sometimes, I’m deep in thought, and time literally ceases to have an effect on me. A whole half hour could go by and it seem like a minute. Others, I’m not even thinking. I’m just floating in oblivion.

I’m not exactly sure why I do this, what brings it on. I will admit that it happens more often than not when I’m on the moody side, but usually the moments are not moments of pure melancholy. It’s almost like my body shuts down because my mind arrests all of my energy. Even though the rational part realizes that I’m wasting time, allowing precious seconds and minutes to slip by that could be used to do something more productive, it’s not enough to catapult me out of it right away.

It seems as if lately, I have been slipping into blankness more often than I usually do. I guess because, as it stands, there are still so many unanswereds. And when I try to grab hold of something, to pull it to me and embrace it for assurance, it eludes me. I grasp at air. Blankness. Choices defy definition. They don’t fall into categories of “what should be done” or “selfish” or “the most probable and convenient” or “not worth the time” or “too risky.” Right now, they’re kind of floating around like amorphous blobs. Amoeba of the mind.

I do believe that God is ordering my steps, so technically (spiritually, whatever), I should put it to rest, I suppose. But it feels uncomfortable. I can’t see clearly, there’s a haze in front of me everywhere I turn, and I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m really supposed to be doing.

I will just have to content myself with being in the haze for a while. Something tells me that things will come clearly in time.

The Ghetto Paul Returns

See here for the first installment. Now, I knew this verse was in Galatians, but when I read it again the other day, I just sat there and laughed for a minute:

“But when Peter came to Antioch, I withstood him to the face, because he was to be blamed” (Galatians 2:11).

Basically Peter was acting in an uncool manner because at first he was all good with the Gentiles not eating kosher and he would sit down to eat with them, not caring. But when the other Jews who were a part of the evangelizing group came, verse 12 says that Peter kind of backed off and separated himself from the Gentiles because he feared being criticized.

Paul was having none of it. What’s funny is that he doesn’t try to sugar coat Peter’s error. He doesn’t say, “Well, I didn’t really agree with what Peter did.” He doesn’t say, “Peter probably could have made a better choice.” No, he said, “He was to be blamed.” In other words, Peter was flat-out, inexcusably out of line. Paul was basically saying to Peter, “You wrong, dog. For real.” He wasn’t playing.

And on top of that, he “withstood him to the face.” Peter didn’t have to come off saying, “Come on, say it to my face, say it to my face!” because Paul was admittedly all up in his grill, and wasn’t backing down. Paul wasn’t going behind Peter’s back saying stuff, naw, he manned up, said what he had to say to his face, right then and there. Nowadays, we could probably say that Paul punked him.

Paul is my man. He’ll set a man straight in a heartbeat, youknaamean?

Anonymous Gift-Giver Revealed

Tonight, I went out with former anonymous gift-giver. He let me choose the place, so I chose my favorite food of all time, Mexican. ¡Arriba!

He was someone I had suspected, but had ruled out for reasons that I thought were valid. So when he finally revealed himself, I was surprised, but not so surprised.

We had a good time, laughed, and had good conversation over quesadillas, chile relleños and taco salad. I will admit that at first, I thought it was going to be awkward, because honestly, I had never spent one-on-one time with former anonymous gift-giver before. But the conversation flowed, and I felt comfortable and at ease. I tried to hold back on speaking too much Spanish with the waiters, I didn't want a repeat of this. Lordy, no.

Former anonymous gift-giver is cool. He has always been like a brother to me, and now he is an even greater friend. I will admit that perhaps my previous opinion of former anonymous gift-giver had not always been positive. I have accused him of being "mean." lol. But he has definitely proven himself to be quite the opposite, and I am very appreciative and grateful. The flowers are still beautifully brightening up my room, my heart boxers-wearing monkey balloon is still hovering happily around, and I'm still working on that box of chocolates!

Former anonymous gift-giver, thanks for giving me the most special Valentine's Day I've ever had, and thanks for a great night over Mexican food. Dat man cleeeean. You do it all supa-killa, yo.

My Secret Valentine

I used to feel melancholy around Valentine’s Day since I never had a Valentine, but this year, I was determined to be melancholy no more! I curled my hair in a soft Valentine’s Day way, I wore a nice red blouse and a wispy black skirt. I figured since today was a day of expressing love, I was going to show myself how much I appreciated me. After work, I was planning to get myself some sunflowers (my fave) and a box of chocolates. I was cool with being my own Valentine.

Oh, but a slight twist of fate found me in my room on the elementary side this morning during a break when another teacher popped her head in and let me know that I had a Valentine’s Day delivery in the admin building. “Oh,” I told her, “It’s probably my parents wanting me to feel special today.” I didn’t have time to run over and get it right then, so I had to wait until I had a bit of free time after lunch.

I dropped by the admin building and saw a several things on and around the counter. A dozen red roses, a cute little monkey balloon, and a box of chocolates. I was wondering which one was mine. After I inquired, the secretary said that all of it was mine. All of it? I looked at the card in the flowers: “Thinking of You, Happy Valentine’s Day, Judges 13:18 (KJV).” No name. Judges 13:18? I had my Bible with me, and after getting back to my room, I looked up the scripture. It was part of the story where the angel of the LORD prophesied the birth of Sampson to Manoah, and when Manoah asked the angel his name, “The angel of the LORD said unto him, Why askest thou thus after my name, seeing it is secret?” I laughed out loud. I thought that was a pretty clever way of signing an anonymous gift.

I immediately called my mom and a few close friends and all of them sincerely denied they had any part in it. I really wanted to find out who did it, and I vowed that after work, I would get to the bottom of it. But later on, I had a change of heart. Whoever did it must have done it anonymously for a reason. Getting all frantic and obsessing over finding out who it was kind of defeats the purpose of enjoying the flowers and the candy and the balloon, which I assume is what the gift-giver wanted me to do upon receiving them in the first place. So I’m going to let it be.

However, I’m kind of hoping that whoever the culprit is reads my blog . . . for some reason it seems likely that he may (well, I’m not ruling out the possibility of it being a she, but the guy friends that I talked to were convinced that the nature of the gift and the whole anonymous deal points to it being a guy) because there were several things about the gifts: The roses were in a purplish vase with a lavender bow and I’ve mentioned my love for lavender on my blog, and he must’ve somehow known that I have a thing for Curious George (which I’ve mentioned on my blog, therefore I must think monkeys are cute) in regards to the balloon. It may also be someone on everyonesconnected.com, because I’ve mentioned those things in the “Interests and Hobbies” section of my profile. Of course, I don’t think it’s a complete stranger because he must’ve also known where I work to have it delivered there.

In the end, if you’re reading this, anonymous gift-giver, I want to say thank you. You really made my day and made me feel very special. I want to know who you are because I want to tell you how much I appreciate what you’ve done, so if you wouldn’t mind, please let me know somehow, and I can assure you, I won’t blab to the world your identity. But if you wish to remain anonymous, just know that I am very grateful, and it is something that I will always remember.

