In Memory of a friend....

Sue was driving home to Oregon from Florida and somewhere in Santa Rosa, New Mexico, while looking at a map, she ran off the road. The car rolled two and half times and she was killed instantly. I have been trying to reach her for the past few months, thinking we could meet up in Portland for coffee. Sue was the kind of person you had to really hound to get her to go out. I used to surprise her from time to time, show up at her door and drag her out for Indian food and wine. I always kind of liked that she was so guarded. I wished I could be so clear about my own boundaries. I also always felt special when we did hang out because I knew she wouldn't bother with me if she didn't feel like it. She was one of those people who had learned how to do what they want to do and not feel too guilty about it and I respected that.

Sue Van Schoonhoven was born in Washington, D.C. and relocated to Oregon for her undergraduate studies, receiving her bachelor’s degree in Theory and Application of Mass Media, Theater, and Multimedia. She lived and worked in Japan and Germany and traveled throughout Asia, Africa, and Europe. She also recieved her MA in Conflict Transformation. After and during grad school she worked with the CONTACT (Conflict Transformation Across Cultures) Summer Institute. Sue did amazing work with youth from war torn nations. She also documented the experiences of a number of peace workers, allowing them the opportunity to reflect on their past work and future goals. The theme of her most recent work was the empowerment of women and children from around the world. Sue was deeply dedicated to the process of transformation of conflict and human rights and to advancing women’s roles in these fields.

Though we had both lived in Japan, only 40 minutes apart from one another, Sue and I didn't meet until OB1. OB1 was the first class I had in grad school. It's an insane 2 week marathon of group work and what not. Sue and I were in a group together. This sounds casual, but anyone who has been through OB1 knows this means we spent sometimes 10 hours a day together frantically putting together projects and writing papers. It was stressful and hectic, but we really got to know one another. Sue seemed kind of shy at first, but once you got her talking she has an edge to her. I loved her sense of humor. We had an awesome group that worked well together and during that time, we became friends. Sue was funny. She had a beautiful voice. She sang and played the guitar. She also had a beautiful spirit and spent most of her time taking care of others rather than herself. I don't know what else to say other than I can't believe she's gone.

I miss you Sue. I'm sorry I didn't hound you more to meet up with me. I wish I had followed through. I'm glad for every moment we had together. You touched my life, even if that is cliche and nothing like a Joni Mitchell Song. I could drink a case of you, and still toast the dawn with a smile and have peace.

SLAM # 3- 4th place by .4 points

What is the Slam? The Slam is a poetry competition that happens every Wednesday night. Poets compete for a small cash prize, a CD or a book, a spot on the Seattle Slam team (which competes nationally!), bragging rights, and or for the sheer energy of it. There are 3 rounds. The top 5 poets make it to round 2, the top 3 make it to final round. Most slams consist of 8 poets, though last night there were 9. Each poet performs an original work, read or from memory. Poems can sample pop culture, but have to be original and under 3minutes long. There is a grace period of 10 seconds. In the audience there are 5 judges, randomly chosen, each unaffiliated with any of the slamming poets. They have score panels (like the Olympics I guess) and they score poems from 1-10, 10 being the best.

The Slam is my new crush. I think about it all the time and it gives me stomach flutters. Sometimes I get embarrassed about it, but mostly I am just smitten and want to spend every week on the mike...which I just don't have the time to do. So why do I do it? My mom asked me that about a month ago. What is the point?

Well, the easy answers are that it motivates me to keep writing, and that it's a fun way to build community with other writers. And this true. But I am also secretly, or not so secretly ruthlessly competitive. I want to win. There is no real explaining this great desire. It's like those crazy people who climb mountains. They just want to get to the top. I have 0 interest in walking up hill or putting my life on the line to climb up a steep icy cliff...I mean I just got a manicure, it's hard enough not to chip my nails doing mundane shit, let alone trying to claw my way up some granite, but I do understand that yearning.

I want to be outstanding. The first time I ever slammed on the first poem I ever slammed, I got really high scores. My hands were shaking and I had totally flubbed a line and skipped 4 lines, but when I looked out into the audience, they were going insane, and when I looked at the scores, someone had given me a 10. I was elated. It was such a rush. I didn't win that night. I didn't even make it into the final round, but it felt like I had. I was so buzzed. I wrote for days after that. I just felt inspired. Writing for me has always been a personal thing. It is so much easier to just write something down and then put it out there, than it is to read your writing to a room full of people who may or may not know what you're going through. You're present for the responses. They make noise. That doesn't happen when you're just writing. What surprises me, is that despite the fact that I am competitive, I don't get pissed when I hear other poets kicking ass...actually I get excited. When I hear amazing poetry it just makes me want to write harder with more precision. But more importantly it is thrilling to feel like you are connecting with an audience. There is a lot of call and response to it.

I love the slam! And I rocked it last night, if I do say so myself. I felt on. I came in on time and didn't stutter, didn't lose my place. I came in .4 points behind the top 3 and didn't make it to the final round, but I did make some inroads with the other poets and that was cool. A lot of people came up to talk to me afterwards, to tell me how much they liked my work. I feel like I am at the beginning of something special. It's an honor to be a part of this community.

