Part of the Thanksgiving weekend is taking advantage of all of those post-Thanksgiving Day sales. So, since today was another glorious day off, I splurged a teeny bit at the Galleria.
My store of stores has always been New York & CO. It's got that career-chic thing going on. But today, I was smitten with this store called Forever 21. Some of y'all know what I'm talking about. It's got this funky-chic thing going on. Not as juvenile as, say, Aeropostale (I love me some Aeropostale, now, don't get me wrong), but definitely more light-hearted than my tried-and-true NY&C.
Though I definitely don't consider myself an overly-effusive girly-girl—all frills and pink and thinking I can walk long distances in stilettos and flirtatious high-pitched laughter (though a girlish giggle has been known to slip out every now and then)—old girl does like to shop. I cannot tell a lie.
Friday, November 24, 2006
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
1st Grade Apology Notes
This is too funny. I just have to share. I just want to show a taste of the quirky, cute, funny things that happen as a result of working with little ones.
Yesterday, I was playing an active counting game with my first graders. It's basically "Four Corners," except I make them count and choose the corners in Spanish. When one boy named Karsten got out, another boy named William said, "I feel sorry for you, you're out," and Karsten hit him. Another boy named Stephen also threw his two cents in, so I told all three of them that they were all out and to sit down. That did not make them very happy. When their classroom teacher came for the class, of course I let her know what had transpired. This lady is an excellent teacher, she always has her class in order, and she does not play. "Thank you for telling me," she said.
After coming back to the Elementary School from teaching three periods at the Middle School, I found these three notes, written on that classic 1st grade lined paper (the kind with the dotted line between two solid ones) on my desk. Homegirl made her boys write me apology notes for their behavior, and they were so funny, I almost couldn't help myself. Here they are, transcribed exactly:
Yesterday, I was playing an active counting game with my first graders. It's basically "Four Corners," except I make them count and choose the corners in Spanish. When one boy named Karsten got out, another boy named William said, "I feel sorry for you, you're out," and Karsten hit him. Another boy named Stephen also threw his two cents in, so I told all three of them that they were all out and to sit down. That did not make them very happy. When their classroom teacher came for the class, of course I let her know what had transpired. This lady is an excellent teacher, she always has her class in order, and she does not play. "Thank you for telling me," she said.
After coming back to the Elementary School from teaching three periods at the Middle School, I found these three notes, written on that classic 1st grade lined paper (the kind with the dotted line between two solid ones) on my desk. Homegirl made her boys write me apology notes for their behavior, and they were so funny, I almost couldn't help myself. Here they are, transcribed exactly:
Karsten
Senore Smith
Sorry for disruptibing your call and I am sorry for hiting william.
I am so so sroy intruping your class. I will never listen to Karsten
and Stephen ever ahgin. from William
I am so sorry that I disruptive your class. I pomis i will never do
it agan. and ruinde your Thanksgiveing
Stephen
The last one is what really got me. I mean, how could the little guy think that he "ruinde" my Thanksgiving because of that? lol. It was too much. I can assure you though, that it didn't. I fully intend to use these days of respite (we have today, tomorrow and Friday off) to their fullest!
Monday, November 20, 2006
Deck the Halls with . . . What?
Disclaimer: The parody of this timeless tune is meant to make fun of no one but myself.
Deck the Halls (Channy’s version—this year, anyway)
Deck the halls with insecurity and awkwardness
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
‘Tis the season to bring home new girlfriends
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
Those still without one by their side
Fa-la-la, la-la-la, la-la-la
Wish to stay at home and hide
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-laaaaa!
Christmas time isn’t here yet? No, but Thanksgiving is. Right around the corner. Besides, I couldn’t think of any “Thanksgiving songs" to parody, if there is such a thing.
Oh, and only somewhat related, but band director is going to be in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade as the drum major! I told you he was the golden boy. It’s like, what can’t this guy do, you know what I’m saying? So, if you’re interested, you might catch a glimpse of his gorgeous mug on camera.
Anyway, despite my self-deprecatory humor, I know that I have a lot to be thankful for. I do. I think we all could stand to set aside a minute or two to count our blessings. Hope your Turkey Day is a happy one!
Deck the Halls (Channy’s version—this year, anyway)
Deck the halls with insecurity and awkwardness
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
‘Tis the season to bring home new girlfriends
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
Those still without one by their side
Fa-la-la, la-la-la, la-la-la
Wish to stay at home and hide
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-laaaaa!
Christmas time isn’t here yet? No, but Thanksgiving is. Right around the corner. Besides, I couldn’t think of any “Thanksgiving songs" to parody, if there is such a thing.
Oh, and only somewhat related, but band director is going to be in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade as the drum major! I told you he was the golden boy. It’s like, what can’t this guy do, you know what I’m saying? So, if you’re interested, you might catch a glimpse of his gorgeous mug on camera.
Anyway, despite my self-deprecatory humor, I know that I have a lot to be thankful for. I do. I think we all could stand to set aside a minute or two to count our blessings. Hope your Turkey Day is a happy one!
Saturday, November 18, 2006
To-Do: The Unveiling
Call me anal-retentive, (one of my favorite Freudian phrases, right up there with the “Freudian slip”) but there is nothing more satisfying than knocking a bunch of tasks off of a to-do list.
I spent today, Saturday being the only day I really have time to devote to this task, doing grad school stuff. I have hinted around about it, but now that things are just about ready to be launched out into the deep (one more letter of recommendation submission pending), and since I’ve accomplished all that needs to be done except actually dropping these little application packets off in the mail, I feel more free to talk about it.
The Unveiling of My Hoped for Plan . . .
First a bit of a preamble (I know, it drives my friends nuts). It took me five years to finish undergrad. I double majored, in two Education fields at that, which have a boatload of coursework and requirements anyway, and to top it off, I studied abroad for a semester. I don’t regret the extra year and the extra stuff I did for a minute. But I will say that I was nearing burn out. Graduation couldn’t come soon enough. After a making a very agonizing decision to work instead of blazing on into graduate school as I had previously planned, I landed my Spanish teacher job. It’s been an ideal situation and a lot of fun, but I never planned to work indefinitely—I always intended to go on with my education.
Enter Washington University. I’ll spare you all of the details, but my desire to 1. go to graduate school, 2. get a change of scene, and 3. try out St. Louis conglomerated into a mesmerizing idea. Why not? Wash U began to look more and more like a winner. On my second foray into St. Louis territory (during my UGST J-Term) I took the opportunity to visit the campus and a lot of things began to come together—I felt like I could almost see the pieces of the puzzle interlocking.
So here I am, one step away from casting my bread into the waters and hoping it will return to me after many days. Here are the conditions. 1. I must actually be accepted into the program, and 2. I must win a fellowship. There is a particular fellowship that I’m especially banking on—if I got this particular fellowship it would cover everything; I probably wouldn’t have to worry about having to work or anything at all, just concentrate on my studies. Wash U is a private university and tuition itself causes one to have to pay out the ying-yang. So, no money, no go. At the risk of sounding like I have an inflated head, I’ll say that I’m not terribly worried about getting in. It’s the fellowship part that’s got me a little worried. But this is where I leave it up to Him. I’ve done all I can do, and once I put those little guys in the mail, it’s in His hands. To be continued . . .
I spent today, Saturday being the only day I really have time to devote to this task, doing grad school stuff. I have hinted around about it, but now that things are just about ready to be launched out into the deep (one more letter of recommendation submission pending), and since I’ve accomplished all that needs to be done except actually dropping these little application packets off in the mail, I feel more free to talk about it.
The Unveiling of My Hoped for Plan . . .
First a bit of a preamble (I know, it drives my friends nuts). It took me five years to finish undergrad. I double majored, in two Education fields at that, which have a boatload of coursework and requirements anyway, and to top it off, I studied abroad for a semester. I don’t regret the extra year and the extra stuff I did for a minute. But I will say that I was nearing burn out. Graduation couldn’t come soon enough. After a making a very agonizing decision to work instead of blazing on into graduate school as I had previously planned, I landed my Spanish teacher job. It’s been an ideal situation and a lot of fun, but I never planned to work indefinitely—I always intended to go on with my education.
Enter Washington University. I’ll spare you all of the details, but my desire to 1. go to graduate school, 2. get a change of scene, and 3. try out St. Louis conglomerated into a mesmerizing idea. Why not? Wash U began to look more and more like a winner. On my second foray into St. Louis territory (during my UGST J-Term) I took the opportunity to visit the campus and a lot of things began to come together—I felt like I could almost see the pieces of the puzzle interlocking.
So here I am, one step away from casting my bread into the waters and hoping it will return to me after many days. Here are the conditions. 1. I must actually be accepted into the program, and 2. I must win a fellowship. There is a particular fellowship that I’m especially banking on—if I got this particular fellowship it would cover everything; I probably wouldn’t have to worry about having to work or anything at all, just concentrate on my studies. Wash U is a private university and tuition itself causes one to have to pay out the ying-yang. So, no money, no go. At the risk of sounding like I have an inflated head, I’ll say that I’m not terribly worried about getting in. It’s the fellowship part that’s got me a little worried. But this is where I leave it up to Him. I’ve done all I can do, and once I put those little guys in the mail, it’s in His hands. To be continued . . .