Create Your Own Ministry

That was the title of one of my favorite sessions at the IQ Forum that I went to this past October (recap here). In a nutshell, the session spoke to the point that ministry is about more than preaching, singing and piano playing. The talents that God has given me to speak a foreign language and to teach can be used for His glory even if it is not one of the conventional activities normally considered a “ministry.” I got this grand idea to start teaching free Spanish classes at the church. I am happy to announce that now the idea will become reality. Every Thursday night starting March 2nd from 6:30 p.m. to 7:30 p.m., I will be teaching a free beginning Spanish class sponsored by my church!

See, it started when a Hispanic man began attending the church. English-speaking people kept telling me they wish they knew Spanish so that they could communicate with him, and suggested that I teach a class. The idea sat in the back of my mind until the IQ Forum, and since then I had been determined to make it a reality. I got a proposal together, presented it to the pastor and assistant pastor, and was finally allowed to share my ideas with the leadership team during our church’s monthly leadership meeting. It went over well and all were very supportive. It was officially approved. Last Sunday night I was allowed a spot of time to give an official plug for the class over the pulpit. I had over 10 people sign up the first night. Since then, I’ve come up with a catchy flier and tonight I recruited interested church members to help me spread the word by passing out and posting the fliers. Who knows how many more people will come once word gets out?

The purpose of the class is two-fold. The church’s overall mission is to edify the Body and to seek and save that which was lost. The class would edify members of the Body of Christ in a way that they will be unified in working toward a common goal—to learn Spanish to communicate with Spanish-speaking people, and it would also be an outreach tool to seek and save those unconnected to the church. Though a free Spanish class is not necessarily spiritual, it would at least open the door. It would allow people who are not associated with the church to establish a connection to the church, and ultimately would allow for those interested, hungry souls to receive more.

I received confirmation tonight that just spoke to my soul. I am encouraged, I am reassured, I am confident, and I am looking forward to what God is going to do.

Perpetuity

I've had this perpetual cold since I've been working. All the little kiddies pass on their germs to me, I guess. And I see a lot of 'em every day. They're all so cute, the elementary ones especially, and they all want to touch on me and hug on me after class or when they see me in the hallway, which is fine because I love them too.

But little kids can be nasty. They pick their noses and God knows where else their little germy hands have been, and then they put them all over me. I don't think about this while I'm giving them a little Señora Smith hug; it's only after the fact that I realize that it is the fault of these little dear ones that I blow my nose incessantly, cough up chunks of nastiness quite frequently, and can barely sing in the choir because my voice is always hoarse. I will admit though, that I used to think I sounded kind of sexy when my voice was hoarse. I slightly liked that low, throaty kind of rasp I would have going on, and I could do a really good Macy Gray impression. But now it's just plain annoying. When am I going to sound like me again?

People keep telling me to get a Q-tip and line my nose with Neosporin as a preventative measure, and I think I'm going to do it for real because this madness has got to stop.

Pseudo-giddy

I can’t believe I’m sitting here like a giddy little girl awaiting a phone call. It’s not a typical situation where one would feel giddy, but giddy is the only way I can describe how I feel right now. Well, maybe giddy is the wrong word. More like . . . expectant. For some reason, I feel ashamed to admit my pseudo-giddy/expectancy. Can’t I just let myself feel human and be done with it?

It’s just that I haven’t had that “when is he going to call?” feeling in a long time. And the “he” that is “going to call” is not the kind of “he” that would call in any other situation where a girl would wait expectantly by the phone (or with cell phone close by).

Brief flashback: It was the summer of 2002. I was 20, less cynical that I am now, and ready to traverse Europe. I went to Spain for a month to do a study abroad program with my university. Inevitably, being 20, un-cynical, and in Europe, I became star struck with a green-eyed, long-lashed, honey-skinned young Spaniard. Boy, I fell hard. He was friends with my roommate’s conversation partner and we all hung out together and got along just swell. But what I couldn’t fathom is that why, in a country that literally fought to be Catholic, was he a Mormon?

I even began to believe that God sent me to Spain to help him see the light, especially when he came to church with me one night at an A/P church in Madrid. No, he didn’t get slain in the Spirit, much to my dismay. lol. When a month’s time was up, I was leaving, he was staying, and he remained a Mormon and wasn’t planning to convert any time soon (nor was I). In the end, I had to come to terms with the fact that it was utterly impossible. The last day, he saw us off as we boarded a bus back to the airport. My heart literally hurt. And did I ever mention how big of a crybaby I am? Yeah. He told me in Spanish not to cry.

Fast forward to the spring of 2004. The long-lashed Spaniard and I kept in touch over the years, and I was planning to spend a semester in Spain to get the rest of my Spanish credits. I would be lying if I said that I had gotten over him by that time. (Like I said, I fell hard.) But he was spending that year studying abroad in France, which was probably for the best. However, he did come to Spain a few times to visit, and my roommate and I met up with him in France (Paris!) so I did see him, which was cool, because after that bus-departure melodrama a couple of years previous, I thought I never would again. But somehow, I don’t know exactly what made it happen, but something clicked in my mind. The spell was broken. I realized that as far as he was concerned . . . no, never, ever. “Just friends” we would remain.

We still sporadically update each other from time to time. I would jokingly refer to him as a jack-in-the-box. It seemed like he was always suddenly popping up here and there. And he’s done it again. I got an out of the blue email from him saying that he’s in the US, in Utah (oh, so Mormon) visiting a friend, send him my phone number, and he’d give me a call. I was shocked out of my socks. In the US? I emailed him back saying I needed to brush up on my Spanish (I’ve lost my Castilian edge) or else I’d be ashamed when he called. The last time he emailed me he said he is not going to give me any more time to perfect my Spanish and he’d try to call today, so here I wait. Pseudo-giddy.

You Sure Got a Blessing

For those familiar with A/P (Apostolic/Pentecostal) lingo, you know what it means to "get blessed." It usually involves some type of demonstrative worshipful behavior, akin to "shouting."

So last night we had one of those services. The ones where people get delivered and such like (I just realized my tone may sound irreverant, but I don't mean it to be). At an A/P church there are a range of ways that people worship God. Not everybody goes crazy and swings from the chandeliers. My mother, dear lovely lady that she is, is one of them that does, however. She is unashamedly vocal and demonstrative in her worship, and that's cool because that's her. My dad, wonderful man that he is, is not. He quietly raises his hands and is to himself. I usually fall into my dad's category. The way I respond when I'm really "touched" is by crying accompanied by glossolalia (the scientific term for speaking in tongues, lol). I stay in one place, am not loud, and try not to call attention to myself.

But every once in a while, yes, I do catch the Spirit and act a little bit more like my mom. Especially when I feel that God has heard me, that He has reassured me about whatever concerns that I have, and I just feel so overwhelmed with Him that I can't respond any other way. I am not ashamed of this. I really don't care how I look or whatever. Especially not during a service where everyone is pretty much gettin' their praise on.

But afterward is when it sometimes gets me. After the service is dismissed and everyone greets each other with "Praise the Lord"s before we go home. Example conversation:

Me: Hey, Sis. Such and Such, Praise the Lord! (hug)
Sis. Such and Such: Oh, Praise the Lord, Sis. Chantell. You sure got a blessing, didn't you?
Me: (sheepish laugh) Yeah . . . I did.