What I slammed:

Beauty Burns and Dead Matter (the 2008 revision- originally written in 2006) Score: 25.9

She looked at me
Her brownness mirroring my own
She looked at me as though
I'd cast the first stone.
She looked at me with disbelief
How could I do such a terrible thing?
Turn my back!?
Abandon my beauty!?
Didn't I know that hair is a woman's glory?
She said: "You must be crazy!
Girl, this ain't 1966,
Oh, what are you one those
'Black is Beautiful' feminist chicks?
Oh get a grip,
Just 'cause Jill Scott went there
don't make it hip.
Or are you sick
Poor thing.
Are you recovering from cancer?
'Cause that would explain
why your head is looking
like a natural disaster.
You know, now that it's growing back
you could use a little relaxer."

Um, no Miss.
I don't have cancer
and chemical burns on my scalp
is all I ever got from a relaxer.
It just doesn't seem like an answer,
but rather a misinformed belief
that we must sculpt ourselves
in the mold of someone else's beauty.
But that ain't me...
had to shave my head
to unlock that mystery.

No, never had cancer,
but I did have another kind of disease,
like the throngs of women
always questioning me,
mimicking back those
same throw-back beliefs
that hair, to be good, had to be long and kink free,
because before there was Beyonce,
there was Barbie
UUUUUUUURRRRRGGG
How that little plastic bitch
melted her way into my psyche.
She was my mirror mirror on the wall
She said "Like, you'll never be the fairest of them all."
Something about a genetic downfall,
darker than a paper bag
and hair that's much too tall.

She lied to me everyday
She lied and lied to me in every way
and I believed her!
At least, some part of me,
the black girl that used to be me
always afraid of getting hurt,
afraid to be teased,
'cause sometimes beauty burns,
you don't have to feel the burn to bleed
it's enough to feel the need
to bleach
to perm
to weave
the need to feel alright,
like you're everything
a black woman SHOULD be,
like at a moment's notice,
you could appear on BET.

No, I didn't go bald from chemotherapy,
I just got tired of feeling like phony
and looking like I stole my hair
from My Little Pony.



Happy Hour (slam version-I had to cut a full minute off this poem.) Score: 26.4

Tangeray- Straight up, chilled, no fruit, no vegetables, and no vermouth
in a big glass,
your second.
I pour my own poison.
I drink to you and you to me
and hate it
with the resignation of one more thing
I can’t change,

But in these moments
we are just people,
beautifully flawed
bitter, but laughing
unbound by chronology
uncomplicated by
our history-my entire life
from the dust in your angry eyes
to the day you cut my umbilical cord
and something stronger grew between us
something like iron, or fire,
the holy spirit
something
surpassing understanding

We were both born that morning
me for the first time
and you for the second
twin stars made from the same matter
to spend our lives
forever orbiting one another.

Three drinks into happy hour
and I’m wondering
how long is forever?
Somehow already knowing
that it won’t be enough
the way I counted the days
between spring break to summer,
summer to Christmas and back
holding onto you
through the voice on the phone.

Three drinks into happy hour
and your memories begin
to leak from you
until we’re submerged
in stories of the boy I never knew
who grew up deep south and poor,
mean and crooked and
full of the anger
that poverty breeds
the desperate rage of little black children
taught to be hated and to hate themselves
taught to keep eyes, voices, and dreams
quiet and buried deep
beneath the despair of no choice
In these moments
I know your heart.
I see the seams of the broken fabric
of your disillusion
and know I am the thread
that bound you back together

I was your arrow
and you, the bow, bent to breaking
to aim me higher,
higher and farther than any boundary
that ever contained you,
beyond the limitations of humanity.

Drink four and
you might even sing for me
the lullabies of yester year
the wish list of everything you wanted
for your brown baby

I had the things you never had
I had a father,
I had you
I had a home not in the projects
and books
and safety
I had cold northern winters
and schools full of white children
that stared straight through me
I learned it wasn’t PC to hate me,
But fine to ignore me
to deny me
to objectify me
to consume me
Assume things about me
Tell me who I should be
based on what they’d seen on TV

I learned what we all learn
that the weight of love shooting us up
isn’t always equal to the gravity of oppression
I learned the kryptonite
of depression
Burned with the same steel-taloned rage
snapping out through my eyes
eating me from the inside
I learned to suck it down,
the way you drink yours down
in rivers of chilled gin
drown it out
until only the strongest parts of you
are left to float
in the sea of this melting pot
that only melts our hope

But where is my something to believe in?
I watch you sinking away from me and
I just want a guarantee,
that you’ll be there to get me through this,
but what we have is
happy hour.

America, U.S. and Them (Eduardo's America)

My ex is from Oaxaca and since it is on my mind, here is the poem I wrote after he got deported.



