Cheer Up Breakfast

P doesn't go back to work until about a week and a half from now, but I don't go back until February.  My institution has a month-long intensive winter session, but I'm not teaching it this time around.  However, I am teaching a bunch of new stuff in the Spring and I have to take this "extra time off" to prepare.

All of that to say, for now, P and I still have mornings where we can sleep in.  He usually ends up putting an arm around me after which I'll smile and snuggle closer, but yesterday morning, I kind of wasn't feeling it.  Despite it being only Day 6 of the New Year, I was already feeling bogged down by upcoming interviews I felt woefully unprepared for, this Humanities seminar I have to prep that I feel insecure about, and would I be back next year?  And where are we going to live next year even if we stay here?  Because we're moving regardless, and how would a baby fit into all of this, and—

"Wanna go somewhere for breakfast?"

I immediately perked up.  Even if I'm not feeling it, I will never say no to breakfasting.  We raced to get ready and out the door so that we could make it to this awesome cafe in a nearby town before they stopped serving breakfast.

Over biscuits and gravy (him) and a frittata (me), I started trying to tell him that I thought he suggested breakfast because he could sense that—he finished my sentence for me, "I could tell you were feeling bad...I thought we could do something different this morning, I thought you would like it."

I just teared up.  He just wanted to cheer me up, so he suggested going to breakfast.  It was such a simple thing, but at the same time, such a deeply caring thing.  What made me cry was not that proposing going out for breakfast was some sort of grand, sweeping gesture, but that he was sensitive to how I was feeling and wanted to do something, however small, to make me feel better.

How's that working out for you?

Day 5 of the New Year.

I went to a yoga class for the first time on Tuesday.  Apparently the Dean's secretary is a consistent frequenter.  I sidled my mat up next to hers and we became yoga buddies.  The next day I was wrecked.  Muscles ached that I didn't know even existed. But that didn't hold a candle to yesterday. 

Yesterday was a cardio class.  It was led by a spry 62-year-old who, no doubt, took glee in remarking to the rest of us youngsters that we should be able to keep up with her when some of us started losing steam near the end.  I wanted to pick up my barbells and throw them at the mirror.  How dare I not be able to keep up with a grandma who is almost twice my age?  She looked fab, though.  Fit little gray-haired lady with a pixie cut, gloriously sweating with a radiant smile.  Ugh.  Meanwhile my thirty-something self is over here praying that no one mistakes my chunky midsection for a growing bundle of joy.  Not yet, folks.  Felt steamrolled after that one, though.  Like, I came home ready to give up the ghost.  Couldn't laugh or cough or get up off the couch without feeling like I was dying inside.  I shall forge ahead.  

On Saturday there's a "RIPPED" class.  It's probably going to kill me.  But I said at least three times a week.  I must be a woman of my word.

2017, right? Come on in!

Tomorrow P and I head back to our home base after spending time with his side of the family these past couple of weeks. Tomorrow is back to routine, work, preparation.  Doing what we do.  At first I was sort of bummed about the prospect of heading back, but now that I've had some time to reflect upon this past year and my goals and desires for this new year, I'm feeling more like, "Okay, let's do this."

This year was a humongous year of transition.  I graduated, we moved, I started a new job, P passed comps, is now dissertating, and started a new position himself.  A lot of change, a lot of adjustments to make.  I thank God that we have been able to successfully manage our many transitions this year.  It has drawn my husband and me closer together, and it makes me grateful for him and the strength of our relationship.  My husband is a handsome, kind, passionate, dedicated, consistent man.  I know that we will have to weather more transition in this new year and perhaps more difficult transitions than we've had previously.  But I'm confident in us, and in the hand of God binding us together.

There are plenty of desires that I wish for this new year, the main one is the desire to become a mother.  No, we didn't have a little Christmas surprise this month.  It's totally okay, though.  I'm resigned to being held in suspense each month indefinitely.  But I resolve not to get disappointed with negative pregnancy tests this year.  I'm truly confident it will happen when it's meant to.  Just as I can now see the perfection of God's timing with meeting and marrying my husband, with accepting my current position, with so many other things, I know that the perfection of His timing applies to our future children as well.

Here are a few concrete things I resolve for this year:

1. I want to work out at least 3 times a week, and I will take advantage of at least one of the free fitness classes offered at my place of employment.  I want to be intentional about taking care of my body, especially since we're planning to have a baby, and exercise offers physical and psychological benefits.

2. I want to be more intentional about my prayer life, and the main way I can achieve that is by being a better manager of my time.  I waste so much time.  I often let my evenings fritter away when I could be using that time to plan for the following day.  And my lack of preparation often makes for rushed mornings without time for prayer, devotion and reflection.  I want to consistently spend my evenings preparing for the following day and wake up in enough time to have at least 30 minutes of prayer and devotion each morning.

3. I want to read a financial planning book and a parenting/"preparing for baby" book with my husband.  Financial literacy is an area I feel very weak in, and it's something we could both stand to learn about and preparing ourselves to have a child is absolutely necessary.  Reading books about these topics is a concrete way to inform ourselves.

4. I want to say something or do something at least once a week to build up my husband's confidence and demonstrate my trust in him.  I often catch myself going back to my "I'll handle it" mentality from my single days.  What I realize is that it communicates to him that I don't trust him to do whatever needs to be done.  I want to be intentional about communicating my trust and confidence in him.

5. I keep putting this every year, but I seriously want to learn how to knit.  I noticed a group of older ladies at a knitting circle at a local coffee shop a little while ago.  Maybe the next time I see them, I can inquire.

I'm truly looking forward to what 2017 will bring.