I don't know why it bothers me when people say "You sure got a blessing." I know perhaps I'm being petty, and God forgive me, but I feel like saying "Were you so busy watching me get blessed that you missed out on yours?" lol! But for real, I guess I know people say it good naturedly, like, not trying to make fun of me or anything, but when they say it, it makes me wonder "well, how did I look? I must've called so much attention to myself!" and I start feeling self-conscious.

I wonder if anyone else has the "you sure got a blessing" pet peeve. Or maybe it's just me.

Nice Guys

I randomly happened across this page doing a Google search. The things this dude has to say about so-called "Nice Guys" really got me to thinkin'...

Invented Conversations

Okay, perhaps I'm bored and have a little too much free time on my hands. Anyway . . .

Me: (Standing in line to get an iced chai tea latte at Starbucks)
Guy 1: (behind me) An iced chai, huh? I’ve never tried one of those before.
Me: Oh, really? Well, you should. They’re heavenly.
Guy 1: Ah, kind of like your eyes?
Me: (flattered in spite of the corniness) Uh . . . (nervous laugh)
Guy 1: I think I’m going to try one today. (adjusts glasses and smiles dazzlingly)

Me: (Trying to find the Soft and Beautiful brand of moisturizer in the “Ethnic Hair Care” section of Wal-Mart)
Middle aged lady: Baby, you ever tried this “Organic Carrot Oil” before?
Me: Uh, no, ma’am.
Middle aged lady: I’m just trying to find something that will help out this old lady hair of mine. (chuckles to self, then looks at me as if just realizing I existed) Ooh! You so little! Do you ever eat?
Me: Yes, ma’am. I eat more than most people think I do. (smile)
Middle aged lady: (hearty chuckle) Wish I could say the same. Yessir, I do.

Me: (Milling around talking to people in the foyer after church)
Guy 2: Hey, uh . . . nice Bible you have there.
Me: (Looking at my unimpressive, ordinary Bible) Oh, thanks.
Guy 2: (After an awkward pause) So, uh, that sermon on baptism was something else, wasn’t it? It made me think of when I was baptized . . . in my pastor’s swimming pool back home. (nerdy laugh)
Me: (polite, fake laugh)
Guy 2: So, where were you baptized? I’ll betcha it wasn’t as unconventional a place as a swimming pool.
Me: (slight eye roll) I was baptized in the Adriatic Sea.
Guy 2: Whoa. (backs away slowly)

Me: (Smiling my happy Spanish teacher smile in front of a room full of 2nd graders)
Kid: Señora Smith, are you Spanish?
Me: No, sweetheart, I’m not.
Kid: Well, where were you born?
Me: I was born here, just like you. In Mississippi.
Kid: Well, how come you know Spanish like that? How do you remember all the words?
Me: Because Señora Smith studied Spanish for a long time and I lived in Spain for a little while.
Kid: (gasp) You lived in Spain?
Me: (smiling) Yes, sweetie. One day you can go too and use the Spanish Señora Smith taught you!

Me: (In line at Starbucks again)
Guy 1: Have I seen you here before?
Me: (jokingly) Sho nuff. Did you enjoy that iced chai tea latte?
Guy 1: (laughing at my saying “sho nuff”) I did. It was heavenly, just like you said.
Me: More heavenly than my eyes?
Guy 1: (laughingly remembering his corny compliment) Oh, never!
Me: So, are you from around here?
Guy 1: I just moved here from North Carolina, I’m still kinda getting settled and everything. I’m looking for a good church to go to, though. You know of any Spirit-filled churches in town?
Me: (big, toothy smile) Oh, and do I!

My Literary Love Affairs

Disclaimer: I admit it, I’m a nerd. If you do not wish to have further proof of this fact, please, spare yourself.

I was never one to have a multitude of boyfriends, a following of admirers, or a long list of passionate romances to boast of. Growing up, I was the admirer rather than the admired; less the crush, and more the crusher. lol. However, (and what a lovely “however” it is), what follows is not a laundry list of real and unrequited loves, but rather a list of my literary loves (just the major ones). Yes, those poets, writers, genres, and literary movements I have had serious literary crushes on throughout the years:

Folklore and Mythology
In elementary school, I went through a stage where I devoured up every book in the library about fairy tales around the world and about the gods and goddesses who meddled with mortals as they ate ambrosia on top of Mount Olympus. Athena was my favorite. She was the most levelheaded. She never got jealous of other gods or mortals, and when she did intervene, it was always in a helpful way. She was the goddess of wisdom, after all.

Judy Blume
Next, I went through a Judy Blume phase where all of my heroines were adolescent girls coming of age, having crushes on boys and experiencing first kisses. My favorite book from that phase was Just as Long as We’re Together.

R.L. Stine
Then, R.L. Stine hit the YA Literature circuit, and I devoured book after book about obsessive behavior, eerie coincidences, and paranormal activity. The scariest ones were from his Fear Street series.

Choose Your Own Adventure
I also became obsessed with those “choose your own adventure” books—the ones where if you make a certain choice, then you turn to a certain page, and you either end up meeting a fate worse than death or becoming the mightiest hero (or heroine).

Edgar Allan Poe
Once junior high hit, and I read “The Cask of Amontillado” in 7th grade Language Arts class, I developed a serious literary crush on Edgar Allan Poe. I pined after him, trying to imitate his style. At that time, I just loved that dark, eerie, morbid, dramatically ending stuff; I even wrote a series of short stories trying to be a young, modern day, female EAP.

Historical Fiction
As the high school years rolled along, I took an interest in historical fiction. Any story set long ago and far away and surrounding some historical event or time piqued my interest. The most beloved book from this phase is entitled Wolf by the Ears. It tells the story of Harriet Hemmings, one of Thomas Jefferson’s daughters by his (now DNA proven) slave mistress, Sally Hemmings. Another was Of Nightingales That Weep, a story of the daughter of a samurai warrior in feudal Japan.

William Shakespeare
Though my crush on EAP subsided, I developed a new, quite passionate one on William Shakespeare. Though Romeo and Juliet was my introduction to him, I became obsessed with Julius Caesar. Mark Antony, with his uncanny ability to use the “power of speech to stir men’s blood,” enchanted me. My 11th grade research paper analyzed his funeral oration. “Honorable men.” Ha!

The Harlem Renaissance
Though I had an introduction to it in high school, during the beginnings of my college years, my African American Lit class plunged me into the hip, short-lived world of the Harlem Renaissance. Langston Hughes became my main man and my guide through the fast-paced world infused with and inspired by jazz and the blues, a place where the Negro was in vogue but still denied a piece of the American Pie, where rent parties were a daily event, and where “passing” was a not-so-new phenomenon.

Currently . . .
For a while there, I took a fiction hiatus and got into non-fiction. I read about Americans living in poverty, about the Enron scandal, about the opinions the rest of the world has about Americans, and the list goes on. The most recent non-fiction book that blew me completely away was Blink by Malcolm Gladwell—the power of thinking without thinking. Now I’m slowly opening back up to fiction . . . when I have time to read for pleasure, that is.