They were singing for America
Crying out for America
Eating, dying, dreaming of America
Pledging allegiance to an indivisible nation
Hands over heart
stars and stripes so blinding
in the light of
Mourning
the loss of
the illusion of sanctuary
the death of
a nation comatose with amnesia
because finally
we were witnesses
to something
we
would
NEVER
Forget
(never forget…)
Ash and rubble burnt into retinas
the empty space in a skyline
stars and stripes so blinding
in the darkest night
of our country’s own
desecration.
But from the ashes rose a fear
and from this fear
emerged a creation
a new brand of Other
(other, other…)
a thickening of borders between
us and them
U.S. and Them
Them, They, Those People
Them, They, Those People
Them, They, Those Foreigners
Those Terrorists
And who could dismiss
the truths
that were
self evident
that They had committed
The Crime
They, Them Those
faceless amorphous Terrorists
They, Them, Those Foreigners
And us, we, you and me,
A nation of Americans
blind in our grieving
never forgetting what
They had done
never remembering
that innocence was not a nationality
that even the pilgrims
were immigrants
singing for America
crying out for America
eating, dying, dreaming of America
Pledging allegiance to a nation indivisible
Hands over broken hearts…
Could I be the same?
Stand and say the pledge I know by heart
the way I stood and said my last goodbyes to him
hand pressed against the glass against his hand
bitter tears for a lover
who was not
the right kind of American
wrong color, wrong accent, wrong papers,
wrong place at the wrong time
wrong to think that
freedom and justice
were rights – that in America- couldn’t be denied.
How long?
How long did we stand in that line?
…to see our friends and families
one last time
in America….
Our fathers, mothers, lovers, cousins, sisters, and brothers
They, Them, Those People
Are PEOPLE
OUR People
locked in glass cages
numbered criminals
disappeared for the sake of
a nation deeply divided
a people ambivalent
and undecided
complicit and complacent
entirely too damn patient
when it’s clear
THIS
ISN’T
WORKING
Remember when WE were singing for America?
Crying out for America?
Marching in the streets
Hands over hearts
Pledging our lives to the struggle
To make this America
OUR America
A place worth singing for…

Un Poquito de Tanto Verdad

Every system of oppression I've ever had any experience with has been based on the prevalence of lies, be it the belief that people with as much melanin as me are only 3/5 human or that women's brains are smaller and less developed than men's brains. The truth is a precious commodity, one often limited by the powers that be for the purpose of maintaining the status quo.

Un Poquito de Tanto Verdad, or A Little Bit of So Much Truth, is a documentary that begins on June 14, 2006 in the state of Oaxaca when the teachers went on strike. This was a strike like any other in that the teachers were demanding what one would expect: new text books, free breakfast for students who couldn't afford it, money to repair the dilapidated schools, and a cost of living wage increase. Ulises Ruiz Ortiz, Governor of the state of Oaxaca, refused to negotiate on any level. The People thought about this, the fact that this elected official, theoretically servant to the People's desires and needs, flat out refused to even consider meeting the teacher's request...which were really just basic human rights for their students. The People said fuck this, and fuck Ruiz. They organized. APPO (Asamblea Popular del Pueblo de Oaxaca or the Popular Assembly of the People of Oaxaca) joined in solidarity with the teachers in striking. But what they did that was ground breaking and amazing is that they took over several radio and TV stations, as all the media is government controlled, and for once, they were able to tell their side of the struggle and to talk about the truth.

My program, in conjunction with some other programs held a screening of this film last night and it was phenomenal. Afterwards we had the opportunity to have a conversation with Jill Friedberg, the film's director, as well as some students who happened to be in Oaxaca when all the shit went down. The film was incredible and gut wrenching. We all sat there watching as someone's abuela holding a bouquet of daisies got bombed with tear gas and beaten by the federal police. We watching as the People threw rocks and lit cardboard on fire...while the federal police, in their riot gear swooped down upon them armed with guns, tear gas, and night sticks. We watched the body count rack up, from the man who died of a heart attack on the march from Oaxaca to Mexico City to the people who were simply disappeared without a trace.

What my mind kept coming back to, is how familiar this plot is. Didn't we see this in Guatemala? South Africa? I mean, fill in the blank with the name of a country, change the names of the ruling party and the proletariat, maybe even a few of the demands, but isn't it all the same? Aren't we still people with more than enough of everything to go around and yet with not enough humanity to feel the shame of letting children go hungry, teachers go unpaid, and grandma's be beaten in the street. What bothers me the most, and is, as my friend C recently pointed out, a salient and reoccurring sticking point for me, is that all of this is happening and the whole time the government is lying their asses off. Sound familiar? When I turn on NPR or CNN, BBC, or God forbid Fox news, what percentage of what I see will be the truth? I don't have a # figure, but I can tell you without a doubt that it is not enough.

Recently, my friend's grandmother passed away. We spent this morning talking about grief and how people overcome loss. While he was speaking, I couldn't help thinking about all the people in Oaxaca who have died or were tortured and disappeared since June 14, 2006 and how if I were one of them, my spirit would not rest easy because even now, their truth is denied. They died for a cause that the government claims is little more than a group of thuggish guerrillas vandalizing store fronts. It makes me crazy. While not everyone agrees with the Truth and Reconciliation Committee, at least those people know what happened.

I wonder about this country. When we look back at this particular juncture in our history, will the voices of our decent be remembered? Will the truth of those of us disagreeing with the current administration be reduced to a small group of radicals making outlandish demands like that our government be held accountable for starting un-provoked wars in other countries or condoning the continuing pollution and denigration of our natural resources. Where is MLK now? Safely martyred and relegated to a hallmark moment during the shortest month of the year. Who is left to tell our truth now? I say, we are. US. You and ME. And I want to say a special thanks to Jill Friedberg for helping the people of Oaxaca to tell a little bit of so much truth. Now it's up to us to tell our truth.