Moments of Joy

In several posts during my dissertation writing journey, I'd sworn off participating in a graduation ceremony.  I reasoned that just finishing was celebration enough and I complained about the cost of the regalia and the whole rigmarole of participating in a graduation ceremony for literally the fourth time.

But my homegirl persuaded me that it was worth it.  "People need to see you walk across the stage!" she argued.  She prompted me to think about what walking across the stage would symbolize for me and for everyone else; I am the first in my family on both sides to ever receive a doctoral degree, and walking across the stage is a testament to others that it can be done.

Now a semester removed from grinding out an existence in the dissertation-writing trenches, I was able to distance myself from that space a little bit and begin to see it in a new light.  I felt better about formally recognizing my accomplishment, and I looked forward to reconnecting with colleagues and mentors in the town that my husband and I consider our first home. 

So, after officially graduating in August, I walked across the stage this month with my adviser and we performed the traditional "hooding" ceremony.  After the ceremony, I hosted (okay, my parents hosted) a reception with a few friends, family, colleagues and mentors in attendance to celebrate.  Before we cut the cake, I gave an off-the-cuff speech thanking everyone, and in that moment, I was overcome with gratitude.  It was just a glowing, joyful moment, and I basked in it.

The following day, my parents had a little holiday get together at their home.  My husband and I were asked to get our guitars out and we played a few Christmas songs.  One of them was "Feliz Navidad." I gave my tambourine to my little bro and he played, and we all sang and clapped and danced while my husband strummed.  I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas!  I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas!  I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas from the bottom of my heart!  Again, I was struck with this overwhelming sense of gratitude.  We were united, smiling, laughing, in a warm, celebratory moment.  I was surrounded by so much love.  It was a moment of pure joy.  And I felt so present in that moment.  I cherished it.

I never want to take these moments for granted.  I want to always be present in them and hold them close to me.

Tomorrow we're checking to see whether I'm carrying a little Christmas present.  Regardless of the result, I will embrace it.  I'm confident that when it happens, it will happen exactly when it's supposed to.

First Semester as Profesora, Done

So, I've come to the end of my first semester as an actual, real live professor.  I have one more section of exams to grade (and then I have to actually enter the overall grades into the system) before I can say I'm done (oh, and then I have the email the bookstore my book selections for next semester before it gets too late...ugh!) but I'm just about there.

While I have honestly enjoyed my time here so far—I enjoy my students, I get along with my colleagues and I've had a ton of support from them as well as the administration—I have to be honest and say I have struggled with insecurity. Some people would specifically categorize it as impostor syndrome.  I constantly question whether I should even be where I am.  Whether academia is where I belong.  My mind gets crowded with perceptions of my inadequacy, my lack of experience, my lack of expertise.  But not just that, the feeling that I should be knowledgeable about a certain thing, or have experience in a certain area, or have traveled to a certain part of the world, but I don't or haven't simply because I haven't given enough effort, further proof of my unsuitability for the place in which I somehow ended up.

But sometimes, little jewels are unexpectedly dropped into your lap.  Things that make you feel like, despite the uncertainty, despite the insecurity, the questioning of yourself and your place, that maybe you're okay. You're not perfect, but maybe you're doing something right.  Yesterday, I got an email from a student that totally made my day:

I hope you are having a good start to your winter break!! I just wanted to email you and thank you for such a memorable first semester. Your class was by far my favorite class because of the enthusiasm and joy you brought everyday. You made my learning experience much more enjoyable, and after a full day of classes I was always relieved to come to Spanish. I also wanted to thank you for your outstanding effort in making sure my needs as a student were met. You wanted the best for our class and you always made sure we knew you were there for us! I felt like you genuinely cared about my development as a student, and that is something a lot of teachers can't do. You don't know how much it means to me that you gave your full effort. Especially since this was your first year at [name of institution] (hopefully you get to stay for many more)! But I just wanted to make sure you knew how much of an impact you had on me. You set the bar high, and I hope to see you back on campus next semester! Have an awesome break and Merry Christmas! 

Wow...I was just floored.  And my little teacher heart felt really warm and fuzzy.  I wrote him back, thanking him for his kind words.

And that brings me to something else...will I be back next year?  I think there's a good chance that I will be asked to stay.  A colleague is going on sabbatical and I've been told that a request to extend the visiting position (my current position) has been submitted to the Dean.  But nothing has been offered or made official or contracts signed yet, so I'm still exploring other options.  So far, I have interviews lined up with two other institutions.  There's a lot to consider.  But we'll cross that bridge when we get there.

What I'm wondering now is whether I'll have a little Christmas surprise this month.  It would seem especially apt this month, what with the whole reason for the season being that For unto us a child is born...lol.  I guess the ubiquitous birthing/maternal imagery in our traditional carols aren't made any more clear to you than when you're actually considering "bringing forth a son."  Actually, we'd prefer a girl first, but of course would be happy either way.

As with so many other things, we'll just have to wait and see.

Morning Details

Dimple on the right.  I kiss it.

Chin indentation.  I trace it.  A brief horizontal line above a chin that I softly grasp between my thumb and forefinger, grizzly with stubble.  I have a chin indentation, too, but it's more like a dimple, almost a cleft.  My brothers used to call it a butt chin.

A pronounced cupid's bow on his upper lip.  The only way you can explain a cupid's bow to people who don't know what a cupid's bow is is by mentioning Rihanna, because she has a pronounced one, too.

Deep-set, down-turned hazel eyes.  They could be sad eyes, but when he smiles, you realize they're the kind of eyes that smile more than the actual smile of his lips.  They're framed by ample eyelashes some women would envy.

A small bump on the bridge of his nose.  It happened when he was a kid and took a baseball to the face.  When we went to his hometown together for the first time and he pointed out a ball park, I asked, "Is that where you got your nose broken?"