The Red Teapot

I was recently gifted with a red teapot. It sits quietly in my closet, encapsulated in the cushion of a couple of Wal-Mart bags, awaiting that special day when I move into my own place this summer to become unveiled. My cute little red teapot. Just sitting there patiently until it has its time to shine. It reminds me of a very simple, yet profound poem by William Carlos Willams about a red wheelbarrow, entitled, quite appropriately, "The Red Wheelbarrow":

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

Ordinariness

There’s just something about sitting cozied up in lavender pajamas on a Thursday night. Nothing spectacular, though . . . it’s actually pretty ordinary. Commonplace, everyday, mundane. What’s blog-worthy about feeling comfy in my pj’s? I guess the “something” is part of my continual quest to feel comfortable with the ordinary.

There is a part of me that has always had a hankering for the dramatic. I want something to be “going on” in my life, you know? Something new and exciting and interesting. Something titillating, something to keep me on the edge of my seat. Sometimes I fall into the trap of unconsciously creating drama for myself to thrive off of. But in the end, I realize that little tendency of mine is utter foolishness. Sometimes I think I hear God telling me, “Girl, sit down.”

I want to get to the point where I am comfortable with the ordinariness of my life. I don’t want to have a dark yearning in my heart, wishing that I were in another place, being let out of my box, doing bigger and better things. I want to be cool with the fact that more often than not, life consists of routine, and that it is not always a negative thing. We all need to be still and know that He is God, and I reasoned that maybe that’s what the ordinary times are for. I came across this quotation addressing the dearness of ordinary days that really resonated within me:

"Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in my pillow, or stretch myself taught, or raise my hands to the sky and want, more than all the world, your return."
-- Mary Jean Iron

MLK Day

Today is a glorious day off from the rigors of teacherly life to commemorate the birthday of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. However, being located in the South as I am, the day used to be known as King/Lee Day. Lee, as in Robert E. Lee, the general of the Confederate army during the Civil War, or The War Between the States, as some still doggedly refer to it as. My darling place of employment, being a private school, has the liberty to refer to this day off as whatever they want to, so it remains King/Lee Day. I wonder what Dr. King would think about the commemoration of his birthday being shared with that of General Lee. Or, maybe worse, what would Lee think about sharing his birthday remembrance day with the likes of Dr. King! Just some musings, those crazy things that go on in my head.

Having time to think on this MLK Day, I’m reminded of one of my little kid beliefs—one of those things that you used to believe with a passion when you were a kid but finally came to the knowledge of the truth when you matured. Well, one of my little kid beliefs was that everyone was black. I know, it’s crazy, isn’t it? Let me explain:

One day, a long time ago . . . I must have been like 3 or 4, I had no concept of race. I was a military brat, I was surrounded by a cornucopia of different colors of people, my little playtime friends were of all different races; race was never anything that entered into my mind. Why should it have? I was a small child. But one day, my mom decided that I needed to know about my heritage, I guess, and started telling me about how there were black people that came from Africa to America. They were sold as slaves and treated very badly. Then the only other thing I remembered was that she told me about Martin Luther King and how black people had rights. Remember I was only 3 or 4. I didn’t really get it all, but she kept repeating stuff about “black people.” I remembered asking her, “Am I black? Are you black? Is Daddy black?” She answered “Yes” to all of those questions, so I made a very childishly egocentric assumption: If all of the people I cared about were black, then everybody was. Now, of course I knew that black was a color, but since Mommy said that we were black and none of us were the Crayola color black, then people being black must mean something else.

Soon afterward I went out to play with some white kids that lived next door, and I remember announcing to them, “Everybody is black. I’m black, you’re black, my mom is black, everybody is!” The kids looked at me quizzically and said (we were in Mississippi, and they had been there long enough to develop a Southern accent), “Nu-uh. We’re white.” And I just stared at them blankly. I thought, “They don’t know what they’re talking about. I guess their mommy hasn’t told them about black people yet.” lol. Little did I know.

"I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character." - Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

The Ghetto Paul

Sometimes, when something that I think is humorous seizes me, it will last the whole day. Like, I’ll think about it at random times during the day and I’ll just chuckle silently to myself.

I was reading Acts, right? I know I’m kind of hung up on Paul, but I wanted to start my Bible reading this year with Acts and read through the epistles to have a biblical background on Paul while I’m reading all of this other “extra-canonical” stuff about him for this class. So anyway, there’s a part in Acts, chapter 16 to be exact, where Paul and Silas are beaten and thrown into prison for exorcising a spirit out of a servant girl who brought her masters money by fortune-telling. In the end, they were miraculously released from prison and ended up converting the prison guard. They were staying at the prison guard’s house when word arrived that they now were officially allowed to be released and to go in peace. But Paul was having none of it.

It dawned on me that Paul was about to straight clown on the magistrates that imprisoned him and Silas. I know Paul is eloquent and highly educated and all of that, but this verse proves to me that Paul could get downright ghetto if you pushed him to that point: The King James Version quotes Paul as saying, “They have beaten us openly uncondemned, being Romans, and have cast us into prison; and now do they thrust us out privily? nay verily; but let them come themselves and fetch us out” (Acts 16:37).

If that were translated into today’s language (censored for decency, of course), I could imagine Paul saying something like this: “These clowns lit us up with whips for nothing, and we Roman citizens, and they just gonna throw us all up in jail and now try to let us go on the sly? Aww, HECK naw! They betta come correct and bring their little sorry behinds to get us out themselves. Shoot. Betta come hold me back, Silas.”

Paul was doing an Acts of the Apostles version of “What, WHAT?” He was beating his chest saying, “Them magistrates betta recognize, you got a Roman citizen up in heah!” My boy wasn’t about to let this thing go, you know? My, my. Paul got ghetto. The longer I thought about this, the funnier it was.

Everything about Paul

Here’s a little ditty I’ve made up that rings through my head very often these days:

Paul, Paul, Paul, Paul,
Paul, Paul, Paul, Paul,
Paul, Paul, Paul, Paul,
Paul.
Everything about Paul.
Everything about Paul.

It’s meant to be said in an almost tired, overwhelmed voice. And the “every” in “everything” should be given special emphasis. And the longer I look at the name Paul, the more it starts looking like a foreign word. Have you ever done that? Like looked at an ordinary word on a cereal box or on some other common product or in a magazine or something and it started looking weirder the longer you looked at it? Must be some interesting psychological research out there about that phenomenon.

Anyway, the reason why I’m so Paul-obsessed lately is because, as I briefly mentioned before, I’m taking a class called “The Historical Paul” at the Urshan Graduate School of Theology in St. Louis this summer. It’s an intensive one-week class offered during what they call a J-Term. There is a whole bunch of prior reading we have to do, and it has a notoriously stressful workload. I keep questioning myself about why I want to do this. Do I like being stressed out? This is a graduate school of Theology. Like, for people who want to get Masters and Doctorates of Divinity, and I’m really not trying to do that for real. What’s the deal? Is it that I want a change of scene so badly that I’m willing to go to these extremes? I want to believe that I’m doing this because I want some spiritual enrichment and because I crave being in an educational environment with people who are about living for God. Yes, I’m satisfied with those reasons. But I wonder if there is an underlying . . . emotional thing going on. A case of “if I could just do_____, then I’ll be fulfilled.” I hope not.