No Love Lost- rejj ©

True love never dies
even when our bodies turn to ash
and our hearts are broken glass
even when the universe unmakes itself
and reassembles into dark waters
even when night and day lose their meaning
and muscles tremble beneath the weight
of too much grief to bear

True love never dies
there is life in the darkness
even at the bottom of the ocean
miles from sunlight
where the surface cracks
the earth's core feeds the growth

True love never dies
because it’s true
the energy that can never be
created or destroyed
reconfigures from the family that held you at your birth
to the spirits who surround you now
and hold you up with their love
buoy your steps through the darkness
so that you can get through this
with the strength and grace
that love taught you.
And you will make it through...

Blue Stripe

Saturday I tested for my blue stripe in Taekwondo. The belt order at my school is white, yellow stripe, yellow, green stripe, green, blue stripe, blue, redstripe, red, then black. In order to earn each belt you must test on a set of criteria. Each test includes certain kicks, punches, and blocks, a form and a set of one steps. A form is a pattern of attacking and defending movements. It kind of looks like a dance. One steps are a series of defensive moves done in pairs-one person attacking, the other defending. Once you get your yellow belt, you are also required to spar.

A white belt represents a lack of knowlege. Yellow belt means that you have built a foundation. Mrs. P uses the metaphor of the earth. Green belt is like a tree or a plant growing out of the yellow foundation towards blue belt, or the sky. Red represents the sun, but also signifies danger, as anyone that close to black belt should be a pretty dangerous martial artist. Since I began Taekwondo a little over a year ago, I have always thought of black belt as a goal, but at the end of our test Mrs. P dropped some knowlege on us. "Getting your black belt is just the beginning of the journey," she explained. "There are 8 black belts. When you get your first black belt, you aren't even considered a master or eligible to teach yet." I'd never thought of it that way before.

I made the mistake of not eating enough and then taking my vitamins first thing in the morning. By the time I got to the Dojang I felt ill. I actually puked. I wanted to go home, but then it was time to take the test and as I had worked so hard, I didn't want to let myself down. So I took a few deep breaths and warmed up. We lined up shoulder to shoulder by rank, highest to lowest. It was a small test and I was the only green belt to test. After we bowed in, we were asked to sit along the wall of the Dojang. We test in order of rank, lowest to highest. As I sat there trying to be still and trying not to think about feeling sick, I watched the other people in my school. I felt proud to be a member of my school. When it was my turn, I did my best, but half way through my form I totally messed up.

My form is called Yul-Gok (it's a pseudonym for the Korean philosopher it was named after). It has 38 moves. I missed a punch and ended up on the wrong foot during my elbow strike. I'd never done that before...not once in all the times I practiced it. I was so embarrassed, but instead of bursting into tears, which was my initial impulse, I kept going and finished. Mrs. P told me to turn around and take a breath, which I did, internally kicking myself the whole time. Then she asked me to repeat my form. And I did. After messing up the way I did, I felt surprisingly a lot less nervous and I managed to get through the rest of my test.

The next person to test did a really good job, but she has a heart condition. Halfway through the test, her breathing became so hard I seriously thought she was having an asthma attack. It was terrifying because we could only just sit there and hope that Mrs. P made her stop. In the end, she had leave the floor. It was so quiet, and the Dojang is so small that I could hear her coughing and I knew that she was crying. After a while, she came back and actually finished her test. As we stood shoulder to shoulder facing the flags, I thought about our dojang tenants: improvement of mind and body, ethical self conduct, and unity among members. Yeah, I made some mistakes, but I did my best, and I realize that no one will judge me. Also after watching T nearly pass out, I realize there are more important things than pride. I also realized how much I've become a part of this community. I'll find out if I passed tomorrow.

Forgotten Sol...gone, but not forgotten

I have a new shero and her name is Christina Orbe. Friday night I hit up Nectar to see Forgotten Sol's last gig. They've been performing for about 7 years and have a couple of cds out, but now they are each going their own way. I first saw Christina Orbe perform at Langston Hughs as a warm-up act for Ursula Rucker. I was entranced. She has this luscious voice that just drips with a rich blend sensuality and confidence. Her range is incredible. She plays a guitar (another fantasy of mine...I've always wanted to learn) and sings, sometimes raps, or sometimes just speaks her words. After that performance, I knew I wanted to see her again, but she kind of slipped off my radar until my friend E came through town.

He invited me for a drink at the Lofi, a small gallery / club/ bar on Eastlake. I love it. It's since become one of my favorite venues despite the fact that they only have pepsi products (rum and pepsi is just nasty), because the space is so cool and there is always amazing music. That night was beyond compare though. We walked into the back room and there was Christina Orbe along with Soul Child, aka Okomade....another amazing Seattle performer, two other vocalist and a twenty piece band! It was one of those rare treats, like when I lived in Spain and stumbled across a clandestine family-owned Flamenco bar at 3 in the morning. I accidentally witnessed a family of world class performers singing and dancing their asses off in a tiny venue with hardly any patrons. It's how people must have felt seeing Jimmy Hendrix at some dive bar before he became Jimmy Hendrix. That's how I feel everytime I see Christina Orbe, like in a few more years I won't be able to afford to go to her concerts.