Freckles sprinkled everywhere.  A small mole in the center of his neck right above his collarbone.

For maybe the third morning in a row, after returning from a too-long shower, I find him still in bed but awake and ask if he were waiting for me to get out of the bathroom.  We both laugh at the repetitiveness, the absurdity, the familiarity.

Loving

During our much-needed Thanksgiving holiday break, my husband and I went to see Loving. It's about the couple behind the landmark Supreme Court case Loving vs. Virginia, which struck down anti-miscegenation laws throughout the U.S. in 1967.

It was a quiet, powerful movie.  So much is communicated in its silences.  It focused on the Lovings as a couple and the Lovings' family life rather than the legal processes of the court case.  Although theirs was a landmark case during the Civil Rights Movement, they weren't trying to be heroes or trying to make a statement.  They were just trying to live their lives and raise their family in peace.

My husband and I felt a little awkward getting tickets at first.  I imagined people at the theater seeing us and thinking, "Oh, we know why you want to see this movie."  An interracial couple goes to see a movie about an interracial couple.  Typical.

But it didn't matter.  We had M&Ms and popcorn and Dr. Pepper and each other.  We walked into the theater hand-in-hand.  And we walked out hand-in-hand.

Dos días despúes / Two days later

When I was studying abroad in Spain in 2004, I took a Cervantes class.  This is the same year that extremists planted a bomb on a Madrid train, killing hundreds of people.  This was done in an election year in Spain in an attempt to sway the results (at the time Spain was a major European supporter of the Iraq war and extremists wanted the incumbent party to lose as a result of popular anger at having gotten Spain involved, thereby making the country a target).  The extremists got their wish and the vote swung to the opposite party.  A few of my classmates flew back to the U.S. in fear.

But back to the Cervantes class.  We went to a talk where a couple of Cervantes scholars were discussing the question of Don Quijote's sanity, whether he were actually crazy or whether he were willfully living in his own fantasy.  But before the talk one of the panelists read a poem he had written two days after the terrorist attack and I liked it so much that I asked him afterward if I could have a copy of it.  I kept it and still have it after all these years.  Today, I was prompted to search through my sentimental junk and find it.  I'll write the original Spanish with my English translation following:

Sé que hoy los espejos tendrán dificultades para reflejar mi imagen,
Sé que hoy tiene que llover,
No porque el cielo llore ni nada de eso,
Sino porque el agua que caiga del cielo tiene que limpiar el mundo,
Tiene que arrastrar y llevarse lejos todos los malos pensamientos, todos los
odios,
No debemos caer en el odio, porque entonces nos habrán vencido de
verdad.
Alma victoriosa será aquella que llegue al último momento pudiendo decir
"Yo amo y los cristales rotos caídos no empañaron mi camino."
Mi revolución es la de quedarme sentado frente a mi ventana y su horizonte
del todavía es posible,
Y amar, amar a todos los seres del mundo, sin excepción, y desear su
felicidad.
Dime, vieja amiga, qué les decimos a nuestros alumnos de esto, qué les
contamos, ¿les mentimos?
Les enseñaremos a leer en el libro de la Naturaleza,
Donde todo es armonía (incluso la muerte),
Donde todo tiene sentido.
Es necesario que hoy llueva.
Quién hace tanta bulla.
Sé que nos encerrarán en prisión por decir hoy que el hombre es bueno,
pero es que el hombre, querida amiga, es bueno.
El Quijote fue siempre un libro para no olvidar, porque olvidar es el peor
pecado del ser humano, pero esta noche, sabiendo porqué pero sin quererlo
saber, es de repente un libro para olvidar.  Hasta que mañana el viento
acaricie de nuevo mi cara.

I know that today mirrors will have difficulty reflecting my image.
I know that today it must rain.
Not because heaven is crying or any of that.
But because the water that falls from the sky has to clean the world.
It has to drag and carry far away all of the bad thoughts, all of the
hate
We should not succumb to hate, because then they will have defeated us
truly.
The victorious soul will be the one which arrives at the last moment being able to say
"I love and the fallen broken glass did not cloud my way."
My revolution is one of staying seated in front of my window and its horizon
of it is still possible,
And love, love all of the beings of the world, without exception, and desire their
happiness.
Tell me, old friend, what will we say to our students of this, what do we
tell them, do we lie to them?
We will teach them to read in the book of Nature,
Where all is harmony (including death),
Where all makes sense.
It is necessary that today it rains.
Who makes such a commotion.
I know that they will imprison us for saying today that man is good,
but it's just that man, dear friend, is good.
Quijote was always a book not to forget, because forgetting is the worst
sin of humankind, but tonight, knowing why but without wanting to
know, it's all of a sudden a book to forget.  Until tomorrow the wind
caresses my face anew.

Yesterday morning I cried

on the way to work when I saw a fellow professor walking down Main with his little daughter in a stroller.  The scene was so simple and beautiful.  It evoked a longing in me that I'd like to be able to dispassionately and nonchalantly set aside.  Yesterday morning, a deep violet streak brought tears to my eyes.

A voice said that it would be a long while before I'd be able to enjoy a moment like that.  It said that it was far off.  Unattainable, even.  What makes you think you can have that?  It's not yours and it's not for you.

It's not necessarily having a child that I feel is unattainable.  It's the idea of the ability to create a life where I will be able to unstressfully enjoy having a child that seems unattainable.  A life where I will be able to take a walk with my child on a crisp autumn morning and not worry about how it's all going to come together. A life that includes a home of our own, permanent jobs, financial security, affordable child care, a welcoming place with people who speak our language.