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
My Theological Rant of the Day
There are two main things I can’t stand about the way (many, some, whatever—so that I’m not in danger of generalizing) church people look at these two things:
1. The purpose of serving God
2. The whole concept of “soulwinning”/ witnessing
A “Heaven or Hell Issue”?
I can’t tell you how much I dislike religious conversations with people where things are brought down the this: “Well, that’s not a heaven or hell issue, but _______is.” Why do we even use that phrase? To me, it seems like our whole modus operandi is completely warped. If your relationship with God boils down to fire insurance, is that really serving God for the right reasons? The greatest commandment, according to Jesus is “thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart and with all thy soul and with all thy mind,” and not “thou shalt do everything your preacher tells you to because thou art fearful of the fiery pit.”
In some ways, I am so glad I was not born and raised in the church. I was about 13 when I received the gift of the Holy Ghost. I am so glad that this was not the only thing I ever knew of my whole life. Why? Because I feel that I’ve taken things in for myself. I wasn’t indoctrinated from birth. I made choices. I had revelations. That is not to say those born and raised cannot ever have revelations or make choices for themselves. I think there is a point where everyone does, born and raised or not, but I would venture to say that it is so much easier to take things for granted and at face value without ever questioning or understanding when you don’t know anything else.
Okay, back to my point . . . what I’m trying to say is that it grieves me that so many people seem to “live for God” out of coercion. They do what they do simply because they fear hellfire if they don’t. It doesn’t have to do with trying to get close to God. It doesn’t have to do with loving your neighbor. It has to do with tell me what I can and can’t do so my butt doesn’t become toast when I die. Okay, let me back up and say that I’m not in disagreement with the idea that if there are certain things you do or don’t do your butt will become toast when you die. I’m just saying that it can’t be the basis of a relationship. What if the whole idea of everlasting flames of torment was just a metaphor? (Make sure you read the first two words of the preceding sentence—what if, okay?) Would your relationship with God just dissipate because the fear of hell is what it anchored on?
I can honestly say that the way I live my life, most of which makes me a pleasant (I hope) oddity to the mainstream, is because I feel that my lifestyle is one of many ways to draw closer to God. If I were not to live this exact lifestyle that I live right now, do I think I’d be buying myself a one-way ticket to perdition? Not at all. Then why do I do it? Because I love Him and want to be close to Him. Period.
When people talk about things being “heaven or hell issues,” it reminds me of my middle schoolers when they ask, “Is this going to be on the test?” I hate answering that question because then it gives them the idea that if it happened to not be on the test that it is irrelevant to their learning. Whether it’s going to be on the test isn’t the point. Learning and retaining the knowledge is. Heaven or hell isn’t the point. Loving God with everything in you, doing His will, and drawing close to Him is.
“I Won People to the Lord!”
Aargh! YOU don’t win anyone to the Lord. God is reconciling the world unto Himself, right? You are an instrument, yes. You are an influence, yes. You are a light, salt of the earth, all of that, yes. But was it anything you did in your power alone? No, no, no.
I hate it how people use the concept of soulwinning as some kind of Christian self-worth meter. I guess what I’m opposed is not the concept of soulwinning, but the way we look at it. To some, the goal is to get ‘em in, make sure they get dunked in the baptistery, and hear them speak in tongues a bit. Then on to the next conquest. Like you’re Julius Caesar or something. Veni, vidi, vici. “How many souls have you won to the Lord?” How many conquests have you made for Churchdom?
We do need to say the right thing at the right time. The Bible says that the Holy Ghost will tell us what to say. But what about being a living witness? I always figured the way you live in front of others and your actions were always 100% more valid than a rundown of Acts 2:38 or whatever other scripture that people throw out to get people on “our side.”
I am sorry for sounding so cynical. I hate ranting. It makes me feel like a mean little rat on the defense. Just listen to the word. Ranting. But anyway, this is not out of a general dissatisfaction—it’s more of a passive-aggressive response to certain people who don’t even read my blog. Go figure.
1. The purpose of serving God
2. The whole concept of “soulwinning”/ witnessing
A “Heaven or Hell Issue”?
I can’t tell you how much I dislike religious conversations with people where things are brought down the this: “Well, that’s not a heaven or hell issue, but _______is.” Why do we even use that phrase? To me, it seems like our whole modus operandi is completely warped. If your relationship with God boils down to fire insurance, is that really serving God for the right reasons? The greatest commandment, according to Jesus is “thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart and with all thy soul and with all thy mind,” and not “thou shalt do everything your preacher tells you to because thou art fearful of the fiery pit.”
In some ways, I am so glad I was not born and raised in the church. I was about 13 when I received the gift of the Holy Ghost. I am so glad that this was not the only thing I ever knew of my whole life. Why? Because I feel that I’ve taken things in for myself. I wasn’t indoctrinated from birth. I made choices. I had revelations. That is not to say those born and raised cannot ever have revelations or make choices for themselves. I think there is a point where everyone does, born and raised or not, but I would venture to say that it is so much easier to take things for granted and at face value without ever questioning or understanding when you don’t know anything else.
Okay, back to my point . . . what I’m trying to say is that it grieves me that so many people seem to “live for God” out of coercion. They do what they do simply because they fear hellfire if they don’t. It doesn’t have to do with trying to get close to God. It doesn’t have to do with loving your neighbor. It has to do with tell me what I can and can’t do so my butt doesn’t become toast when I die. Okay, let me back up and say that I’m not in disagreement with the idea that if there are certain things you do or don’t do your butt will become toast when you die. I’m just saying that it can’t be the basis of a relationship. What if the whole idea of everlasting flames of torment was just a metaphor? (Make sure you read the first two words of the preceding sentence—what if, okay?) Would your relationship with God just dissipate because the fear of hell is what it anchored on?
I can honestly say that the way I live my life, most of which makes me a pleasant (I hope) oddity to the mainstream, is because I feel that my lifestyle is one of many ways to draw closer to God. If I were not to live this exact lifestyle that I live right now, do I think I’d be buying myself a one-way ticket to perdition? Not at all. Then why do I do it? Because I love Him and want to be close to Him. Period.
When people talk about things being “heaven or hell issues,” it reminds me of my middle schoolers when they ask, “Is this going to be on the test?” I hate answering that question because then it gives them the idea that if it happened to not be on the test that it is irrelevant to their learning. Whether it’s going to be on the test isn’t the point. Learning and retaining the knowledge is. Heaven or hell isn’t the point. Loving God with everything in you, doing His will, and drawing close to Him is.
“I Won People to the Lord!”
Aargh! YOU don’t win anyone to the Lord. God is reconciling the world unto Himself, right? You are an instrument, yes. You are an influence, yes. You are a light, salt of the earth, all of that, yes. But was it anything you did in your power alone? No, no, no.
I hate it how people use the concept of soulwinning as some kind of Christian self-worth meter. I guess what I’m opposed is not the concept of soulwinning, but the way we look at it. To some, the goal is to get ‘em in, make sure they get dunked in the baptistery, and hear them speak in tongues a bit. Then on to the next conquest. Like you’re Julius Caesar or something. Veni, vidi, vici. “How many souls have you won to the Lord?” How many conquests have you made for Churchdom?
We do need to say the right thing at the right time. The Bible says that the Holy Ghost will tell us what to say. But what about being a living witness? I always figured the way you live in front of others and your actions were always 100% more valid than a rundown of Acts 2:38 or whatever other scripture that people throw out to get people on “our side.”
I am sorry for sounding so cynical. I hate ranting. It makes me feel like a mean little rat on the defense. Just listen to the word. Ranting. But anyway, this is not out of a general dissatisfaction—it’s more of a passive-aggressive response to certain people who don’t even read my blog. Go figure.
Monday, November 13, 2006
The Verdict
I stepped out of my comfort zone a little bit this past weekend. Yes, despite my conference-cynical, singles-events-aversionist tendencies, I broke out and went to the Alabama District Singles Conference. I don’t have any grand ideas about the amount of people who read my blog, but I sure hope anything I say doesn’t come back and bite me in the rear.
On a scale of 1-10, I’d have to say it was about a 6. 5 being completely unbiased one way or the other, 6 meaning just a shade more positivity than negativity.
In Its Defense
This particular conference proved me wrong on a few points, but namely, that it was not desperation-filled. I was not accosted, never pressured. And that was a big plus. Cuz I tell you, if some needy dude had tried to awkwardly thrust himself into my life, I would have dipped out of singles conferencedom quicker than a Ninja Turtle could take a bite out of a slice of pizza.
There was a candid moment when the ladies had a little break out session and we did an open-discussion type thing. I was able to speak up (read: hop up on ye olde soapbox) about how the church pits “doing a work for God” against desiring marriage (especially for women) as well as pits the ideas of education and career against marriage and family. So, it’s like, okay, on one hand, I’m cool if I ignore the fact that I do desire marriage and am happy just passively doing “God stuff,” but on the other, I’m uncool if I try to better myself in the interim because by doing so I’m shunning marriage and family. What’s a girl to do? So, we discussed. That was good.