Friday night was almost as cool. I don't really like Nectar. There is never any parking in Freemont and the crowd is just soooooo....well, white. Yes, it's Seattle. White people live here, but I hate going out for soul music and feeling like (as Angel would say) I'm the only chocolate chip in the cookie. Or in this case that all the other chocolate chips, were studiously ignoring me. I digress. My friend O and I got there kind of late. We arrived just in time to see the last few songs of Soul Child's set.

Soul Child is also just fierce as hell...I love his wardrode. He had on skin tight chartreuse pants, no shirt, two thick silver arm bands and a purple feather boa. He performed my favorite piece I've seen him do about Jesus and Lucifer being lovers. I love his voice and he is just so captivating. After a break, he came back out in these tight bellbottoms I swear he stole from Prince. Wrapped around his neck was a three strand pearl choker with a huge irridescent shell hanging from it. Framing this, placed on his bare chest was a fur stole, and he had added bull ring to his nose. It sounds crazy, but he totally pulled it off. Then out came Christina Orbe, who also looked amazing. She had on a slinky metalic colored skirt and this coutour top that was such a mix of styles. It had this kind of punk cut out for cleavage accented with safety pins, but the bodice was fitted like a corset, only with purple ribbons lacing it up on both side. She looked like the total rock star that she is. And when she started to play, it didn't matter that a black man had just completely unapologetically step on my foot on his way to hit on a white woman or that the white lesbians in love with Christina Orbe fully cut in front of us to push their way toward the stage. The only thing that mattered was the music. I danced. I closed my eyes and let her voice ride through me. They played for hours and hours and when they finished, I promptly bought 3 cds and had her autograph them.

I went home feeling inspired. Her words moved me. Her music lit me up. It's been a few weeks since I've written any poetry or even just had my head on straight. I've been feeling lost and as February comes to a close, it occurs to me that I was just about to reneg on one of my New Year's resolutions. Last December, I competed in the Seattle Slam for the first time and I fell in love with it. I decided that I would slam once a month until I won, because it motivates me to write and it's good practice getting up there and using my voice. I so often feel disempowered in my life and work....slamming feels like reclaiming a part of myself....the part that used to speak out on a regular basis, the part I can't take to work with me. So during the break, I ran into one of the hosts of the slam and she encouraged me to come back this week. At the end of the night when she saw me walking out, she asked me to promise her I'd slam. I guess that's just the Universe keeping me honest. So if you wanna see me slam come to Tost on Wednesday night.

My Grandma

My grandma and I have this quirky relationship. She once asked me about the rain in Seattle. I told her all about my fabulous hooded coats and how much I despise umbrellas. Everytime it rains, short people mercilessly stab at my eyes. People with umbrellas are constantly intruding on my personal space bubble and it's very irritating. In response to my diatribe, she bought me an umbrella for my birthday. "Well, you didn't have one," she said when I looked at her in disbelief.

My grandma is the kind of person who gives you what she wants you to have, regardless of whether or not you want it. The same goes for advise. She has been pestering me to get a proper teaching certificate and a PhD...like I can just go do that. I mean, I'm still paying off my MA, and unless Ed McMan has a check for me, I'll be paying it off for a while. Also grad school was kind of traumatic for me. I don't know that I want to go through all that again. But she is persistent.

Recently my grandma got sick. She really gave us a scare. We may bicker, we not agree on a multitude of things, but she is the matriarch of my family and I love and respect her. She was a teacher in Iowa when barely any black folks did that. She went on to be a teacher of teachers...so I guess it's hereditary. She is also the person who taught me to cook. We spent many family holidays in the kitchen together. At first I would just sit somewhere out of the way and peel potatoes or dice onions, but as we've both gotten older, she is the one sitting and peeling while I stuff the turkey and prepare the main meal. Mostly we just watch Oprah together or play rummie, but sometimes she tells me about her mother and her grandmothers. She is the keeper of our stories, my family history. I've made video tapes of her speaking, but I know that once she is gone there will be a huge hole in the tapestry of my family.

I am also worried for the rest of my family. My grandfather passed away when I was little, so when my grandma goes, my mother, as the oldest born becomes the head of our family. Then what, what happens when it is my turn to take care of my mom? I don't have brothers and sisters and so far I don't have any children. I am only really close to my grandma, my parents and my aunt. I know it's morbid to think about, but what happens if I'm left alone? Well, for now, my grandma is doing much better. She has plenty of energy left to make me crazy.

In no particular order

I'm sad today and sore and irritated and just generally pissy, but thinking about all the reasons I am totally out of sorts just seems to make it worse....so Universe, here is some gratitude. Please send me a smile.

10 things I'm thankful for today:

1) finding my bus pass
2) little people teaching me to hoola hoop
3) chocolate covered ginger
4) sun on my face
5) my family
6) chiropractic insurance
7) my friends
8) soul music
9) tae kwon do
10) going home from work early to take a nap

A step forward

Today I got the news that my proposal to do a faculty training for those leading study abroad programs has been accepted! This means that my colleauge TS and I will attend a global leadership seminar this spring during which time we will have the opportunity to develop the training...and hopefully it will be implemented this upcoming academic year. After almost 2 years here, I know better than to expect things to more quickly, but I can't help but feel a surge of optimism.