There are bright spots, for sure.  They include my bright-eyed students who are excited that I'm teaching Humanities next semester. They include the morning moment my husband hits snooze and wraps his arm around me because we're both awake but want to enjoy those few precious moments before we have to get out of bed.  They include the fact that my husband was offered a teaching position at a nearby university.  I should be content.

But my days still feel like contingencies.  I have barely begun to apply for jobs.  And the ones I've seen so far weigh me down with my woeful unqualification and unsuitability for them.  I'm paralyzed by the very idea of applying for them.  What makes you think you can have that?  It's not yours and it's not for you.  Do I care about research and publication plans and book proposals and my future scholarly trajectory and profile?  I do not.  How can an academic not care about those things?  Maybe I'm not an academic.  I'm an overeducated, undermotivated person who gets by, ending up in places I didn't plan to be.  It's not altogether a bad thing to end up in places you didn't plan to be.  In many ways, I'm quite happy that I've ended up in places I didn't plan to be.  But I've never had it all together and I don't know why I can't rid myself of the need to.

Never Make Assumptions...Ever

God is a funny being.  He has a sense of humor, He really does.

As much as I despise when other people make assumptions about me and try to categorize me, I realize that time and time again, I do the same to other people. Case in point:

This afternoon, P and I pulled up into the Save-a-lot parking lot.  Right next to a 40ish, cigarette-smoking redhead in a black pickup truck.  Wearing a wife beater.  I glanced at P knowingly before I dashed out to pick up a few items while P waited for me in the car.

When I got back, pickup truck guy was still there, and as I got in the car, noticed that he was sort of staring at us.  Once the door was safely shut, I put on my best hicktown accent and pretended I was the guy to amuse my husband: "Ah cain't believe the world we're livin in...whah don't folks just stick wit their own kahnd?" P laughed, nodding in agreement.  "I know, that's what I thought he was probably thinking, too...like, why is he looking at us like that?"  I looked over at the guy again and he was still looking at us, this time with sort of a half smile on his face.  I smirked and gave him a head nod before we drove off...but not before we saw a black woman with a few bags of groceries emerge from the Save-a-lot, approach the pickup and get in on the passenger's side.

The Ways I Know

In the car together, on our way to church, drinking in the scenery passing by.  He turns to me and says, "You bring so much laughter into my life."

Not having a great start to the day.  Anxious and down.  When he texts a simple "I love you," I respond with a torrent of honesty.  Later, he asks I would like to have lunch together and meets me on campus.  A small thing, but so welcome, so needed.

I go to work without an umbrella and not long after, there's a torrential downpour.  As soon as I think to myself, "Ugh, why didn't I bring an umbrella?" I get a text from him asking if I'd like him to bring one to my office.

He holds me, caressing my belly although we aren't pregnant yet.  His desire to be a father bleeds through and his tenderness reassures me he will be present, aware, involved, nurturing, devoted.

Grocery shopping is a team sport.  Armed with our list, we march in, divide and conquer.

Reminders when we're apart during the day: "I miss you."  A selfie of him with a thumbs up at the local coffee shop.  Links to a worship song on YouTube and hilarious interviews with bemused foreign journalists covering the alternate universe known as the Republican National Convention.  A dozen roses awaiting me at home at the end of my first day of class.

My self-consciousness always rears its head.  Should I be thankful that I still look young enough that people feel it acceptable to ask my age?  The inevitable questions in addition to the unstated obvious: The 5-year age gap between us.  Our racial difference. Our fledgling marriage.  I'm working while he's finishing his doctoral program. (If it were the other way around, no one would bat an eye.)  How did this happen?  How does this work? Imagining the gears turning in people's heads trying to figure me out, trying to figure us out.  But when we're alone, the Otherness melts away.  We have our world, and we're a team.  I see and know the work that he's doing for us.

Post-Conference Reminiscent Vignettes While Waiting in the Airport Terminal on the Way Back Home

Sweet saxophone-playing cool sugar daddy
He strode up to the podium.  No, he strolled up to the podium.  Gravelly voice, the color of sweet tea with lemon, graying fine hair, yet standing tall with old man swag.  A rigorous academic, a musician at heart, and not giving a darn cause he's been around this long and knows he still looks good.  He killed the ladies back in the day.  Swept 'em up.  You know he did.  When he played Coltrane, I had to admit this fact: Had he been my music professor, I would been unashamedly present during office hours, asking all sorts of questions.

Blind chemist
A young woman with three accompaniments: an assistant, a cane, and a hijab.  On the way out of a plenary session I accidentally bumped into her. Oh, God, I'm so sorry, excuse me.  How you gonna bump into a blind person?  It would have been understandable if it were the other way around, sheesh.  She was forgiving and we struck up a conversation.  She told me her story, with one constant refrain: People didn't think she could do it.  Yet here she was, a Muslim blind woman with a PhD in chemistry.  "Are there any other blind chemists?" she asked.  "I know others like me have finished their degrees, but have they stayed in academia?" The question struck deep, partly because I recognized it on some level.  That Lorraine Hansberry quotation: "The thing that makes you exceptional, if you are at all, is inevitably that which must also make you lonely."  I teared up, not out of pity, but out of admiration.  She is a person, a strong, persistent, brilliant, unique person who exists and is making her voice heard.

"Your mom was my professor's ESL teacher?"
Totally on that black-girl-nerd-academic-feeling-each-other's-work kick with a Haitian-American professor.  Talking about my project and the Caribbean and having helped my professor edit her new book that just came out about Dominican identity.  "She's the first Dominican professor at Harvard," I said, proudly.  "Wait, are you talking about ____?" she asked.  YES!  "What??!  How do you know her?"  "Girl, my mom was her ESL teacher back in the day."  Mind so blown.  Wait till I tell my prof I met her old ESL teacher's daughter who is now a professor.  What a small, ridiculous world.