Things I, Uh . . . Wasn’t Crazy About
Not that I expected this “conference” to be bursting at the seams with people—I mean, it was held in a rather podunk Alabama town. But I did expect there to be more 20somethings. So that was a tad bit of a downer. I mean, not that it was crawling with old geezers. There was a sprinkling of 20somethings. I just wished there were more.
I hate to get . . . racial, but I’m going to be for real. I was the only black person there at first. A black dude did show up the next day, but come on, two out of the whole Alabama district? Remotely related to that is that a man asked me if anyone had ever told me I looked like Condaleeza Rice. Come on. #1. I do NOT look like Condi Rice. #2. Homegirl is a sharp lady, but it just didn’t feel like a compliment to me. The only thing Condi and I have in common (well, looks-wise, I guess) is that we’re both . . . you guessed it. Ah, maybe I’m being nitpicky. I’m sure the guy was just trying to be nice or something and he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
The main (male) speaker was a good speaker as far as speakers go, but the things he had to say I could have heard at camp meeting or something. I thought this was a singles conference. It seemed to me his messages weren’t really tailored to singles issues.
The schedule was kind of whack. I’m sorry. But why would they have Friday night, Saturday morning, a big break in-between, and Saturday night? What about out-of-town folks who have to make a 2 ½ hour drive back to Montgomery, and then get up and go to church the next morning?
Some Cool Things Despite the Above
The female speaker at the conference was a really neat lady. She spoke some things to me in the Holy Ghost that were encouraging and confirming about what God is going to do in my life. That was a super plus.
During the above complained-about super-long break between Saturday morning sessions and Saturday night service I went with some others to Books-a-Million to chill. This dude sitting in the chair next to me struck up a conversation and we had a really good talk about the church and Jesus matters. It turns out that he was raised in the same faith I am now, but later on broke away for various and sundry reasons. But it was great. It felt God-ordained or something. He told me that he is glad that I happened to sit next to him and that from talking to me he has a better understanding of some things. Awesome.
I ran into a guy who just happened to have relocated to St. Louis. He also did J-Terms at UGST and is attending now, he knows a bunch of St. Louis-connected people I know and attends the same church I visited the times I’ve been up there. I’m not checking for this guy in the least bit, but it was so uncanny because my future plans are currently leaning St. Louis-ward. (More on that later.) It felt like a sign or something.
And lastly, I did meet one of my goals, and that is that I did break out of my comfort zone and made an effort to talk to people that I probably wouldn’t have ordinarily. So . . . maybe I should knock the rating up to a 7? Okay, okay. The final verdict is 7 out of 10.
On a scale of 1-10, I’d have to say it was about a 6. 5 being completely unbiased one way or the other, 6 meaning just a shade more positivity than negativity.
In Its Defense
This particular conference proved me wrong on a few points, but namely, that it was not desperation-filled. I was not accosted, never pressured. And that was a big plus. Cuz I tell you, if some needy dude had tried to awkwardly thrust himself into my life, I would have dipped out of singles conferencedom quicker than a Ninja Turtle could take a bite out of a slice of pizza.
There was a candid moment when the ladies had a little break out session and we did an open-discussion type thing. I was able to speak up (read: hop up on ye olde soapbox) about how the church pits “doing a work for God” against desiring marriage (especially for women) as well as pits the ideas of education and career against marriage and family. So, it’s like, okay, on one hand, I’m cool if I ignore the fact that I do desire marriage and am happy just passively doing “God stuff,” but on the other, I’m uncool if I try to better myself in the interim because by doing so I’m shunning marriage and family. What’s a girl to do? So, we discussed. That was good.
Things I, Uh . . . Wasn’t Crazy About
Not that I expected this “conference” to be bursting at the seams with people—I mean, it was held in a rather podunk Alabama town. But I did expect there to be more 20somethings. So that was a tad bit of a downer. I mean, not that it was crawling with old geezers. There was a sprinkling of 20somethings. I just wished there were more.
I hate to get . . . racial, but I’m going to be for real. I was the only black person there at first. A black dude did show up the next day, but come on, two out of the whole Alabama district? Remotely related to that is that a man asked me if anyone had ever told me I looked like Condaleeza Rice. Come on. #1. I do NOT look like Condi Rice. #2. Homegirl is a sharp lady, but it just didn’t feel like a compliment to me. The only thing Condi and I have in common (well, looks-wise, I guess) is that we’re both . . . you guessed it. Ah, maybe I’m being nitpicky. I’m sure the guy was just trying to be nice or something and he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
The main (male) speaker was a good speaker as far as speakers go, but the things he had to say I could have heard at camp meeting or something. I thought this was a singles conference. It seemed to me his messages weren’t really tailored to singles issues.
The schedule was kind of whack. I’m sorry. But why would they have Friday night, Saturday morning, a big break in-between, and Saturday night? What about out-of-town folks who have to make a 2 ½ hour drive back to Montgomery, and then get up and go to church the next morning?
Some Cool Things Despite the Above
The female speaker at the conference was a really neat lady. She spoke some things to me in the Holy Ghost that were encouraging and confirming about what God is going to do in my life. That was a super plus.
During the above complained-about super-long break between Saturday morning sessions and Saturday night service I went with some others to Books-a-Million to chill. This dude sitting in the chair next to me struck up a conversation and we had a really good talk about the church and Jesus matters. It turns out that he was raised in the same faith I am now, but later on broke away for various and sundry reasons. But it was great. It felt God-ordained or something. He told me that he is glad that I happened to sit next to him and that from talking to me he has a better understanding of some things. Awesome.
I ran into a guy who just happened to have relocated to St. Louis. He also did J-Terms at UGST and is attending now, he knows a bunch of St. Louis-connected people I know and attends the same church I visited the times I’ve been up there. I’m not checking for this guy in the least bit, but it was so uncanny because my future plans are currently leaning St. Louis-ward. (More on that later.) It felt like a sign or something.
And lastly, I did meet one of my goals, and that is that I did break out of my comfort zone and made an effort to talk to people that I probably wouldn’t have ordinarily. So . . . maybe I should knock the rating up to a 7? Okay, okay. The final verdict is 7 out of 10.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Have You Ever Seen a Manatee?
I'm mid-Singles Conference trip. It's too soon to give a definite verdict yet. I'll just say this . . . I got a really cool pen for pre-registering, so that's already making me lean towards thumbs up.
My friend "Diane" revealed to me that she had done something special, something that not many people can say that they've done. She's seen a manatee. Now, as inconsequential and insignificant as that may seem, think about it for a minute. Have you ever seen a manatee? How many people do you know that have? That's what I thought.
So, I told "Diane" that the next time someone tried to talk down to her, if anyone ever tries to act like they're all that to her, she can use her experience of manatee sighting to counter it. Example:
Mean person: So, yeah, like I went to Paris and bought this really cute purse from Louis Vuitton on the Champs-Elysees this weekend. But you wouldn't understand . . . you've never done anything like that, have you?
Diane: I can't say that I have, but have you ever seen a manatee?
Mean person: Umm . . . uh, no.
Diane: That's what I thought.
Mean person: (silence)
Being able to say you've seen a manatee can silence even the most supercilious.
My friend "Diane" revealed to me that she had done something special, something that not many people can say that they've done. She's seen a manatee. Now, as inconsequential and insignificant as that may seem, think about it for a minute. Have you ever seen a manatee? How many people do you know that have? That's what I thought.
So, I told "Diane" that the next time someone tried to talk down to her, if anyone ever tries to act like they're all that to her, she can use her experience of manatee sighting to counter it. Example:
Mean person: So, yeah, like I went to Paris and bought this really cute purse from Louis Vuitton on the Champs-Elysees this weekend. But you wouldn't understand . . . you've never done anything like that, have you?
Diane: I can't say that I have, but have you ever seen a manatee?
Mean person: Umm . . . uh, no.
Diane: That's what I thought.
Mean person: (silence)
Being able to say you've seen a manatee can silence even the most supercilious.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
UPC on Borat?
When I first heard about the now-playing in-theaters-near-you movie, Borat, I was like, okay, there's one I can put on my Do Not See list. It made a small sensation in Alabama because he had duped a local etiquette expert in a ruse which culminated with a most disgusting antic.
Anyway, when I read on Collideoscope in this post that Borat had fakingly recieved the Holy Ghost at a United Pentecostal Church (UPC) campmeeting, I was floored. What? UPC on Borat?! The whole premise had an amusing oxymoronic tang. Screen caps shown on this post were proof, and I was further enlightened by an interview with Borat on the Today Show linked on the same post.
The truth is I don't really know what to make of it, but I'm deciding to throw my $0.02 in due to a little tap from ninetyandnine.com's almighty editor. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought about a satirical response that birthed itself out of the innerworkings of my sometimes cynical mind.
Picture a quintessential hicktown preacher who incessantly harps on "goin' to the pit." This is an excerpt from his Sunday night sermon after finding out about the UPC bit in the movie:
The idea was hilarious to me. That someone would laud Borat's poking fun at A/Ps as punishment from God. Anyway . . .