This comes after having a crappy work day. This year, after watching The Secret (thanks S-Dawg), I have been working on attracting a better work situation. I spent most of last year mired in negativity, loathing the rediculous aspects of my program, which I will not get into now. For the most part, this year has been much better for me, not because the institution has changed, but rather because I have learned to let go. I have also tried to spend less time at work, and talk less about the negative aspects and surprisingly this seems to be working. Colleauges I had issues with previously have been easy to work with. Issues that were problematic last year are suddenly resolved, but today I let myself get sucked into the crap. I got into it with my boss about some vital changes that need to be made to my program. I feel like our organization, while avidly espousing their desire to support my program, is actively unsupportive of anything that might make my program stonger or more viable. It really pisses me off. I want to quit my job. I have wanted to quit my job since I got it, but I also know that I need to be realistic about this economy.

My ideal job would be working on a grassroots social justice based study abroad program for high school kids of color. I would love to take black students from the US around the world and connect them with black communities in countries like Brazil, Ghana, Belize, Peru, or anywhere really (we are everywhere :) ). I want black kids to have the opportunity to think outside the box in terms of their identity. One of the most powerful learning experiences I had while growing up, was when my mom took me to Senegal. I was 16 years old and I had never been off the continent. I grew up in predominantly white areas, so going to Africa was huge. Just being in a country where I wasn't a visible minority was amazing, but it was also very difficult. I didn't speak French or Oulof and though I learned to pass for Senegalese (as long as I didn't have to speak), I had never felt so American before. It was the first time I ever really began to think about what it means, not just to be black, but to be an American in a global text. This is an experience I want to provide and to help facilitate.....but I'm not quite ready to start my own program yet. I still have so much to learn.

Getting my proposal passed actually gives me a reason to want to stay for a while. This is not only an amazing opportunity for professional development, but it's a chance to do something cutting edge in my field. It seems simple, but no one else in the country is doing it. Everyone is so busy trying to recruit "underrepresented" students to their program, that they haven't stopped to think about what that will mean or even if these programs are equipped to provide a proper experience for these students. The answer I keep hearing from the students themselves is that they aren't. Something is missing. These students aren't getting what they need. And while I can't solve every problem, I can do this one simple thing...talk to the faculty taking these trips, give them some insight into what it's going to be like for their students, help them with strategies to become better facilitators. It's not much, but it is a step forward.

The Brazilian

I pine. I lust. I drool....well okay not quite, let's not get ahead of ourselves. R drools for no man! But I must admit it is tempting. I met the Brazilian a few months ago. He is a friend of some very good friends of mine. They kept mentioning him and even showed me a picture, which did not do him justice. He has these brown sparkling eyes and these gorgeous fat lips. Plus he is sweet and charming and really muscular and funny. I can only look at him for short periods of time before I have to refocus my attention to keep from just blatantly staring. I have a bit of an honesty problem. When I see someone I like, I want to just walk up to them and say "Hi I really think you're hot and you should adore me" (which is actually kind of how I got my last ex), but I realize one has to be a little more subtle. There are rules involved...proticol and whatnot. 2 seconds after meeting the Brazilian, I met his amazingly gorgeous glamazon girlfriend, who was not only totally friendly, but witty and intelligent...I mean nothing hateable about her at all. She's bad-ass. So I put him out of my mind and focused on missing that Big Round-headed Boy (HB for short, as my friend Crazy T refers to my ex).

HB is a jerk. He's a smoker. He drinks too much. He gambles. He took me for granted. And it was recently confirmed that he is a shameless liar and a cheater. If I saw him on the street today, it would take all my self control not to wheel kick him in his big round head. Now HB does have some redeeming qualities, (there were reasons I fell in love with him), but none of them are coming to mind right now, so back to the story. Over the weekend, one of my friends came to visit from Cali. I met up with her and some of my other favorite people for happy hour at the Wasabi Bistro (cheap hot sake...that's what's up) and there he was (like double cherry pie!). The Brazilian was just as hot as I remembered...but girlfriendless!

So here is my mental quandry: What do I want? And how do I get it? I am attracted to him, but seriously, I don't know him well enough to really like him or not. How can I get to know him without staring at him too much or making it awkward? I am feeling really socially moronic lately....like my shoes are tied together and I'm standing at the top of a flight of stairs. I'm not new to this really, but sometimes I feel out of my depth. I grew up in Wisconsin. I didn't date until my senior year of high school...and that is an awkward flashback I don't choose to share today.

Also I just kind of got my heart kicked in. Am I even ready to play these stupid games again? Is he? And they are stupid, these games. Oh God, Crazy T has been staying with me for the last few days, which in and of itself is an education. She is goofy, but full of knowlege about the whole "guy" thing. She has this complicated system of handling her men. There are lists and rules. If someone doesn't call when they should, they get put on restriction. Or if she is interested in somebody, but finds out he is a player, he gets put on the known ho list. Whatever happened to dating and romance? Was that just a tv movie I saw one too many times? I want things to be simple. I'd like to just meet someone and get a sense of who they are, then go from there, but how can I even do that without being too obvious? And why is it that I barely even meet guys worth talking about? I'm feeling whiney and irritated, so I'll stop here, but if you read this shoot me some advice...