Excuse me, may I slide into this Spanglish?
During lunch alongside two Latino guys going at it in furious Spanglish.  I politely inserted myself into the convo in Spanish and without skipping a beat, the three of us were going at it, talking about our work, throwing out sources and if we hadn't heard of the source, furiously writing it down for later review.  We interwove English and Spanish.  Switching over when it felt easier, or when it felt right.  They seemed interested in and impressed by my project, and I felt honored to be welcomed into that moment, this space where I could join in, participate in a predominantly Latino mode of expression even though I'm not Latina.

Bits and pieces
A Mexican-American roommate specializing in Italian language and Italian medieval history and culture.  A senior professor whose work I cited in my dissertation, and I teared up when I realized, yes, he was that guy who wrote that book on slavery in Peru and that he was a Ford Fellow, too. Reconnecting with someone I originally met when I was a study abroad program assistant in Cuba.  This refreshing time and space.  Being a part of something special, valuable and rare.  I don't take it for granted.

So Far, So Good

Often times, I come home and my brain is just worn out.  All I want to do is munch microwave popcorn while being mesmerized by clip after clip of cooking videos on Facebook.  There's something about those recipe videos that are comforting,  You can witness the accelerated process of the transformation of a few ingredients into something delicious.  They're just satisfying to watch.

Sometimes it feels like this person who is not me but is me is doing stuff that the real me wouldn't do.  The real me just wants to be a bum, eat Nutella, drink loads of La Croix and watch Chopped.  But this other me is a professor, doing all this professorial stuff, having an office and preparing for conferences and soliciting funds to bring Afro-Latina writers to her institution.  The other me has a monogrammed tote bag in which I ferry books and folders to and from Accelerated Elementary Spanish and Advanced Spanish Conversation and makes plans to Skype in Afro-Peruvian activists to chat with her students.  If I just consider the other me, I think, well, maybe I'm doing all right.  But then the real me reminds me of who I actually am: A lazy, time-wasting girl who wishes that all she had to do was nothing.

Uncertainty is the word of the day.  Unsure of where I'll be after this year.  Having to apply for a new job after having barely started this one.  The jury is still out on whether a bun has been successfully placed in the oven.  I have a husband in the thick of comps, prospectus writing and conference preparation.  A mother-in-law and stepfather-in-law visit on the horizon, and I can already hear my anxiety-laced heart beating with the desire for everything to be planned, perfect and enjoyable.

I want to let the waves just wash over me.  They're inevitable.  Ceaseless.  Life is going to happen and it's messy, unstructured and uncertain, so just let the life waves come.  You can't stop them, so why expend precious energy trying to order and contain something as powerful and constant as the tide? There is a tide in the affairs of men...

We loved our last pastor.  Red-haired, red-faced, Southern as a ripened Georgia peach, and compassionate in surprising ways.  One bright Sunday morning, he preached a message called "So Far, So Good."  Just the idea that the future is unknowable and ungraspable, and that you may not presently be where you would like to eventually be, but what we can take comfort in is the fact that so far, God has been faithful.  So far, so good.

Right now, I love the house we're in.  Spacious.  Quiet.  Meals outside on the patio.  Natural light pouring in through the blinds.  Right now, I enjoy the classes I teach.  Eager, motivated students.  A space where I can be the teacher I've always been.  Right now, I cherish the connection I have with my husband.  A sweet, handsome, earnest man.  I know that what he does is for us.  I know that when we get pregnant, he will be present, supportive.  Right now, I appreciate the church we've decided to make our home.  A tiny bit of a drive, but worth it for its vibrancy and diversity.  So far, so good.

From the Pen of the Procrastinating Perfectionist Professor

At least I have an office this time.

Well, I suppose I had an office in my previous life, but it was a shared office = you ain't gettin nothin done unless you're in there alone.  And then in my previous life 2.0, after I was divested of an office due to being relieved of teaching responsibilities (due to winning a dissertation fellowship!), I became the sole proprietor of a library carrel = a windowless dungeon in which to eke out a pitiful existence as a dissertation-writing peon.

So, basically, being a professor means that the places in which my procrastinating goes down are a little more spacious and better furnished.  

The worst thing about my particular strain of procrastination is that I'm also a perfectionist.  It's like, how can you be a procrastinator AND a perfectionist?  Like, if you really cared about things being perfect, you'd start getting stuff done earlier, right?  But sometimes I have a lot inertia to overcome, and it takes a while for the paralyzing fog to subside before the shrill signal of "Omg, I have LOTS of stuff to get done" finally makes its way to my brain.  And by that time, it's too late to be perfect or even come close.  But, boy, do I still try.

I am freaking out about the first day of class, this coming Monday, but I just have accept that I'm going to be nervous and soldier on.  At least I have the first day agenda kind of worked out: 1. A bit of Spanish banter to sort of gauge my students' levels and ending by saying in English "Well, that's just to give you a little taste of what we're going to be doing in this class..." 2. Show a few images of me in the places I've traveled to talk about my background and interests and share with them a little about who I am.  3. Call roll (check to see if there are any "preferred names") 4. Do a getting to know you activity: Put "getting to know you" questions in a hat, have each student draw one out, then go around the room, having each student restate their names and answer the question. 5. Go over the syllabus. That's doable.