How I really feel about it, I dunno. I guess I sort of second the feelings of Scott Phillps in his exclusive mid-week article. Speaking in tongues and Pentecostal-esque worship being made fun of is nothing new. It happened on the Day of Pentecost, the mother of all Pentecostal experience, for crying out loud.
But it's kind of weird . . . I also felt some kinship with Stu Kent of House Calls in his post about the Blues Brothers. I when I was a child, got my first knowledge of Pentecostal-y stuff from TV. For whatever reason (during our B.C. days) I was watching Cape Fear with my folks. Not the 1960s, Robert Mitchum, black and white one, but the early 1990s Robert DeNiro remake. Though it was a minor part, all I remember is Robert DeNiro speaking in tongues while he was drowning in the end. Not the most savory of images, I know, lol, but . . . perhaps this is the point of all of this: Even though the image of a really sinister guy speaking in tongues while drowning is less than ideal, it introduced my nine year old mind to the idea of speaking in tongues, it made me curious about it, I asked questions about it, and in the end, it wasn't something alien when the Pentecostal experience became more important in my family's life.
Maybe the whole Borat deal, as crude, offensive, and unrelentingly satirical as it seems to be (from reviews that I've read), might be someone else's Cape Fear. Though "getting the Holy Ghost" (among many other things) is being made light of in this film, perhaps to someone out there, Borat will spark a light of curiosity that may lead to a life-changing experience. Who knows? God has a crazy way of turning things around in His favor.
Anyway, when I read on Collideoscope in this post that Borat had fakingly recieved the Holy Ghost at a United Pentecostal Church (UPC) campmeeting, I was floored. What? UPC on Borat?! The whole premise had an amusing oxymoronic tang. Screen caps shown on this post were proof, and I was further enlightened by an interview with Borat on the Today Show linked on the same post.
The truth is I don't really know what to make of it, but I'm deciding to throw my $0.02 in due to a little tap from ninetyandnine.com's almighty editor. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought about a satirical response that birthed itself out of the innerworkings of my sometimes cynical mind.
Picture a quintessential hicktown preacher who incessantly harps on "goin' to the pit." This is an excerpt from his Sunday night sermon after finding out about the UPC bit in the movie:
Now, I done heard about some devilish thing they're showing in the moviehouses of the world called BO-rat. And I know you probably know he's done cut the monkey and blasphemed the Holy Ghost by his pretendin' and carryin' on at a campmeetin' of our'n. And now this is being broadcast all over the world! At first, I was mad as a hornet. How dare this sinner boy mock the Most High, I thought! But then I thought, naw, Lord, I see, I see why You done this. The Lord works in mysterious ways. Ya see, some of our very own wanted to be able to be seen on hellivision, and this is the Lord's way of punishin'! God said, 'Oh, you want to be on the one-eyed devil, do you? Well, I'm gonna do that an' more—I'll plaster you all over the world bein' made to look like fools! Not on ol' devilvision, but through the very mother of all things evil herself—Hollywood!'
The idea was hilarious to me. That someone would laud Borat's poking fun at A/Ps as punishment from God. Anyway . . .
How I really feel about it, I dunno. I guess I sort of second the feelings of Scott Phillps in his exclusive mid-week article. Speaking in tongues and Pentecostal-esque worship being made fun of is nothing new. It happened on the Day of Pentecost, the mother of all Pentecostal experience, for crying out loud.
But it's kind of weird . . . I also felt some kinship with Stu Kent of House Calls in his post about the Blues Brothers. I when I was a child, got my first knowledge of Pentecostal-y stuff from TV. For whatever reason (during our B.C. days) I was watching Cape Fear with my folks. Not the 1960s, Robert Mitchum, black and white one, but the early 1990s Robert DeNiro remake. Though it was a minor part, all I remember is Robert DeNiro speaking in tongues while he was drowning in the end. Not the most savory of images, I know, lol, but . . . perhaps this is the point of all of this: Even though the image of a really sinister guy speaking in tongues while drowning is less than ideal, it introduced my nine year old mind to the idea of speaking in tongues, it made me curious about it, I asked questions about it, and in the end, it wasn't something alien when the Pentecostal experience became more important in my family's life.
Maybe the whole Borat deal, as crude, offensive, and unrelentingly satirical as it seems to be (from reviews that I've read), might be someone else's Cape Fear. Though "getting the Holy Ghost" (among many other things) is being made light of in this film, perhaps to someone out there, Borat will spark a light of curiosity that may lead to a life-changing experience. Who knows? God has a crazy way of turning things around in His favor.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Telenovelas, Small Miracles, and Post-Cartum Depression
Telenovelas
Remember this: If you’re ever feeling down and want to have a gut-busting laugh, watch a telenovela. It will have you rollin. A telenovela is basically a Spanish-language soap opera. But these shows take ‘soap opera’ to the next level. In every scene, someone is crying, fighting, having a nervous breakdown . . . it’s like uberdrama. I was hanging with some Panamanian friends of mine, and I was over there watching Univision with them. This novela was on called “Mundo de Fieras” or, “World of Beasts.” lol. It was great. The main lady in the show is just nuts . . . she pulls a gun on her husband and shot at him, first of all. But the most hilarious part in that episode was this dude with his leg all wrapped up, hobbling around on a cane who was threatening the lady to tell her husband about her infidelity. I asked my friends what happened to the dude, and they told me that she shot him too. Homegirl just goes around shooting guys she gets fed up with. There was even a scene where the lady’s father (the lady doesn’t know this man is her father—yet another dramatic twist) says to himself, “Necesita ayuda profesional urgentemente.” She needs professional help badly. Understatement of the year.
Small Miracles
Okay, so I’m applying to graduate school. To make a long story short, one of my former professors is notoriously absent-minded, never checks his email, and is always impossible to catch up with. He’s a nice guy, but you have to basically beat down his door to get anything from him. Homeboy has a paper of mine that I wrote in Spain (he used some of my Spain stuff for his research), and I really, really wanted to use that paper to turn in as a writing sample to the program I’m applying to. I misplaced whatever floppy disk I’d saved it on (now, two years ago), and so the hard copy he had was my only hope. I emailed my boy at least a gazillion times, and left voice mail messages, but to no avail. I was determined, so I eventually pleaded with his office assistant to take up my cause. In the end, they found the paper! Yes! So it’s in the mail to me now. (Thank God I didn’t have to take a road trip up to Tuscaloosa to beg for a paper I wrote. lol.) Persistence pays off, yes, indeed.
Post-Cartum Depression
I bought a new car. Well, it’s new to me. It’s a 2005 Hyundai Elantra. I sold the 97 Mazda 626 to my bro. We went up to the probate office to get all the legal business straightened out, and in the end, I turned over the keys to him. But upon doing so, I felt a pang in my heart. I almost wish I hadn’t sold it to him. That car was my baby. I paid that little darling off with my hard earned money. It took me places. It was there for me. It was my road dawg. Literally. Even though I had to put her in the shop a time or two, she never broke down on me. She never left me stranded on the side of the road. I experienced so many things with that car. I knew her little quirks, the little imperfections that set in on a car with over 125,000 miles. But I was comfortable in it, I leaned into it and embraced it, I trusted it. I mean, it was a part of my life. Now, I have to get used to this little new(er) thing. I miss my old baby already. I never thought letting go of my old, mile-burdened, paint-peeling car would perturb me. It was almost like breaking up with someone you still love (though not nearly as painful). But you know, in the end, it was for the best.
Remember this: If you’re ever feeling down and want to have a gut-busting laugh, watch a telenovela. It will have you rollin. A telenovela is basically a Spanish-language soap opera. But these shows take ‘soap opera’ to the next level. In every scene, someone is crying, fighting, having a nervous breakdown . . . it’s like uberdrama. I was hanging with some Panamanian friends of mine, and I was over there watching Univision with them. This novela was on called “Mundo de Fieras” or, “World of Beasts.” lol. It was great. The main lady in the show is just nuts . . . she pulls a gun on her husband and shot at him, first of all. But the most hilarious part in that episode was this dude with his leg all wrapped up, hobbling around on a cane who was threatening the lady to tell her husband about her infidelity. I asked my friends what happened to the dude, and they told me that she shot him too. Homegirl just goes around shooting guys she gets fed up with. There was even a scene where the lady’s father (the lady doesn’t know this man is her father—yet another dramatic twist) says to himself, “Necesita ayuda profesional urgentemente.” She needs professional help badly. Understatement of the year.
Small Miracles
Okay, so I’m applying to graduate school. To make a long story short, one of my former professors is notoriously absent-minded, never checks his email, and is always impossible to catch up with. He’s a nice guy, but you have to basically beat down his door to get anything from him. Homeboy has a paper of mine that I wrote in Spain (he used some of my Spain stuff for his research), and I really, really wanted to use that paper to turn in as a writing sample to the program I’m applying to. I misplaced whatever floppy disk I’d saved it on (now, two years ago), and so the hard copy he had was my only hope. I emailed my boy at least a gazillion times, and left voice mail messages, but to no avail. I was determined, so I eventually pleaded with his office assistant to take up my cause. In the end, they found the paper! Yes! So it’s in the mail to me now. (Thank God I didn’t have to take a road trip up to Tuscaloosa to beg for a paper I wrote. lol.) Persistence pays off, yes, indeed.