Stupid Break-Up Poem # 46- rejj ©

Yes, it’s the ongoing
eulogy of you and me,
except you’re not dead
yet
more evidence
that wishes are
just misspent pennies
and planets
masquerading as stars
If I had a rocket,
I would shoot your ass
to mars,
but see how that’s me
still caring about you
me and my imaginary ship
sending you beyond the moon
and you with your very real car
couldn’t make time to
drive me home
Wait, no this is the part where
I talk about resplendence
and the Disney-like magic of our first kiss
filled with all the possibilities
that never quite materialized
Blah, blah, blah,
some cliché,
longing incessantly,
missing your this and that,
but no bitterness
and no regret,
that’s all in poems 1-23
(the I miss you / hate you series)
And I miss you
and hate you
a little,
(okay, a lot)
but not as much as I miss being free
to think about other things.
This break-up is like having a terminal disease!
All the visitations, flowers, and sympathy icecream…
I just want to go dancing
and get sweaty
and grind on other men without a single thought of you.
Shit, I really miss you,
wait, no, that’s poem 42
I’m over it now
46 is all about the bliss
Cause I’m over it baby
I’m so damn over these blues,
I wanna be orange again
and wear turquoise shoes that never go with anything.
I wanna be the girl you met
before you met me,
so I can disrupt the time space continuum
and date your friend instead,
oh, but he turned out to be an asshole too.
I guess it had to be you.
It had to be,
it was,
and now thankfully
we’re through.

Breaking and Entering

Since I was little, I've put a lot of stock in my dreams. Sometimes they tell me things. There was the re-occurring dream I had every fall for years that I was kidnapped by a witch and being held hostage in the house next to the place I attended pre-school. In this dream, I was in a room filled with other children and we were all terrified, but there came a moment when I realized that nothing was really keeping us in the room. The witch was in the house, but she wasn't in the room. Nothing was binding us, the door was unlocked. The only thing holding us hostage was our own fear. For years I would have this dream and get to point where I was ready to escape. I would try and try to compell the other children to come with me, but they were always too scared. I kept trying and trying to convince them, but then I'd hear the witch's footsteps in the corridor and know that it was too late, and that we were going to die. Then I'd wake up. After about five years of having this dream, three or four time each fall, one night, it just changed. I changed. I still tried to convince the other children to save themselves, but this time, when they wouldn't, I accepted it. I walked out the door and down the hall, and out the front door. I was crying, sobbing, because I knew they were going to die, but as I made it out of the yard and through the gate, there was a car waiting for me and a warlock who was going to take me into the witness protection program. I was going to live.

I've also had a few premonition dreams. When I was sixteen I kept a journal and recorded a series of three dreams I had and was shocked when a few months later I found myself in situations mirroring what I had already seen. Dreams can be creepy that way. Though mostly as opposed to the future, my dreams often give me insight into the present and things going on around me.

Recently I have had two dreams about being robbed. During the first dream, I was in my house with a bunch of people I don't know in real life. I was having an informal party with some Samoan guys who were playing nintindo and drinking beer, then my friend S came by. In the dream S lived in the apartment downstairs from me. She looked dazed. Her apartment had been broken into. It was the second or third apartment in our building that this had happened to and I knew immediately that I needed to get a new lock on my door. Moreover I had a feeling that the thief was still lurking around, just waiting for me to go to work. I wanted to call a locksmith, but it was too early in the morning. Luckily the Samoans agreed to stay at my house while I went to work, that way it wouldn't be unprotected. Then I woke up.

In the second dream I am, again, in my apartment, though it doesn't look anything like where I really live. It's a large flat with several rooms and in this dream I don't live alone either. I overhear people saying they are going to break into my place and so I start fortifying the house. I'm pissed and determined to keep everyone out. I get on the computer for some reason, but when I turn it on the printer resumes. It looks like my mom had been printing out money. It comes shooting out of the printer packaged in these red and white envelopes. I take them and hide them behind a picture. Then suddenly there is water coming into the apartment, even though we are on the 4th floor. My roomates and I need to evacuate, but I am locking all the doors. We finally climb out the window. On the ledge are a bunch of homeless children sitting like pidgeons.They look like extras from the cast of Annie. I am the last one out of the window and I start climbing down the brick facade of the building. Below me are the other tenants from the building. It looks as though there has been a fire because there is a fire truck and police, but there isn't any smoke anywhere, just water. As I am just reaching the ground, I look up and see one of those kids on the ledge trying to climb into my window. Pissed, I started shouting and climbing back up the building again to grab him. Then I wake up.

What does it mean? I'm not sure. I've been trying to figure it out. My friend C says that when you dream about someone breaking into your home,it's not about physical safety, but rather a sign that someone close to you is commiting an act of betrayal. If home is a symbol for self, why are there so many people in my home in these dreams, and why do I not recognize any of them?