Though I haven’t been on this earth for quite a quarter of a century yet, I’ve been here long enough to know that “if I could just _____, then I’ll be happy/fulfilled/satisfied” never works. Because each and every time I’ve had that feeling, and I finally attained whatever it was I thought was going to fill some void or what have you, it was never enough. I was disillusioned each time because things, people, situations, and places in and of this world are never enough. They only give temporary satisfaction. And I’m not even talking about “bad” things that can hinder us spiritually; I’m talking about normal, ordinary, human things. They’ll never completely solve it. If I’m not cool with being me and with my station in life and with being where God has placed me now, no matter what changes about the surface, about my surroundings and situations, I’m still stuck with me. I took me a while to kind of grasp that concept. One day I want to be able to say what Paul said in his letter to the Philippians: “I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content” (Phil. 4:11).

I Love My Dad

I don't usually do this, that is, blog from work, but since I'm an enrichment teacher, I have blocks of time where I don't have any responsibilities, which is nice when I have lots of other things to catch up on, but boring when I don't.

I know it's not near Father's Day or anything, but I was thinking about something that happened last night. As I may have mentioned before, I'm a big crybaby. Sometimes the thing that triggers it is the most insignificant thing in the universe. But once I get started, it's hard to stop. I can say all of these things from a rational, level-headed distance now, but last night I was curled up into a ball soaking my pillow like a child when my dad gently tapped on the door.

Now, I'm going to be for real and say that sometimes my dad gets on my nerves. I know I get on his. But sometimes he does the best daddy things in the world that makes me feel so grateful to have a father like him. Because I know that a lot of people out there have rotten ones or, maybe worse, non-existant ones. But he came in and sat on the edge of my bed and said, "I'm not going to say anything, I just want to listen. I'm a brick wall. Whatever it is, it doesn't matter. " Before I knew it, I was tearfully blurting out the insignificant thing. I felt better. Eventually, he coaxed me out of my fetal position, he joked around and made me smile in spite of myself, he made sure I ate something, and I went to sleep in peace. It was so weird. I mean, funny now, but weird in a cool way.

I always jokingly tell my dad I'm going to marry someone better than him. lol. I know that sounds kind of spiteful, but it really is said and understood in jest. I don't know if he realizes it, but what he did last night was pretty amazing. Most men might see a woman close to them crying uncontrollably and stay away, even if it's a daughter or wife, figuring they'll just let the moment pass or maybe because they don't know what else to do. Or maybe they would try to offer comfort, but end up making the situation worse and pushing her further away. I can't put my finger on it exactly, but whatever it was my dad did was the right thing; hence, the title of this post.

Mind Wanderings

Preparing my musings to be sent out into the blogosphere, I sit, surrounded by various and sundry items on the desk where my laptop sits in my reclaimed room. My lavender and pink plastic butterfly thing that shines a bunch of pretty light when you plug it in. A box of blank cards with a picture of a sunflower on the front. My new Newsboys CD. A dusty blue toy Volkswagen bug.

As Chinese food settles in my belly, I’m thinking forward thoughts. Thoughts of the near future and the far. The near: I have to get up early and put on my happy Spanish teacher smile for the dear ones tomorrow. The far: I’m going to be busting it reading 6 books about the Apostle Paul for an intensive class I’m taking in St. Louis this upcoming summer (I’ll be a Pauline expert yet). The same summer I’m planning to move out and be a big girl on my own. Ooh, save up money, save up money! (I have to remember that I’m in my reclaimed room for a reason.)

Yesterday, I was wondering something. Why was it so hard for me to admit to myself that I want “that someone special” in my life? It took me the longest time to write that down, to say it out loud to myself. I guess because I never wanted to be one of those girls. You know the kind I’m talking about. The ones that are like, “I’m waiting for that knight in shining armor to come rescue me, so while I’m waiting, I’m learning to be the best damsel in distress I can be.” Or the kind that are like, “If you are a breathing entity that walks upright, wears pants, and has the Holy Ghost, you’re my potential soul mate.” I wanted not the slightest hint of desperado to be detected on my breath. But I had to stop being so smugly snide (or snidely smug?) and be honest with myself. I know that I’m not one of those girls, and I finally realized that there’s nothing desperate about saying “this is what I want.” Awright! I just gave myself a high five for that.

And I have another question too. Is it written somewhere that faculty meetings are required to be long and boring? Is it like one of the laws of nature? I’m telling you, I sat through one that was over the top. I mean, on the agenda it was like come back from lunch at 1:00, the little talk about testing over at 3:00. Most people would try to be a little courteous and give us a break and wrap it up at 2:30, tops. But no, homegirl from the whatever Educational Board took up the ENTIRE time. And I’m usually a pretty patient person. But this was too much. No, your in-depth droning on psychometric babble is not cool, I’m sorry.

In the words of Hamlet, I must leave you now to go “to sleep, to sleep! Perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub.”

Resolutions and Reflections

I’ve always been a big New Year’s Resolutions fan. I know there are some unbelievers out there. Some may criticize the idea of making resolutions, saying that they’re unrealistic and that people forget about them anyway. And, perhaps that is true for the most part, but I like to try to make realistic ones and I do my best to stick to them.

I looked back through my journals to see what resolutions I’ve made in past years, and I realized that I haven’t made resolutions for the past two years! In 2004 I was too caught up in preparing to go to Spain, and in 2005 I was worried about my student teaching placement for my last semester in college. The last time I made concrete resolutions was in 2003, and out of the 7 that I made, I followed through completely with 3. I’d say that 3 out of 7 is pretty good—better than none, anyway.

This year? Here’s what I have in mind:

1. I want to consistently set aside time for God every day (whether that be offering a prayer, reading the Bible or simply sitting quietly and meditating on Him and nothing else). Even if it’s just 10-15 minutes, I want it to be something I do every day.

2. I want to read at least a chapter out of the Bible every day. Now, in years past, I’ve made resolutions to read the whole thing, and I will admit that I have accomplished reading the entire Bible through only once. But maybe it would be more realistic to say a chapter a day. That’s doable.

3. I want to continue my regimen of taking care of my skin and hair. These things have always been a bit of a struggle for me (my face breaking out, my hair not being my friend), but I’ve gotten it to where my skin has calmed down and my hair is growing and is nicer to me. I want to keep it that way.

4. I want to do a significant amount of physical activity at least once a week. That might seem like a weak resolution, but I’ve never been this huge workout person and I would like to be. My ideal is to take an invigorating walk at the park near where I live every Saturday morning.

5. I want to be more honest with myself and with others. I consider myself an honest person in general, but I want to get to the point where I feel comfortable saying “no” to people and not feel so worried about what other people will think of me if I express how I truly feel about things. I want to be more honest with myself by not being in self-denial about my feelings and by admitting to myself that there are some things I cannot do on my own.

I think these resolutions are pretty reasonable and doable. Now, for a reflection on this past year: Several pretty important things have happened, lots of firsts, and it’s hard to sum everything up, but I’ll try.

1. I completed a scholarly article of research on Second Language Learning, and finally got it published. I cannot even begin to tell you how much work that was.