Post-Cartum Depression
I bought a new car. Well, it’s new to me. It’s a 2005 Hyundai Elantra. I sold the 97 Mazda 626 to my bro. We went up to the probate office to get all the legal business straightened out, and in the end, I turned over the keys to him. But upon doing so, I felt a pang in my heart. I almost wish I hadn’t sold it to him. That car was my baby. I paid that little darling off with my hard earned money. It took me places. It was there for me. It was my road dawg. Literally. Even though I had to put her in the shop a time or two, she never broke down on me. She never left me stranded on the side of the road. I experienced so many things with that car. I knew her little quirks, the little imperfections that set in on a car with over 125,000 miles. But I was comfortable in it, I leaned into it and embraced it, I trusted it. I mean, it was a part of my life. Now, I have to get used to this little new(er) thing. I miss my old baby already. I never thought letting go of my old, mile-burdened, paint-peeling car would perturb me. It was almost like breaking up with someone you still love (though not nearly as painful). But you know, in the end, it was for the best.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Plan B?
I’ve never been a fan of backup plans.
Despite how methodical and analytical I can be at times, when I’m trying to achieve a goal that I really want to attain, I usually adopt an all-or-nothing attitude. It’s like I pour all of my energy into setting out to do what I plan to accomplish, and I throw all of my hope into believing that it will happen.
That is not to say that I don’t ever think about how the state of affairs would be or a possible plan of action should I fall short of my goal. No, I do have a . . . theoretical Plan B of some sort, I guess. But I don’t really construct a safety net out of it. It’s more something that I hazily formulate and hope that I never have to take back out and reexamine. Part of my reasoning, I guess, is this: What’s the use of Plan B when Plan A is the only thing in your sights? Why plan for a course of action that you never intend to take? Why put any energy into formulating your own personal second best? I figure if Plan A falls through, Plan B will take place by default.
Let me back up and say that this is not like . . . military strategy or a rescue operation or investing money or anything where anyone’s life/well being would be at stake. I do think Plan Bs are helpful with event planning and such, though. Having a fall festival or whatever in the rain is not cool. But I’m not talking about any of that. I’m talking about personal/academic/career goals that I’ve set for myself. I have a little theory that if you really want something, part of making it happen is believing that it will. And for me, (I can only speak for myself) carefully crafting a Plan B represents not believing in Plan A wholeheartedly.
I know that may sound . . . kind of reckless to some. And in a way, I guess it is. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket, right? And maybe it’s just that I haven’t lived long enough to experience being crushed by failure. But so far, putting all my eggs in one basket (caveat: a carefully chosen basket) has been what drives me to do everything in my power, with God’s guidance, to make it happen.
My main example of this is the semester I spent in Spain. I set a goal, and I did everything in my power to meet it. My parents aren’t Sam Waltons, so knew I was going to be funding this puppy on my own. I applied for every scholarship I could get my hands on. Did I think about what I was going to do if I didn’t earn and win enough money? Not really. Plan B was “If I don’t get enough money, I just won’t go. I’ll finish out the school year here.” But the weird thing is, I found that money came my way from places I didn’t even solicit. It’s like when your plans and God’s plans align and mesh with your desire to do them, I feel like God does everything to make sure they happen. You know the rest—I spent a semester in Spain and had enough money to support myself as well as extra money to travel around while I was there.
There’s a little something in the works . . . and though I don’t know how it’s going to pan out, I’m not going to bother with Plan B. I’m putting all my eggs in one basket, and I have faith that God’s not going to let them fall out and get splattered all over the road while I’m skipping along to Grandma’s house.
Despite how methodical and analytical I can be at times, when I’m trying to achieve a goal that I really want to attain, I usually adopt an all-or-nothing attitude. It’s like I pour all of my energy into setting out to do what I plan to accomplish, and I throw all of my hope into believing that it will happen.
That is not to say that I don’t ever think about how the state of affairs would be or a possible plan of action should I fall short of my goal. No, I do have a . . . theoretical Plan B of some sort, I guess. But I don’t really construct a safety net out of it. It’s more something that I hazily formulate and hope that I never have to take back out and reexamine. Part of my reasoning, I guess, is this: What’s the use of Plan B when Plan A is the only thing in your sights? Why plan for a course of action that you never intend to take? Why put any energy into formulating your own personal second best? I figure if Plan A falls through, Plan B will take place by default.
Let me back up and say that this is not like . . . military strategy or a rescue operation or investing money or anything where anyone’s life/well being would be at stake. I do think Plan Bs are helpful with event planning and such, though. Having a fall festival or whatever in the rain is not cool. But I’m not talking about any of that. I’m talking about personal/academic/career goals that I’ve set for myself. I have a little theory that if you really want something, part of making it happen is believing that it will. And for me, (I can only speak for myself) carefully crafting a Plan B represents not believing in Plan A wholeheartedly.
I know that may sound . . . kind of reckless to some. And in a way, I guess it is. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket, right? And maybe it’s just that I haven’t lived long enough to experience being crushed by failure. But so far, putting all my eggs in one basket (caveat: a carefully chosen basket) has been what drives me to do everything in my power, with God’s guidance, to make it happen.
My main example of this is the semester I spent in Spain. I set a goal, and I did everything in my power to meet it. My parents aren’t Sam Waltons, so knew I was going to be funding this puppy on my own. I applied for every scholarship I could get my hands on. Did I think about what I was going to do if I didn’t earn and win enough money? Not really. Plan B was “If I don’t get enough money, I just won’t go. I’ll finish out the school year here.” But the weird thing is, I found that money came my way from places I didn’t even solicit. It’s like when your plans and God’s plans align and mesh with your desire to do them, I feel like God does everything to make sure they happen. You know the rest—I spent a semester in Spain and had enough money to support myself as well as extra money to travel around while I was there.
There’s a little something in the works . . . and though I don’t know how it’s going to pan out, I’m not going to bother with Plan B. I’m putting all my eggs in one basket, and I have faith that God’s not going to let them fall out and get splattered all over the road while I’m skipping along to Grandma’s house.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
I Am So Scared
As I exit my comfort zone . . .
I really hate it when I begin to do things I said I'd never do. And I'm not talking like, things that are off, as in "I said I'd never become a stalker, and here I am, spending my last dime on surveillance equipment." No. It's more like, "I said I'd never try 'chitlins,' and here I am, eating a hot sauce-doused second helping." Except, the "I said I'd never" in question isn't the prospect of eating 'chitlins,' but rather (dun-dun-DUUUN) . . . going to a singles conference.
Oh, blast it all, I said I wasn't going to do it. But here I am, registered for the Alabama District Singles Conference which takes place next weekend. How did I get from this to this?! I got a mass email from a single lady at my church asking who was planning on going. Ordinarily, I would've hit delete and moved on, but this time, I stopped. One of my post-IQ Forum resolutions was to get out of my comfort zone, and something nudged me and said that here was the perfect opportunity.
I don't need to rehash my aversion to all things 'single'. In addition, I'm a self-professed conference cynic. But the fact of the matter is, I've never been to a single's conference, so what gives me the right to knock it if I've never tried it? Who has the right to profess their distaste for chitlins when they've never even had any before, hot sauce-doused or not? (By the way, my mom said I ate some when I was little, but I don't remember. I don't think it had any hot sauce on it, though.) So, next weekend, I'm going to bite the bullet and go. For good, bad, or ugly. If I have a good time, well, then, I can say I had a good time. And if I have a God-awful time, well, then, I can rightfully knock singles conferences. At least the Alabama District one.
The only thing I pray is this: God, please, whatever You do, do not let my decision to timidly test the waters of singles conferencedom be the begining of the end. Do not let this represent my dive of abandon into the deep, murky waters of Desperado, from which there is no return. In Jesus's name, amen.
I really hate it when I begin to do things I said I'd never do. And I'm not talking like, things that are off, as in "I said I'd never become a stalker, and here I am, spending my last dime on surveillance equipment." No. It's more like, "I said I'd never try 'chitlins,' and here I am, eating a hot sauce-doused second helping." Except, the "I said I'd never" in question isn't the prospect of eating 'chitlins,' but rather (dun-dun-DUUUN) . . . going to a singles conference.
Oh, blast it all, I said I wasn't going to do it. But here I am, registered for the Alabama District Singles Conference which takes place next weekend. How did I get from this to this?! I got a mass email from a single lady at my church asking who was planning on going. Ordinarily, I would've hit delete and moved on, but this time, I stopped. One of my post-IQ Forum resolutions was to get out of my comfort zone, and something nudged me and said that here was the perfect opportunity.
I don't need to rehash my aversion to all things 'single'. In addition, I'm a self-professed conference cynic. But the fact of the matter is, I've never been to a single's conference, so what gives me the right to knock it if I've never tried it? Who has the right to profess their distaste for chitlins when they've never even had any before, hot sauce-doused or not? (By the way, my mom said I ate some when I was little, but I don't remember. I don't think it had any hot sauce on it, though.) So, next weekend, I'm going to bite the bullet and go. For good, bad, or ugly. If I have a good time, well, then, I can say I had a good time. And if I have a God-awful time, well, then, I can rightfully knock singles conferences. At least the Alabama District one.