On my way back to my car after the marathon of meetings the other day, I ran into a black family, a mom, dad and daughter.  I smiled and waved and saw them again before I was about to pull out of the parking lot.  I stopped and introduced myself and they seemed relieved to see me. The father expressed being glad to see me because "there's so few of us here" and the mother expressed being worried because she didn't want her daughter to be "the only one."  I saw my mom and dad in them and I told them I completely understood.  I talked to them about the commitment the institution is making to foster a conversation on diversity and that they have taken concrete steps to improve in areas in which they know they're lacking.  We exchanged contact info and I told the daughter to let me know if she ever needed anything or wanted to talk.  I was so glad I happened to run into them.  Not too long ago, I was in that girl's shoes, and I know how lonely it can be to be "the only one."  If there's anything I can do to make her feel a little less alone, I'd like to help.

I met "the other" professor yesterday and was just grateful to see her face.  Our interests are very similar and she expressed interest in working together in the future.  She just seemed like a cool aunt.  She reminded me of my adviser in a way.  It's just refreshing to know I'll be able to count on her support.

So, I was told that I'm "already charming a lot of people here."  An overwhelmingly large part of my "charm" is, I'm sure, attributable to my dorky ability to recite the general prologue to Chaucer's Canterbury Tales in its original Middle English.  See, we have this embarrassing luncheon where the program chairs introduce all the new people.  The program chair sent me a questionnaire beforehand and for "What is a little known fact about you?" I mentioned my Chaucer shtick.  After the luncheon, of course the Chaucer specialist approached me wanted me to show him my chops and I indulged him, and then later during a division meeting, someone else brought it up and I performed it for the whole division, all storyteller-like.  Here beginneth the book of the tales of Canterbury... Everyone was like, amazed.  I mean, I had to memorize it in 12th grade and my teacher gave us a recording of this man reading it with all the correct pronunciation and everything to help, so that's what I did.  And I've never been able to get it out of my head since.  I wish I could like get on a game show or something and recite it to win a million dollars.  But if, at the very least, it scores me a few charm points, I guess that counts for something.

Sigh...back to my procrastinating perfectionism.

Other Kinds

Eventually it comes to you: the thing that makes you exceptional, if you are at all, is inevitably that which must also make you lonely.

—Lorraine Hansberry

If there is one thing I wish my previously-single self could have understood, it is that marriage only alleviates one kind of loneliness:  The yearning for a partner.  Someone to "do life" with.  A companion who will be there to cherish and encourage you.  Someone you can be on a team with and raise a family with.  Someone who somehow, despite your many failings and flaws, still loves you.

But there are other kinds.

Waking up in the morning, your partner still asleep, the gray morning light seeping in through the blinds with the sound of rain.

Walking out to the mailbox, the lowing of grazing cattle, the soft whoosh of unconcerned solitary cars passing you by.

Well-worn choruses strained through a too-loud sound system.  Earnest smiles and handshakes, curiosity held at bay.  The Word of God, quick and powerful, yet you can't help but feel pity for your unconceived children.  

A diversity workshop held at a country club. ("It was the only space that could accommodate this big of a group.")  A student in an undergraduate honors seminar: the only one. ("How does the African-American community feel about this?") A professor at a small liberal arts college: one of two. ("Have you met Valerie?")

A freckled, hazel-eyed husband who wants to please you, his caramel, kinky-haired wife.  You never thought the spaces between you would ever matter to you as much as they do.  The number 2016 has no modernizing effect on timeless things like families, hometowns, beliefs, lived experiences.

When someone asks "Where are you from?" you wish your answer could fit within the minutiae of getting-to-know-you small talk.  Instead, it's a narrative of your childhood trajectory from U.S. South to European South back to U.S. South at an older, more awkward age.  An explanation of sorts for why you don't have a Southern accent.

Your mom's voice on the other end sounding like the closest thing to home you know.  It's your parents' turn for Thanksgiving this year, you remind yourself.

You didn't get the tenure-track job.  She did.  When you meet her, you completely understand and agree with the reason why.  There are people in the world who are smarter, more experienced, and more qualified than you.  Face it and take it like a champ.

You never thought you'd one day find yourself wandering the aisles of Save-a-Lot in search of seltzer water.

"Why do you speak Spanish?"

After a technology orientation session today, upon reading my name tag and seeing that I'm a Spanish professor, an older professor asked me the above question.

Huh?

Why do I speak Spanish?

What an odd phrasing.  I actually responded that way to her, repeating the question and emphasizing the "why."  

"Well, yes, does your family speak Spanish or did you learn it...?"

Ah.  Now I get it.

You see, I'm also curious to know why someone chose to pursue the study of Spanish.  In such an event, I, and I'd venture, most people, would ask, "Why did you choose Spanish?" or "What made you interested in Spanish?"

But, why do you speak it?

The way she asked was very bothersome to me for a few reasons:

1. "Why do you speak Spanish?" would never be asked of a non-person of color.  It's assumed that if a non-person of color with a non-Hispanic name has the ability to speak Spanish, it's because they learned it.  But since I am a person of color, even though I do not have a Hispanic name or any other cultural markers which would somehow imply that Spanish is (one of) my native language(s), it's not assumed that I learned it.  Why is that?

2. Connected to point #1, "Why do you speak Spanish?" could imply that it somehow defies expectations or norms that I would/could speak Spanish.  Not that there's anything wrong with a situation defying someone's expectations.  But why does the prospect of a woman of color learning a second language defy expectations?  That's the real question.  What are your expectations of me and why?

3. Since I'm brown-skinned and perhaps ethnically ambiguous-looking to some people, asking "Why do you speak Spanish" is also shorthand for "What is your ethnicity, and is your ethnicity connected to your interest in/ability to speak Spanish?"  It highly bothers me when people I literally do not even know have a desire to place me, simply to satisfy their own curiosity.