2. I student taught while taking a class and being a Resident Assistant all at the same time. I thought I wasn’t going to make it, but I did, and finally walked across the stage May 7th, 2005.

3. I had to make a difficult decision over whether I would continue and go straight into grad school to get a Master’s degree or to take a break from school and work in my profession.

4. I was recruited and interviewed for the first real professional job in my life, and in the end, I signed on the dotted line to be a real, live teacher. I got my first professional paycheck in August, and I finally got a taste of what the working world is like.

5. I had the first serious relationship ever in my life.

6. I became a part of the first Spanish ministry our church has ever had.

7. I went to a Young Adult conference in St. Louis (the first of its kind) and got a lot of direction that has influenced some of my choices and plans.

I pray that the Lord will continue to order my steps in whatever I do, and I pray the same for all who are reading this. Happy New Year, everyone!

The Banquet Babe Returns: The Proof

I promised that pictures would be forthcoming, and they say that a picture is worth a thousand words, so I'll just let my words be few and let the pictures speak to you.


Me and the Christmas tree!


Me and the girls!


Great minds dress alike.


Guess which one is my mom. Who knew?

The Banquet Babe rests her case. Until next year!

Marathon Reader

Whew! I finally finished The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami. I think it must be the longest book I've ever read in my life (well, except for the Bible). That sucker was 600+ pages long!

I'm not going to sit here and like give a book review or anything, but I'll just say it was quite an engrossing read. Now, I need to take the same energy and fervor I had reading Wind-Up Bird to reading my Bible and things that'll help me out spiritually. I started The Purpose Driven Life by Rick Warren. It's not meant to be devoured in large chunks. So far I've gotten some pretty amazing, yet simple pointers that will help me focus on the most important things.

Today I had lunch with some old high school friends. I sat savoring an iced chai tea latte as we caught up on each other's lives. My high school years were pretty memorable, in a good way. I went to a public college prep magnet school. Anytime I told anyone where I went to high school, I often got, "Oh, you go to that nerd school" in response. We were all nerds and proud of it. I can't tell you how liberating it was to be in an all-nerd environment. I could be myself and nobody cared! And we were pretty tight-knit. We had a graduating class of like 50 something kids.

Later on, I met up with one of my road dawgs that I also graduated from high school with. I'll just call him Brother, because he really is just like a brother to me. When people see us together, they often ask if we're related. We hit up Barnes and Noble and he took my book recommendations (well, some of them). He absolutely had to read Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison. And I begged him to get Blink by Malcolm Gladwell. I bought that book on a Friday night and had it finished Saturday night. I was so enthralled with it, I passed it on to the assistant pastor.

Then we went to Family Christian Bookstores where Brother went on a search for an illusive affordable Bible with a Greek and Hebrew lexicon, and I went on a hunt for some uplifting music. From now on, I'm going to try to put on postive stuff to lighten my mood when I start feeling blue instead of putting on mood-appropriate music and wallowing. Ugh. I've done more than my fair share of that.

Oh, I've only one more week of unadulterated bliss left before I have to go back to the daily routine. I must soak it all in before the clock strikes twelve and my carriage turns back into a pumpkin and my lovely dress back into plain old house clothes. Well, at least I'll get to keep the glass slippers.

Here I sit, not knowing

whether I’m really going to post this or not. But this is my way, this is my outlet, my opportunity to let things go. To release whatever I need to get rid of and fling it into the far reaches of the blogosphere.

What do I need to let go of? What do I need to fling away? Oh, it’s just a jumble, a mixture. Partly my fault, partly part of being a human being, I suppose. Ugh. Awkwardness. Trying to keep things under a smooth veneer of “I’m fine.” Trying to be natural, but inside, wringing my cold, clammy hands together. Trying to smile, but inside on the verge of tears. Is it anyone’s fault? No, not anyone else’s. And now that I think about it, not my own, either. It’s just a part of the circumstances of life. When life puts you in a circumstance, what else is there to do but behave and think and feel like any other normal human being in the same circumstance? Sigh. No, it’s not that bad, really. I wonder how many psychiatrists would eventually lose their jobs if blogging were prescribed instead of Prozac?

Now my mind is drifting back to this morning. To spending time with my family and opening gifts and reflecting on all the wonderful things God has done for us this year. He’s greater than any circumstance of life.

Christmas and Haruki Murakami

What does the day that our culture has chosen to celebrate the birth of Christ have anything to do with a contemporary Japanese writer?

I’m always trying to make connections in my mind. I have this romantic (not as in hearts and roses, but you know, the other meaning of “romantic” that has to do with artistic and literary movements—well, I guess it could be hearts and roses too, depending on how you look at it) idea that things, no matter how seemingly unrelated, are somehow connected.

It’s really interesting. I guess because I read a Haruki Murakami novel last Christmas break too. Maybe that’s how the connection made its initial appearance. Last year I read Dance, Dance, Dance. This year I’m reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.

Just yesterday I was musing over a cup of decaf coffee that in our lifetime, we are only allowed to see the world from our own point of view. For example, could I ever really understand my younger brother? No, I reasoned, because I could never be him. I could never know what it’s like to be a male (I mean, not that I would ever want to be a male—I’m pretty happy being a woman). I don’t know what it feels like to be a middle child. I haven’t had the same experiences as he has had in his life nor fought the same struggles. As much as I claim to know my brother, my flesh and blood brother that I grew up with, could I ever really truly understand him? Then I thought about people in foreign countries, like Third World countries who just barely eke out an existence every day. I couldn’t fathom wondering if I were going to eat every day I woke up. I could never know what it’s like to be Chinese. To speak a tonal language where much of meaning depends on pitch and to write characters to convey meaning instead of like a phonetic system. The idea fascinates me for some reason. That we can never be anyone but ourselves. And we can’t have a true understanding of the world outside of our own understanding of it.

But then, let me rewind to last week. I was pondering the word Bildungsroman. It’s a German word used to describe a genre of literature that is just a fancy way of saying ‘a coming of age novel.’ I got to thinking about Bildungsroman because I was searching in the archives of my blog for a particular entry and I happened upon a haunting poem that I posted by a brooding turn-of the-century German poet named Rainer Maria Rilke. And then Rilke’s German-ness made me think of Bildungsroman, a word that one of my rather wordy English professors used when we began discussion of some novel we had to read: “So, what genre would you say this novel falls under? Is it a satire, a semi-autobiography, a Bildungsroman?”

Now, fast-forward. I checked out The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami from the library earlier this week. On the front inside flap, I read that among other things, this novel is “a bildungsroman about a compassionate young man’s search for his own identity as well as that of his nation.” I suppose the word is so common that it can appear now in un-capitalized, un-italicized form. Connection. Then, the first paragraph of Chapter 2: “Is it possible, finally, for one human being to achieve perfect understanding of another? We can invest enormous time and energy in serious efforts to know another person, but in the end, how close are we able to come to that person’s essence? We convince ourselves that we know the other person well, but do we really know anything important about anyone?” Back to those musings over decaf coffee. Connection.

So, today I sat, comfortably curled in a chair, reading Haruki Murakami during Christmas time, the air thick with déjà vu.

Merry Christmas, everybody, and Happy Birthday, Jesus!