The only thing I pray is this: God, please, whatever You do, do not let my decision to timidly test the waters of singles conferencedom be the begining of the end. Do not let this represent my dive of abandon into the deep, murky waters of Desperado, from which there is no return. In Jesus's name, amen.
Monday, October 30, 2006
What I Am and the UGST Verdict
What Are You?
That was a question asked of me by my darling 7th graders today, God bless their souls. Their final project for the rotation is to choose a famous Hispanic person to do a report on. I had a ready-made list (which included those with more noble claims to fame like Nobel Prize-winning authors and such), but I approved of others they wanted to do that weren’t on the list. One chose Jennifer Lopez, another Albert Pujols, and other various and sundry Hispanic actors, musicians and sports figures were named. One boy raised his hand.
“Could we do you?”
“Me? (laughs) Ummm, no. I’m not Hispanic.”
That resulted in a chorus of “You’re not? I thought you were!”
I rolled my eyes and sighed, “Just because someone speaks Spanish doesn’t mean they are Hispanic.”
“Well, what are you then?”
If anyone else had asked me that question I may have been a little perturbed at his or her brazenness. But I realized they’re 7th graders. They probably don’t know any better. I was a little surprised, though, and I kiddingly said, “What am I? I’m a citizen of these here United States of America just like you are!”
“But no, what is your . . . heritage?”
“Uh, my heritage is . . . African-American.” I mean, that’s what they really wanted to know to begin with. It’s not their asking about my “heritage” that bothered me. I was raised to be proud of who I am. I don’t know why, but it just slightly unsettles me when people have a need to place me. For some reason, it’s hard for people to fathom the existence of a non-Hispanic, Spanish-speaking black girl whose parents don’t know a lick of the language.
Another question my kids always ask is, “Señora Smith, what kind of music do you listen to?” It’s like, they would have a better grasp of me if they knew what I listened to. They would be better able to place me.
I’ve been in Montgomery for 12 years, but as soon as I open my mouth when I meet someone new, they ask where I’m from. It’s weird because Montgomery is basically home. It’s where we’ve lived the longest. Yet anytime I’m asked that question, I have to give a back-story because I’m not really “from” anywhere: “Well, I was born in Mississippi, and then we moved to Italy, and then we moved here, so . . . I dunno. But my parents are from Philly.”
On one hand, it kind of bothers me that people are so caught up in trying to figure out “what” I am, but on the other hand, it’s kind of amusing that they seem to care so much.
UGST Verdict
I was so scared to get my final grade from my UGST class. Straight up and honestly, I was ashamed of my final paper. It was not my best work and I felt like the lamest dork turning that in. My prof was inundated with PhD comps, so it took him a little longer to get things graded, but I finally talked to him today. The overall verdict: A.
I was flabbergasted. I was praying I’d get a C, and I would have been satisfied with it because I was convinced my final paper was atrocious. I guess I’m a little hard on myself. My prof was teetering between giving me an A- or a B+ on the paper, but I didn’t have the heart to try to convince him to give me the A- when I didn’t even feel that I deserved to get the B+. I told him I was completely satisfied with the B+ for my conscience's sake. And the word is that my prof for this class is not a gracious grader. He is no joke. So, I guess he saw something in my paper that I didn’t. I am just so thankful for God’s grace and mercy and longsuffering despite my procrastinatory spirit. I really am.
That was a question asked of me by my darling 7th graders today, God bless their souls. Their final project for the rotation is to choose a famous Hispanic person to do a report on. I had a ready-made list (which included those with more noble claims to fame like Nobel Prize-winning authors and such), but I approved of others they wanted to do that weren’t on the list. One chose Jennifer Lopez, another Albert Pujols, and other various and sundry Hispanic actors, musicians and sports figures were named. One boy raised his hand.
“Could we do you?”
“Me? (laughs) Ummm, no. I’m not Hispanic.”
That resulted in a chorus of “You’re not? I thought you were!”
I rolled my eyes and sighed, “Just because someone speaks Spanish doesn’t mean they are Hispanic.”
“Well, what are you then?”
If anyone else had asked me that question I may have been a little perturbed at his or her brazenness. But I realized they’re 7th graders. They probably don’t know any better. I was a little surprised, though, and I kiddingly said, “What am I? I’m a citizen of these here United States of America just like you are!”
“But no, what is your . . . heritage?”
“Uh, my heritage is . . . African-American.” I mean, that’s what they really wanted to know to begin with. It’s not their asking about my “heritage” that bothered me. I was raised to be proud of who I am. I don’t know why, but it just slightly unsettles me when people have a need to place me. For some reason, it’s hard for people to fathom the existence of a non-Hispanic, Spanish-speaking black girl whose parents don’t know a lick of the language.
Another question my kids always ask is, “Señora Smith, what kind of music do you listen to?” It’s like, they would have a better grasp of me if they knew what I listened to. They would be better able to place me.
I’ve been in Montgomery for 12 years, but as soon as I open my mouth when I meet someone new, they ask where I’m from. It’s weird because Montgomery is basically home. It’s where we’ve lived the longest. Yet anytime I’m asked that question, I have to give a back-story because I’m not really “from” anywhere: “Well, I was born in Mississippi, and then we moved to Italy, and then we moved here, so . . . I dunno. But my parents are from Philly.”
On one hand, it kind of bothers me that people are so caught up in trying to figure out “what” I am, but on the other hand, it’s kind of amusing that they seem to care so much.
UGST Verdict
I was so scared to get my final grade from my UGST class. Straight up and honestly, I was ashamed of my final paper. It was not my best work and I felt like the lamest dork turning that in. My prof was inundated with PhD comps, so it took him a little longer to get things graded, but I finally talked to him today. The overall verdict: A.
I was flabbergasted. I was praying I’d get a C, and I would have been satisfied with it because I was convinced my final paper was atrocious. I guess I’m a little hard on myself. My prof was teetering between giving me an A- or a B+ on the paper, but I didn’t have the heart to try to convince him to give me the A- when I didn’t even feel that I deserved to get the B+. I told him I was completely satisfied with the B+ for my conscience's sake. And the word is that my prof for this class is not a gracious grader. He is no joke. So, I guess he saw something in my paper that I didn’t. I am just so thankful for God’s grace and mercy and longsuffering despite my procrastinatory spirit. I really am.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
A Few Cool (to me, anyway) Things
1. This sounds really awesome: Godblogcon. I mean, just say it. It sounds pretty innovative. It's a conference about using the media force of the blog "to engage the culture as thoughtful, articulate, and winsome witnesses of the redeeming work of Christ in every area of life." Hmmm . . . blog = witness? And my pops says it's a waste of time. Ah, the generation gap.
2. Isn't it weird when you realize things for the first time that have always existed? Like, when something just dawns on you all of a sudden, and you're like, "I should have known that!" As trivial as it is, I just realized that one of my favorite daily comic strips, For Better or For Worse, is set in Canada. The characters are Canadian. I mean, who cares, but it was like, all this time, and I never knew that! It almost makes me feel ashamed.
3. I got my Malcolm Gladwell fix watching this video of him (scroll down and click the very last one) at the recent New Yorker Festival. He's quite an engaging speaker. He's Canadian too, by the way (but I always knew that). And to think, (my claim to fame . . . ) I got an email from him. (All right, it was only one line, but still!)
4. I really love this song by Starfield called "My Generation." It's a classic blast-at-full-volume-and-sing-along. Check it out here! And weird, but they're Canadian too. The Canada connection amongst my few cool things was not intentional, but sometimes it works out that way, I guess. The chorus:
How do we feel?
How do we feel?
My generation is aching for real
Dying for love
Crying for truth
My generation is aching for You.
2. Isn't it weird when you realize things for the first time that have always existed? Like, when something just dawns on you all of a sudden, and you're like, "I should have known that!" As trivial as it is, I just realized that one of my favorite daily comic strips, For Better or For Worse, is set in Canada. The characters are Canadian. I mean, who cares, but it was like, all this time, and I never knew that! It almost makes me feel ashamed.
3. I got my Malcolm Gladwell fix watching this video of him (scroll down and click the very last one) at the recent New Yorker Festival. He's quite an engaging speaker. He's Canadian too, by the way (but I always knew that). And to think, (my claim to fame . . . ) I got an email from him. (All right, it was only one line, but still!)
4. I really love this song by Starfield called "My Generation." It's a classic blast-at-full-volume-and-sing-along. Check it out here! And weird, but they're Canadian too. The Canada connection amongst my few cool things was not intentional, but sometimes it works out that way, I guess. The chorus:
How do we feel?
How do we feel?