First of all, how I identify is none of your business, even if it isn't readily apparent to you, especially if you don't know me, aren't really interested in fostering a relationship with me, and we haven't been engaged in a conversation where I happened to mention my racial identity or where my racial identity is even relevant in any way whatsoever.  Second of all, regular old black people, not ones with some kind of "exotic," "not-just-black" essence, as some seem keen to assign to me, just straight up born and raised in the U.S., raised by two black parents also born and raised in the U.S., can be and are interested in and have the capacity to learn foreign languages.  This should not be a mind-boggling prospect.

Why do I speak Spanish?  For the same reason you do anything you do, lady.  Because I want to.

I have a PhD. I am a professor.

I've had a bit of trouble wrapping my mind around those two facts.

It's just going to take a little time for me to "own" where I am educationally and professionally.

My brain is still functioning in grad student mode...it's been functioning in that mode for quite a while.  It's just this mode of deference to people who are professors, experts.  Planning my lessons as a teaching assistant within the confines of rigid, departmental syllabi.  But now that I am a professor, now that I am considered an expert (of sorts), now that I am tasked with creating my own syllabi, what now?  I have a lot of freedom at this institution, but I can't help thinking there's a "right way" to do everything and I can't shake the feeling that I don't know what I'm doing or that I might be somehow doing it "wrong." 

It seems like every milestone has a similar emotional structure.  Questioning whether there is a right way to go about things.  Feeling the weight of my ignorance.  Hoping I'm not somehow doing it wrong.  

After I got married, the question of the day was "How does it feel to be married?"  As if I would intrinsically change upon saying "I do."  I knew that my life would be different, that my mindset would have to change, but me, the me that I've always been, didn't feel any different.  I feel the same way about attaining my PhD.  "How does it feel to be a 'doctor'?"  I mean, I recognize and celebrate my achievement for what it is, but I don't feel any different.  I haven't attained an extra layer of confidence or security that I finally have it figured out or that I have it all together.  I feel like the same me that I was before.

I have a feeling that parenthood will follow the same emotional structure as the other milestones.  The recognition that you're undergoing another transition.  Questioning whether there is a right way to go about things.  Feeling the weight of my ignorance.  Hoping I'm not somehow doing it wrong.

And, while we're on the parenthood topic, well, first of all, who knows if things will happen the way that we're "planning" for them to.  Judging from my life's track record, chances are that they won't.  Still, I've been questioning whether our desired timing is advisable.  But after thinking about it for a while, I just feel like it is as good a time as any.  Maybe even better in some ways.  This is my first year at a new place.  At this institution, first-year faculty are never tasked with service responsibilities, and because my position is visiting, I'm not on the tenure clock.  My work responsibilities are as light as they probably ever will be for a while.  So, we'll see.

Move

View from the front of our new home.

I've moved several times in my life.  As an adult, I've moved literally 5 times. (Not including my stints abroad.)  This recent move was my sixth.  So, it's not like I've never done it before.  But this time was definitely different.  This is the first time I've moved with someone else.  Of course, I was glad to be on a team with someone for something as exhausting as a major move, but I could feel an emotional weight tied up in this move that I hadn't felt before.  It's just the idea of my destiny being bound to someone else's.  The additional responsibility of considering someone else's well-being.  I have to admit I'm still not accustomed to it.  I'm still not used to the hyper-awareness that everything involving me by default involves my partner and vice versa.

A few days before we left, we found that our storage unit had been broken into and the majority of our wedding gifts stolen.  It was a surreal, soul-crushing discovery.  More than the violation of being robbed was the violation of the sacrifice and generosity of our loved ones.  We did everything we could and were supposed to do (informed the storage company, filed a police report, filed an insurance claim).  But in the end, I've accepted the fact that they are things, we aren't getting the things back and the situation was and is out of our hands.  I know that God is a provider and a restorer.  We have everything we need, and although I don't know how, when, or in what form, I know He is going to restore what was taken from us.  I am convinced of it.

So, we're here, settling in, and enjoying living in a 3br/2ba house, a welcome change from our sardine can student apartment.  We both have our work cut out for us: me, starting a new job and essentially having to look for a new one not long after this one starts, him: preparing for comps, successfully passing them and then writing a prospectus and successfully defending it.  The prospect of possibly throwing a baby into this mix seems insane, but that's one more thing we'll have to trust God with.  If I focus on the unknowns, I could really work myself up into a lather.  But no.  I'm going to focus on the knowns: We have a nice place to live, I have a job and plenty of support from my colleagues, my husband is on track to finish his program in a timely manner, and God is for us.  We are going to work together, trust together and have faith that where we fall short, God's grace will make up the difference.

Defense Day

Today is the day.  The day I get to add three letters to my name: P, H and D!  I will stand before my committee (and a few other supporters), summarize my project, answer questions and have a "conversation" about my project as well as my future research trajectory.  The only talking I'll do will last about 10-15 minutes at the beginning, and the rest will be listening to and responding to my committee.  I'm not taking it lightly, but I'm not freaking out about it either.  So far, I've gotten very positive feedback and I feel confident about it.   Still, there may be recommendations for revisions before I submit my last and final draft to the Graduate School, but post-defense revisions are pretty standard, and I don't feel like they'll be anything major.  I'm ready to do this!

I'm happy now that my defense date is finally here.  But getting my defense date set...that's another story.  A saga.  It was originally set for yesterday, but there was an unfortunate event of a committee member being involved in an accident—thankfully she's okay, and a bit of back and forth about the rescheduled day and time.  I have to admit I'm a little bummed that the committee member who was injured won't be able to participate today, but nevertheless, we're here, and we're forging ahead.