Bliss

Bliss is not having to go to work in the morning. Bliss is having the choice to sleep in for as long as you want. Bliss is having the opportunity to take long, leisurely showers without brothers yelling for you to get out and stop using up the hot water. Bliss is having time in the morning to go to Chick-fil-a and get a much-craved-after chicken biscuit breakfast combo with orange juice instead of coffee. Bliss is having the time and money to get your family and friends special things for Christmas. Bliss is sashaying around the house blasting Louis Armstrong's "Is That You Santa Claus?" while decorating the Christmas tree. Bliss is having time to read for pleasure. Bliss is having the opportunity to go to my favorite place in Montgomery of all time--The Alabama Shakespeare Festival--and to enjoy a production with friends.

I truly believe I have found my calling as a teacher. There aren't many other professions that allow the professionals so many opportunities to have moments of bliss. I know the kids are overjoyed for their two-and-a-half weeks off, but believe me, the teachers get pretty giddy about it too, and I'm savoring every moment of my having-to-do-nothingness.

The Banquet Babe Speaks

Now, I don't believe that I am a conceited person. Many times, after appraising myself in the mirror, the results are unsatisfactory. But today was one of the few times I thought I looked pretty good.

Okay, okay, before you think my head has increased in size to near exploding point, let me give a little background. Tonight was our church's annual Christmas banquet. I've been looking forward to this one especially because I haven't been to one the past 3 or so years--when I was a Resident Assistant at UA, I usually wasn't able to leave campus in time to make it. But since my college and RA years are over, this time I was able. Secondly, the Christmas banquet is like the only time of the year that I can get super dressed up. I love getting super dressed up. But since I'm not like this . . . socialite or whatever that goes to balls and numerous social galas all the time, the Christmas banquet is like my chance. Thirdly, I took special care to do the whole accessorizing thing just right. I wore a long, red, short-sleeved, mock-turtleneck dress with a black sweaterish top over it with (fake) fur around the collar. Since I had the fake black fur thing going on, I had to accessorize accordingly. I found the perfect black purse that had kind of feathery fur lining the top. I borrowed some perfect black shoes with the furriness thing. I scoured hair accessory stores and finally settled on a black flower surrounded by soft fluffy black fur. And to bring out the red a little more, I pinned on one of my favorite pins--a little one of Santa and Mrs. Claus under the mistletoe. I did my hair in my favorite curly, tendrily up-do. I was ready.

I will admit, however, that negativity tried to slide its ugly way in. It said: Why are you going through all this trouble trying to fix yourself all up like you're trying to impress someone? Why are you going through all of this trouble trying to look nice when there will be no one there to really appreciate it? Sure, a few church folks will say 'Oh, you look nice,' but you know what I'm talking about. Come on, who are you kidding? Your labor is in vain.

But I refused to let it lodge. I told negativity to chill, and I had a fantabulous time. I smiled my big toothy smile (I know my teeth are huge, but it's all good) and took loads of pictures by the pretty little Christmas tree afterwards. And just for that, negativity, for trying to ruin my time at the banquet, I hereby crown myself the Banquet Babe, and I rebuke you forever and always. Take that!

Oh, and pictures will be forthcoming.

Subcultures

I often take pity on myself and bewail the fact that it seems that I don’t fit in anywhere and that no one understands me, etc. Those things are, at the core, untrue. I realize that, and I know that those self-piteous complaints are old and tired.

But there is a new knowledge awakening in my brain. (No, not of the Kate Chopin variety, thank God.) That is that there are chunks of me that fit into certain slots. Not that I’m separated into slots, but maybe I’m more like a Venn diagram, and the circles of the different categories or whatever interlock to create who I am.

We’re all members of varying subcultures.

sub'·cul· ture n. 1. a distinctive social group within a larger social group 2. its cultural patterns

I don’t completely fit into the conventional version of each one, of course, but I will admit that parts of me do fit in somewhere. Something that I love about subcultures is that each one has its own specialized jargon that wouldn’t make sense to those without it. Part of belonging is understanding the significance of the lingo. Examples:

The black female subculture
Biology pretty much decided my inclusion in this one. One subculture concept that is extremely common is the term “new growth.” Now, to most people that would seem to be something positive, especially when referring to hair. But anyone in the know would understand that “Look at all the new growth in that girl’s hair” is not a compliment. Among those of us who have relaxed hair, the “new growth” is the natural hair that begins to grow in at the roots. If you get to the point where you have too much new growth, that means it’s time for a “retouch,” otherwise known as the application of a chemical crème at the roots of the hair in order to straighten it.

The Apostolic/Pentecostal subculture
Biology was not a factor in my inclusion in this one, but it may seem the case for the so-called “generational” members. Now, there is so much specialized lingo up in this one, it would be an exercise in futility to try and enumerate. And some of it is so convoluted that it confounds sometimes even the members. But a simple example is the term “shout.” Now, to your average Joe, “shout” means just what it appears, a synonym for “yell,” right? However, the question “Did you see Sis. Susie shouting tonight?” indicates that it involves movement as well as sound. For those in the know, “shout” is a simplified way of saying “scream, jump up and down, do a Holy Ghost dance, spin around a couple of times, cry, and/or fall out speaking in tongues.” Only a visit to a jumpin’ Sunday night service would do it justice.

The student “college kid” subculture
Alright, alright, I’m not a member of this one anymore, but I can still relate. Here’s a quick vocab list:
cereal – one of the major food groups
next semester – when you promise yourself you’re going to do better
studying – looking over notes the night before a cumulative final
dinner – free pizza at an activity put on by the Residence Hall Association
office hours – a time during which you can never find your professor when you need him/her
laundromat – your parents’ washer and dryer on the weekends you go home

So next time I start pulling out the streamers and balloons for a pity party, I’ll think of subcultures and Venn diagrams to counteract it.

In the Midst of Ouches

And Samuel said, Hath the LORD [as great] delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices, as in obeying the voice of the LORD? Behold, to obey [is] better than sacrifice, [and] to hearken than the fat of rams. -- 1 Samuel 15:22

Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset [us], and let us run with patience the race that is set before us. -- Hebrews 12:1

Obedience really hurts sometimes.

This is not the first time I have learned this lesson. Some of the times have been more difficult than others, however. But what I've also realized is that when you suck it up and obey, God will honor it. And I have learned that whatever you give up for God can never compare to what He can and will give in exchange.

I've also come to the realization that not everything God may want you to give up is something blatantly bad, evil, sinful, what-have-you. Hebrews 12:1 says to "lay aside every weight." The scripture makes a distinction between the "weight" and the "sin which doth so easily beset," therefore, the "weight" is not necessarily a sin. The weight is not something that has the devil written all over it. It is not necessarily something that will give you a one-way ticket to the pit. But perhaps it is something that is ever so slightly hindering you. Perhaps it is one of the little things that is weighing you down and is preventing you from progressing in your walk with God.

I've been convicted to give up some favorite things, and it hurt to give them up. But though I held out a little while--I knew for a while that maybe I needed to have done this long before now--ultimately, I couldn't let anything take precedence over what I felt that God was leading me to do, even in the midst of ouches.