My generation is aching for real
Dying for love
Crying for truth
My generation is aching for You.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Post-St. Louie Musings
Okay, so I went to St. Louis this past Thursday for IQ Forum 2006 and returned Sunday night. I had a doggone blast. I mean, that was inevitable for any and all who participated. And I promise I’m not saying that because I was a little panelist this time around or even because I expected it because I had a blast the last time, but rather because people who came who were kind of iffy about attending at first said that it exceeded their expectations. I won’t get into all the nitty gritty of what each speaker said ('speaker' not 'preacher' because this was not, I repeat, was not, a preaching conference), but I came away with several little nuggets that I’m going to try to put into practice: prioritize and don’t try to do it all—God hasn’t called us to do it all, make it a point to stay aware and relevant to the culture around me so that I can better respond to it (not reflect it), and make it a point to get out of my comfort zone.
Aside from the Forum, I was allowed to connect and reconnect with like-minded and goaled people, which is always refreshing. I mean, how often do you get to talk about non-Euclidian geometry, the possibility of Bono having the Holy Ghost, and the implications of mayonnaise consumption and feel at home? (Of course, more serious and spiritual things were discussed amongst my friends as well, but just to give you an idea of the dorky/nerdy trivial things that I find fun to talk about and how great it is not to feel like a dork/nerd while doing so.)
The following are just some jumbled conclusions, observations, whatever, in no order of importance or significance:
1. I did not meet “the one” as I subconsciously hoped. Or, maybe I did or already have and he was hiding from me.
2. St. Louis is in my future. If all works out according to plan, it will be. If all does not work out according to plan . . . umm, we’re going to think positive here!
3. Pantyhose are frowned upon in some church circles. Rather than being “unholy” not to wear them, it’s uncool to wear them. Pantyhose pooh-poohers unite!
4. Andy Smith is one of the coolest speakers I have heard in while. (And it’s not just because we share the same last name.) Maybe it’s the deep voice and magnetic presence. The man has a very profound ministry, for sure.
5. U2’s “How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb” and Jonny Lang's “Turn Around” are must-haves.
6. The Cardinals are no joke and Pujols is the man.
7. Even cheese slices can be grated in an emergency if you own one of those Pampered Chef grating things.
8. There are times when certain laughs are over the top. I know my laugh can be boisterous, but some laughs cross the line.
9. Having a CSI-connected guest at the house may cause cleaning neurosis.
10. Having a Gabriel GarcÃa Márquez novel in tow could rival the iPod when attempting to make a statement of airport gate waiting area sophistication.
Aside from the Forum, I was allowed to connect and reconnect with like-minded and goaled people, which is always refreshing. I mean, how often do you get to talk about non-Euclidian geometry, the possibility of Bono having the Holy Ghost, and the implications of mayonnaise consumption and feel at home? (Of course, more serious and spiritual things were discussed amongst my friends as well, but just to give you an idea of the dorky/nerdy trivial things that I find fun to talk about and how great it is not to feel like a dork/nerd while doing so.)
The following are just some jumbled conclusions, observations, whatever, in no order of importance or significance:
1. I did not meet “the one” as I subconsciously hoped. Or, maybe I did or already have and he was hiding from me.
2. St. Louis is in my future. If all works out according to plan, it will be. If all does not work out according to plan . . . umm, we’re going to think positive here!
3. Pantyhose are frowned upon in some church circles. Rather than being “unholy” not to wear them, it’s uncool to wear them. Pantyhose pooh-poohers unite!
4. Andy Smith is one of the coolest speakers I have heard in while. (And it’s not just because we share the same last name.) Maybe it’s the deep voice and magnetic presence. The man has a very profound ministry, for sure.
5. U2’s “How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb” and Jonny Lang's “Turn Around” are must-haves.
6. The Cardinals are no joke and Pujols is the man.
7. Even cheese slices can be grated in an emergency if you own one of those Pampered Chef grating things.
8. There are times when certain laughs are over the top. I know my laugh can be boisterous, but some laughs cross the line.
9. Having a CSI-connected guest at the house may cause cleaning neurosis.
10. Having a Gabriel GarcÃa Márquez novel in tow could rival the iPod when attempting to make a statement of airport gate waiting area sophistication.
Monday, October 16, 2006
The quotation
posted on this week's edition of 90&9.com kind of melancholically resonated with me:
The thing that makes you exceptional, if you are at all, is inevitably that which must also make you lonely.
–Lorraine Hansberry
The thing that makes you exceptional, if you are at all, is inevitably that which must also make you lonely.
–Lorraine Hansberry
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Fair Foul: The World's Smallest Lady
"Fair is foul, and foul is fair: / Hover through the fog and filthy air" (Macbeth I, i, 11-12).
Those are the chantings of the Weird Sisters, otherwise known as the witches in the play Macbeth before they proclaim to the play's namesake their self-fulfilling prophecies.
That has not much to do with what happened today except that I went to the fair, and I ended up leaving in a bit of a foul mood because I did something that I'm really ashamed of but that many seemed indifferent to.
I love the fair. I rode bunches of rides until I almost made myself sick, I ate corn dogs and funnel cake, I was having a great time. But then I came across a booth with a painting of a lady sitting on the palm of someone's hand which advertised The World's Smallest Lady. "See the world's smallest lady for only a dollar!" shouted the loudspeaker. Those I was with were eager, and, thinking it was some kind of cheap hoax, I went along and paid my dollar just to see for myself.
I went around the corner to see the "World's Smallest Lady" and found a very short, slightly disfigured woman who obviously was affected by dwarfism. As soon as I rounded that corner, it hit me that this is a real, live person. A person with feelings and a mind and a life. God, I felt so ashamed. She just sat there and nodded at people who walked by. I quickly acknowledged her with a pitiful nod, averted my eyes and walked on. Some people were actually stopping right in front of her and staring. What were they thinking when they saw her? Look at that freak. I can't begin to imagine how humiliating that must be. To have people ogle you like you're an animal in a zoo.
I couldn't believe I had done that. I watched a human being being exploited at the fair. And not just that, but I partook in the exploitation. I did pay a dollar, didn't I? I hated that. Passionately. And it undid the fun I had up until that point. I tried to explain how I felt to my friends, and maybe they felt a pang of remorse, I don't know, but they must've put it out of their minds because then they wanted to ride the thing that suddenly shoots you up in the air, suspends you and then unexpectedly drops you back down.
"The World's Smallest Lady" or not, that woman is a human being, and created by God just like the rest of us. It made me feel sick that her condition was being exploited for the entertainment of others.
Those are the chantings of the Weird Sisters, otherwise known as the witches in the play Macbeth before they proclaim to the play's namesake their self-fulfilling prophecies.
That has not much to do with what happened today except that I went to the fair, and I ended up leaving in a bit of a foul mood because I did something that I'm really ashamed of but that many seemed indifferent to.
I love the fair. I rode bunches of rides until I almost made myself sick, I ate corn dogs and funnel cake, I was having a great time. But then I came across a booth with a painting of a lady sitting on the palm of someone's hand which advertised The World's Smallest Lady. "See the world's smallest lady for only a dollar!" shouted the loudspeaker. Those I was with were eager, and, thinking it was some kind of cheap hoax, I went along and paid my dollar just to see for myself.
I went around the corner to see the "World's Smallest Lady" and found a very short, slightly disfigured woman who obviously was affected by dwarfism. As soon as I rounded that corner, it hit me that this is a real, live person. A person with feelings and a mind and a life. God, I felt so ashamed. She just sat there and nodded at people who walked by. I quickly acknowledged her with a pitiful nod, averted my eyes and walked on. Some people were actually stopping right in front of her and staring. What were they thinking when they saw her? Look at that freak. I can't begin to imagine how humiliating that must be. To have people ogle you like you're an animal in a zoo.
I couldn't believe I had done that. I watched a human being being exploited at the fair. And not just that, but I partook in the exploitation. I did pay a dollar, didn't I? I hated that. Passionately. And it undid the fun I had up until that point. I tried to explain how I felt to my friends, and maybe they felt a pang of remorse, I don't know, but they must've put it out of their minds because then they wanted to ride the thing that suddenly shoots you up in the air, suspends you and then unexpectedly drops you back down.
"The World's Smallest Lady" or not, that woman is a human being, and created by God just like the rest of us. It made me feel sick that her condition was being exploited for the entertainment of others.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
When It’s Just Me
Okay, I know I’ve blogged about this thing several times, but it’s an upcoming event of special interest to me that has been at the forefront of my mind. A week from today, I will, once again, be in St. Louis to participate in the IQ Forum.
There are several questions that I, consciously or subconsciously, ask myself each time pre-embarking on a trip:
1. What am I going to wear? If this question isn’t settled, I’m going to feel uncomfortable. I have to pick out stuff that’ll make me feel comfortable and confident or else, I’ll be squirming and feeling self-conscious the whole time.
2. How should I plan to do my hair? This is akin to #1, but even more personal.
3. What should I plan to do in my free time? I’m going there for a particular purpose, but I’m also going to have pockets of free time here and there. If I were coming with a friend, the resolution to this one would be much easier, but since I’m by myself, I’m going to have to make a bit more of an effort and probably plan ahead a bit more to have something to do during down time.