Arriving at this day has caused me to look back.  To look back at where I was when I started this program and compare it to where I am now.  When I started this program, I was coming from a pretty messed up emotional, spiritual, and vocational situation.  Starting the PhD wasn't necessarily my dream and honestly, I initially envisioned it as an escape, a way to provide myself with a more stable environment and with an opportunity to be in a place where I always thrived: in an academic setting.  Being in a PhD program may not have been what I always wanted, but once I settled in, I was convinced that I was where I needed to be.  And I am grateful.

To all the people who always asked "when I was going to settle down" or commented about how I was "always in school" or "always going off somewhere" as an implication that pursuing an education and a career, studying abroad, etc. would somehow encase me in a husband-repellent shell, I shall now passively-aggressively address you:

I've got to admit, I almost believed you.  I mean, I always hoped I would "settle down" sometime, but I knew I couldn't let my desire for marriage and family prevent me from exploring.  But I almost believed that maybe, somehow, all my exploring was futile and that no one would ever be up to the challenge of loving over-educated-yet-deeply-churchified, identity-insecure, raised-in-weird-worlds, contradictory me.  I fancied myself a rare, endangered species.  A human Mona Lisa who may be admired, but remain undecipherable and alone, a cold and lonely, lovely work of art.  I almost believed you.  I didn't regret starting my PhD, but believed that maybe it was taking me further from "settling down" after all.

But God has a real sense of humor, doesn't He?  What I thought was taking me further from finding a life partner was actually what led me straight to him.  I guarantee you that the last place I imagined I would ever find a man was in a PhD program.  Seriously.  But here we are, having been married for a little over a year now.

So, to you, I say sitchoself ALL the way down.  Stop setting up these false dichotomies for women.  Either pursue a career OR pursue marriage and family.  Either get a "secular" education and be concerned with things of the world OR get involved in ministry and be concerned with the Kingdom of God.  These are not mutually exclusive desires or realities.  I can pursue a career AND have a healthy marriage and family.  I can get a "secular" education AND use it to further the Kingdom.  Last year, I got my Mrs., this year, I'm getting my PhD, and next year?  We'll see.  I am doing it all, by the grace of God.

Groundhog Day

A month or so ago I watched that movie on Netflix with P because it's set in the town where he's from.  The same day happens over and over again to Bill Murray.  To comic effect.

Right now, though, I'm not talking about comic effect in this particular iteration of Groundhog Day.  I'm talking about the same thing happening over and over again with respect to encounters between black men and white police officers.

These are the times that I want to absolutely withdraw.  The times where I want to shut out the world.  The times I want to deactivate my Facebook account because it's overwhelming.

I want to laugh to keep from crying at the juxtaposition between posts engaging the crisis at hand and the usual mundane posts of pictures of people's kids and dogs and the minutiae of their bland, oblivious lives.

I think social media is used and can be used effectively for activism.  Many present-day social justice movements are social media-driven, they have effectively raised awareness of many causes, and I applaud their efforts.

But what about my "efforts"?

There is a stubborn, selfish, cowardly side of myself that refuses to engage.  Why should I expose my pain, anger, sadness or ideas to people who may or may not even be actual "friends"?  To people who could view my feelings on the matter at hand as a morsel laid out for their consumption?  It's akin to the feeling I have when non-black people ask me how I did my hair if I show up somewhere with a new 'do.  Like, why do you want to know?  You don't understand how my hair works, so you wouldn't understand how I did whatever I did to it, first of all.  Second of all, you couldn't replicate the look on your own hair, so it's not like you're asking so that you could try it out yourself.  It's just this need to satisfy your own curiosity while you have nothing at stake and nothing to contribute.  My hair has some pretty personal, political, emotionally fraught things attached to it.  It's such an important part of black womanhood and an important part of black women's self-image and self-esteem.  My hair, doing my hair, etc. holds an emotional weight that people without black hair can't even begin to understand.  Why should I explain to you what I did to it just for you to have the satisfaction of knowing?

There is another side of myself, equally stubborn, selfish and cowardly, but also insecure, that wishes to engage.  But then I question my reasons for wanting to engage.  So that I can prove to people that I'm "woke" and "conscious" and black enough?  To remind people that I'm still black (albeit light-skinned and married to a white man) have a black dad and black brothers (any of the men killed could very well have been them) and express that I'm anxious about raising biracial black children in this world?  So that I could show everyone that, honestly, I do care, that, seriously, I am affected by this senselessness?  So I can "be real" and dispel any notion that I'm "a part of the problem" by not "speaking out"?  I want to rid myself of this desire to prove my authenticity.  It's haunted me ever since my family moved from a military base in Italy to the deep South and I made the mistake of opening up my mouth.

Everything in my mind is connected.  When things happen in my life and in the world, the web of my brain connects the events like they're some kind of literary motif.

A day before the back to back police shootings of black men, before this script replayed that is so time-worn we're desensitized to it, I went to a restaurant with P and my mother-in-law for breakfast in the overwhelmingly white small town P is from.  As soon as we walked in, people began to stare at us.  Very blatantly.  It felt hostile.  P and I noticed it right away.  It wasn't the first time we've been gawked at, but this time was pretty flagrant.  Eventually P and MIL suggested we leave, so we did.  I didn't necessarily feel we should have left, but I just went along.  We talked about it afterward, but we never once used the words "race" or "racism" or "interracial couple."  We used phrases like "ignorance" and "close-minded" instead.  The fact that people were staring because I was black and/or because I was a black girl with a white guy/white family was implied, understood, but not articulated.

I know the answer is not to withdraw and shut out the world.  You can't.  To leave things to self-resolve.  They often won't.

I know what reality is and it saddens me.  It sickens me.  I want to find a place where we can settle down, start a family.  I want a safe, welcoming place for us.  But does such a place even exist?