The Will, Revisited

A while ago, I wrote a post about the elusive Will of God. I never really came to a conclusion about the whole thing. However, I read a blog entry posted by a young lady whose blog I frequent often and was absolutely blown away by the clarity of her thoughts on the subject. It is definitely worth your time to read. It just made so much sense. I now have a fresh take on what it really means to be in the Will. Check it out here.

The Writer

One of my best friends, Homegirl, and I have this running joke. We always remind each other that we could never marry a writer because it just wouldn’t do to be with someone who would be more dramatic and emotional than we are. Of course, this writer we are talking about is a stereotypical one. He wears black-rimmed glasses, is a caffeine-a-holic, is always brooding, and always intensely releasing the agonies of his soul through his writing. Here is a fully fleshed-out account of the content of our joke:

Brooding in a dimly lit corner in the study of an apartment, in a student-ghetto complex filled with graduate students, sits the writer.

The only light in the room consists of the glow of his laptop screen and the streetlight that shines through the window, creating an eerie cast over his pale skin and black-rimmed glasses. He runs a hand over his unruly dark hair and sighs deeply as he stares at the blank Word document screen before him. The cursor blinks unceasingly, taunting him.

He rubs at his bag-laden eyes, red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Scattered about are empty venti-sized Starbucks cups, drained of coffee he could barely afford to drink. He is trying to do what he supposedly does best—write. But inspiration is lacking. His muse has been uncomfortably silent. He has nearly spent himself, trying to reach into the depths of his tormented soul—tormented by the same demons that torment writers and artists and musicians and all those of the creative bent—to draw out that one nugget of raw, unadulterated impetus that he could always depend upon to get him going, to get his thoughts rushing from brain to fingertips like adrenaline-laced blood through his veins.

But lately, he has turned up nothing. Every attempt he makes seems futile, and, there, in the solitude of his study, mesmerized by the emptiness of the Word document, he finds himself sinking deeper and deeper into the abysmal abyss of losing his writer-identity forever.

A timid knock at the door jolts him into existence. He remembers his girlfriend said she would come over at about this time. She was a waif of a thing, almost like the wind could blow her away, he thinks, remembering the time they met at the reading held by the Creative Writing department. He could feel her eyes burning into him as he read an excerpt from his unpublished novel. Though she had the air of a complacent child at times, her intensity about things, about life, was what had initially attracted him. But no, she is not what he needs now. Not right now. Not when his grasp on the craft that has become a part of him is so weak. Not right now, he almost says aloud as he opens the door.

“I brought you some peanut butter cookies,” she whispers. “Your favorite.” She hands him a freezer bag bulging with them. He takes them and mumbles a greeting as he stands back to let her inside. It is as if he forgets she is even there as he goes back into his study to take up staring at the empty screen again. She cautiously follows him. “Are you uhh . . . going to try some?” she ventures. His back is to her as he sits slumped before the computer. No answer. “Baby, what’s wrong? You can tell me.” Her voice is soothing, almost musical, and she lays a soft hand upon his shoulder. He stiffens.

“No.” She doesn’t realize that his “no” is not really a refusal to tell her what is troubling him. At this moment, it’s more of a refusal to entertain any living entity in any manner whatsoever.

“Oh, it’s okay, baby, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. It just seems as if--”

He suddenly lifts his hand to silence her. “No . . . not now,” He says brusquely. Doesn’t she understand? His identity is slipping away from him and all she has to give in response are empty words and peanut butter cookies? He just needs to be left alone.

Tears well up in her eyes. How can he just shut her out like that? She has always been there for him, been his emotional support. She was always able to calm him, to soothe his mental anguish. “But honey, I--”

“NO! LEAVE ME ALONE!” He spins around in his chair to face her. Though his voice is harsh and bellowing, one could sense a tinge of desperate pleading in it.

She flees the apartment, sobbing, and slams the door behind her.

Brooding in a dimly lit corner in the study of an apartment, in a student-ghetto complex filled with graduate students, sits the writer, alone.

(That was for you, Homegirl. Love ya much!)

Moody

It happened some time after I got home from work yesterday. The gray clouds descended. I don't know why or how, exactly, but they did, and now I'm waiting it out, trying not to annoy those around me.

I'm moody. At least I'm honest and I recognize this little . . . quirk of mine for what it is. Though I will add that many times it is not simply a quirk of my personality but one that assaults all of those of the female gender during certain times more than others. Moving on.

It is during these times when my gaze is locked into space. I don't want to be touched or bothered by anyone. I get extra mad when people cut in front of me while I'm driving. I don't feel like going out and doing spontaneous stuff. I cry easily. I want to clean up the kitchen, scour the bathroom, wash clothes and bedsheets in a frenzy. I want to sit on the floor and listen to Coldplay. I want to curl up in the corner and read. I want to sleep. Man, I got a lot of sleep last night. I went to bed at 9:30. It was probably much needed.

During times like this, my brothers always frustratedly tell me that they feel sorry for whoever marries me. It used to bother me and make me feel even worse. But now that I think about it, I sort of feel sorry for whoever marries me too when I'm in a moody mood. I mean, what is a guy supposed to do when he has a woman who begins to cry inconsolably about nothing?

Oh, well. Writing this has helped me get it out of my system a little. In the end, I know it's all good. This too shall pass. Stop sulking and count my blessings. I know, I know. In my mind, I know. But somehow, it doesn't stop the sighs from escaping.

The End of an Era

I knew the time was coming. I just didn't know when.

I still check my old Bamamail (University of AL student and faculty email system) every once in a while, and, with much dismay, I received the following message today (an excerpt):

"Our records indicate that your account on the bama.ua.edu system is flagged for removal and deletion. This is a normal purging process which is designed to remove accounts belonging to individuals who are no longer authorized to use the bama.ua.edu system. The bama.ua.edu system is for current students, faculty and staff at The University of Alabama. According to our records, you are no longer a University of Alabama faculty or staff member, active student, or retiree. Therefore, your account has been scheduled for removal and deletion on December 20, 2005."

A small part of me died after reading that. I am scheduled to be purged from the University of Alabama system forever and always. Whatever evidence remains on the bama server of my existence as a student for 5 years of UA life will be wiped out with a few keystrokes and clicks of a mouse. I am no longer an active student. I am no longer authorized to use Bamamail. My exit from the college world into the so-called real world is about to be sealed and finalized. There is no turning back.

Let it be known hereupon, that on the twentieth day of December, in the year of our Lord two-thousand five, Chantell Irene Smith will be permanently erased from the electronic memory of the University of Alabama. This momentous occasion marks the end of an era, and the subject is hereby welcomed into the world called real.

So-long, Bamamail. You were the conduit through which many a professorial-crush-laden email was sent. You were there through every heart-pounding checking of email, and you were the only witness to my disappointment at finding an empty inbox. You helped me keep in touch with family and friends near and far while I was away at school. You archived many a sentimental message and many a friend-sent poem, and you were the proof that I was an enrolled student which helped me get discounted plane tickets to Spain. We had some good times together, didn't we? I'm only sorry that it has to end this way. Perhaps you will forget that I ever existed come December 20th, but know that I will never forget you and that you will always have a special place in my heart.

There are just some things Gmail can't replace.