4. Am I going to meet “the one”? Hold on . . . I’ll discuss.
These four questions almost always go through my mind when I go anywhere, like on a far away trip by myself. Numbers 1-3 are kinda shallow, in the big scheme of things, I guess, but somewhat understandable considering the circumstances. But I hate number 4. I hate the fact that number 4 even goes through my mind just because I’m going somewhere “new,” but it does.
I really do everything in my power to not seem . . . you know, desperate. I don’t think I am. I honestly don’t think I’ve gotten close (I hope). I try to disassociate myself as much as possible from anything resembling in the slightest a, shall we say, “man-huntress” type of aura. But number 4 silently slips through my mind when I go on a trip because I guess since the social landscape where I am looks pretty bleak (not just guy-wise, but just people my age and like interest-wise in general), I think things are brighter somewhere else. And not just that, but I guess trips in general kind of have this . . . expect-the-unexpected, magical kind of air to me.
When I travel by myself, I feel like a woman about to take on the world. I bought my ticket. I’m driving myself to the airport. I’m checking whatever bags and making whatever connecting flights. I feel so self-sufficient. But on the flip side of all of that self-sufficient, I-can-go-anywhere-in-the-world feeling, is this wondering. A million what ifs swirl around me. It makes me heady with anticipation, but at the same time, a lingering self-doubt and self-consciousness set in. Not just because of number 4, but this time especially because I’m going to be a speaker during two of the sessions. What am I going to say? How will people react to what I say? Is what I have to say relevant? Will it connect with anyone?
Anyway, it’s coming up oh, so soon. I guess I need to figure out what I’m going to plan for my poor substitute to do with the kids during my absence.
There are several questions that I, consciously or subconsciously, ask myself each time pre-embarking on a trip:
1. What am I going to wear? If this question isn’t settled, I’m going to feel uncomfortable. I have to pick out stuff that’ll make me feel comfortable and confident or else, I’ll be squirming and feeling self-conscious the whole time.
2. How should I plan to do my hair? This is akin to #1, but even more personal.
3. What should I plan to do in my free time? I’m going there for a particular purpose, but I’m also going to have pockets of free time here and there. If I were coming with a friend, the resolution to this one would be much easier, but since I’m by myself, I’m going to have to make a bit more of an effort and probably plan ahead a bit more to have something to do during down time.
4. Am I going to meet “the one”? Hold on . . . I’ll discuss.
These four questions almost always go through my mind when I go anywhere, like on a far away trip by myself. Numbers 1-3 are kinda shallow, in the big scheme of things, I guess, but somewhat understandable considering the circumstances. But I hate number 4. I hate the fact that number 4 even goes through my mind just because I’m going somewhere “new,” but it does.
I really do everything in my power to not seem . . . you know, desperate. I don’t think I am. I honestly don’t think I’ve gotten close (I hope). I try to disassociate myself as much as possible from anything resembling in the slightest a, shall we say, “man-huntress” type of aura. But number 4 silently slips through my mind when I go on a trip because I guess since the social landscape where I am looks pretty bleak (not just guy-wise, but just people my age and like interest-wise in general), I think things are brighter somewhere else. And not just that, but I guess trips in general kind of have this . . . expect-the-unexpected, magical kind of air to me.
When I travel by myself, I feel like a woman about to take on the world. I bought my ticket. I’m driving myself to the airport. I’m checking whatever bags and making whatever connecting flights. I feel so self-sufficient. But on the flip side of all of that self-sufficient, I-can-go-anywhere-in-the-world feeling, is this wondering. A million what ifs swirl around me. It makes me heady with anticipation, but at the same time, a lingering self-doubt and self-consciousness set in. Not just because of number 4, but this time especially because I’m going to be a speaker during two of the sessions. What am I going to say? How will people react to what I say? Is what I have to say relevant? Will it connect with anyone?
Anyway, it’s coming up oh, so soon. I guess I need to figure out what I’m going to plan for my poor substitute to do with the kids during my absence.
Monday, October 09, 2006
For all who are fired up about
meeting me in person at the 2nd annual IQ Forum coming up in St. Louis next week—October 20-21 to be exact—this post is especially for you!
A banquet spread with a feast for the mind will be available during the newly instituted Roundtable Discussions at the Forum this year. Topics ranging from Christian fiction to politics will be discussed, and if you plan on coming (one of the main reasons being, I’m sure, to see me), you’ll need to check out the suggested readings and summaries here.
Is your brain suffering from an intellectual drought? Is your spirit running on E? Well, why don’t you, as they say, kill two birds with one stone and mosey on over to the IQ Forum to satisfy both mind and soul? Plus, I’ll be there. And you know how cool I am:
Come to the IQ Forum. Fo' shizzle.
A banquet spread with a feast for the mind will be available during the newly instituted Roundtable Discussions at the Forum this year. Topics ranging from Christian fiction to politics will be discussed, and if you plan on coming (one of the main reasons being, I’m sure, to see me), you’ll need to check out the suggested readings and summaries here.
Is your brain suffering from an intellectual drought? Is your spirit running on E? Well, why don’t you, as they say, kill two birds with one stone and mosey on over to the IQ Forum to satisfy both mind and soul? Plus, I’ll be there. And you know how cool I am:
Come to the IQ Forum. Fo' shizzle.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Weird Things I Think and Malcolm Gladwell
Like, today I was sitting in my room, imagining how I would function if I had no arms. Why do I think of such weird things? But there really are people in the world who have no arms. And somehow, they function.
I thought that perhaps many things we do with our hands, an armless person would do with his feet. A pad and pencil were nearby. Could I write just using my feet? With my left foot, I slipped the pencil between the big toe and pointer toe of the right. I was surprisingly able to grasp the pencil that way. But when I began to write, it was a complete disaster. I tried my hardest, but the results were nothing but unintelligible scribble scrabble.
**************************************************************************************
I wrote Malcolm Gladwell. He’s the author of The Tipping Point and Blink, two New York Times Bestsellers that I’ve been raving about lately. Monday, I finished reading The Tipping Point and was so excited about it that I went to his website, found an email link, crafted a complimentary message, and launched it out into cyberspace, not expecting a response from such a brilliant, New Yorker contributing, dazzling, popular persona. He was voted as one of Time Magazine’s 100 Most Influential people, for crying out loud. Homeboy is an entry on Wikipedia.
In short, I told him that I was deeply inspired by his writing and that I hope I will have the opportunity to meet him in person one day. Today I received a response:
(sigh.) That one line made my entire year. (lol, I’m such a dork, I know.) I know I’m not the only one who has ever received an email from Malcolm Gladwell. But how many people do you know can say they’ve gotten an email from him? Yeah . . . I guess then that would raise the question as to how many people would actually care enough to blog about a one line email. And of course, that would lead into the question of how many people are so obsessive that they would’ve emailed the guy in the first place. Okay, I’m done.
I thought that perhaps many things we do with our hands, an armless person would do with his feet. A pad and pencil were nearby. Could I write just using my feet? With my left foot, I slipped the pencil between the big toe and pointer toe of the right. I was surprisingly able to grasp the pencil that way. But when I began to write, it was a complete disaster. I tried my hardest, but the results were nothing but unintelligible scribble scrabble.
**************************************************************************************
I wrote Malcolm Gladwell. He’s the author of The Tipping Point and Blink, two New York Times Bestsellers that I’ve been raving about lately. Monday, I finished reading The Tipping Point and was so excited about it that I went to his website, found an email link, crafted a complimentary message, and launched it out into cyberspace, not expecting a response from such a brilliant, New Yorker contributing, dazzling, popular persona. He was voted as one of Time Magazine’s 100 Most Influential people, for crying out loud. Homeboy is an entry on Wikipedia.
In short, I told him that I was deeply inspired by his writing and that I hope I will have the opportunity to meet him in person one day. Today I received a response:
thank you Chantell. I'm flattered. best, m
(sigh.) That one line made my entire year. (lol, I’m such a dork, I know.) I know I’m not the only one who has ever received an email from Malcolm Gladwell. But how many people do you know can say they’ve gotten an email from him? Yeah . . . I guess then that would raise the question as to how many people would actually care enough to blog about a one line email. And of course, that would lead into the question of how many people are so obsessive that they would’ve emailed the guy in the first place. Okay, I’m done.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Tetris
A while ago, I downloaded Tetris onto my cell phone, for those in-between times when I’m waiting for whatever reason and needing something to occupy myself. It’s a really old game, quite simple, but mesmerizing. Turn a falling shape every which way so that it will collaborate with other shapes to form a line. My thumbs have gotten pretty nimble because of it.On one occasion as I was engrossed in Tetris, I realized how intense I was about the whole thing. My determination to make the pieces fit. I was surprised at how irritated I would get if a piece fell out of place. If I didn’t fit where I wanted it to, or worse, if there weren’t any other options and my only choice were to let it fall out of sync with the others. Yet, interestingly, I was also surprised at how relieved I would feel once I realized that the supposedly out-of-sync piece didn’t impede my progress and that it eventually worked out with other falling pieces to come.
Then, I began to see Tetris as an allegory of my life. I’m always so determined to make the pieces fit. And I get upset when they don’t fit together the way I want them to. I just have to keep reminding myself that there are other pieces to come—it’s just that I don’t yet see how they’re all going to work out together.
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