Paper Hearts- Why V-Day is good this year

Yesterday I updated my facebook profile. I changed my relationship status from "it's complicated" to nothing. Whenever you change things on facebook it sends out a little message and on the message there is usually some type of icon. On the message saying "R is no longer in a complicated relationship", it posted a little symbol of a heart breaking. It was so inaccurate, it kind of made me laugh. I thought about what image I would have wanted to see. I don't know exactly, but maybe something more like a winning slot machine filled with my heart. For me, exiting this "complicated relationship" , is more like getting a heart refund. I get my heart back. It's like a starfish. If you cut off the arm, it's gonna hurt, but then it regenerates. He can keep the dead arm. I am new and whole and even though I have a cold and I can only breathe out of one nostril, I am actually having a great Valentine's day.

It was a rocky night of vapo-rub and coughing, but I had to get up early to go see my kids. Every morning I start my day by hanging out with some private school little littles before they go off to school and I go off to my "real" job. Today started like most days. The bus was late. It was cold. When I got to work there was a mysterious and very annoying beeping sound which turned out to be an automatic airfreshener in the boys bathroom. After disassembling it, I surprised my boss in the act of delivering V-day truffles for me and all the other extended day staff.

It's amazing how a $5 box of chocolate (we each got our own!) was enough to put my day back on track. My boss is so cool...not just because of the gift, but because he is always smiling, not in that fake political smiling way (like my other boss), but in the way that genuinely happy people exude a palpable contentment that infects all those around them. My boss loves his job. He loves the kids. And he shows love and respect to all the people who work with him on a daily basis. We chatted for a while. He hadn't had time to make labels for all the chocolates, so I got him some red construction paper and taught him to make paper hearts.

Cutting shapes out of paper is one of my secret super powers. It is a skill I discovered and honed during many afternoons of being stuck in the teachers room at my school in Japan. I can make dolls, hearts, pumpkins, Christmas trees, even miniture versions of myself-complete with afro, and words in cursive without needing to trace and in little to no time at all. So there we were, me, my boss (a man at least 20 years my senior), and my new co-worker, waiting for the kids to arrive and making paper hearts.

When the kids arrived we made more hearts and more dolls. Some of the kids wanted to go to the gym, so I got them ready to go and as I was walking out the door, on my least favorite girls...the one with the bratty attitude and a compulsive need to baby talk and manipulate, the one whose mom and I have had many a conversation...placed a tiny Valentine in my hand. It had a picture of a puppy on the outside. She had taped a heart shaped sucker on the back. And in the middle there was a dog and cat sitting next to each other above a caption that said "best buds". Finally, a break through. I may be manless and singlicious once more, but there is no shortage of love in my life. :)

The Caucuses

One of the founding principals of democracy is that it is participitory, meaning that even the proliterate have as much right and ability to select the leaders of this nation as anyone else. Kind of....I mean given that it took until the 1920s for anyone not male or white to really get to vote, and that even now it is sometimes questionable as to whether or not our vote really counts, I think this whole "democracy" thing gets a little romanticized. I mean we know for sure that loads of people got cheated out of their vote in Florida (hence the Thief in Chief), but how does one really know that their vote counts? I've been thinking a lot about this lately particularly because I know for a fact that my vote in the democratic presidential primary did not count. Instead of using the primary to gage popular opinion, the democrats of my state have opted to caucus.

So last Saturday for my first time ever, I made my way to a nearby Methodist Church and joined about a thousand other people living in my neighborhood to find out what caucusing was all about. It was packed...I mean asses to elbows, standing room only, total violation of all fire codes packed...and with good reason. These series of meetings taking place simoltaneosly across the state, in churches, synagogs, community centers, and public libraries would be the only way for people affiliated with the democratic party to let their vote be counted.

Though I have to wonder, how accurate that count is. Many of my friends work on Saturdays and were unable to caucus, so even though they wanted to vote, they couldn't. Theoretically, since only a third of the people in my precinct turned out (a record breaking #), those of us who were there got to represent the votes of those who weren't. While to me this is like the equivilant of getting to vote for Obama 3 times :), I still question the fairness of it all. Can this democracy truly be called participatory when not everyone has the chance to particpate? Is this a fair and true representation of "what the people want"? I'm not sure, but I went anyway, because regardless of whether or not I agree with the process, it exists and I will be damned if I don't get my voice heard.

As I approached the church about a half an hour early, I was a little surprised. I expected there to be lots of people, but I thought it would be a little more balanced. I passed about 6 Hillary Clinton signs before I even made it into the door. Where was Barak? I wanted to know. Had I come in through the wrong door? I followed a volunteer to a map and figured out my precinct number, then signed in with precinct officer, who took a moment to explain the process.

The caucus would be called to order, then we would be split up by our precincts. A tally clerk would count our votes. Our precinct is alotted 6 delgates, so based on the votes, this would determine how many delgates would go to each candidate. Then, delegates would be chosen from the people in my precinct to represent their chosen candidate on April 5th at the second caucus. My precinct officer explained that if you chose to be a delgate you could continue on representing the area as far as the Democratic National Convention in August.

After a long wait, during which I met some of my neighbors, found some Obama parefenelia to put on, and avoided saying the pledge of allegiance, I got to meet with the people in my precinct, most of whom live less than a block away from me, and most of whom I had never seen before in my life. It was weird. Despite all the Hillary signs, she had only 14 supporters. There were 51 for Barak and 3 undecided. The 51 of us sat on one side of the sanctuary aisle, and the rest sat on the other. Then we commenced to give 1 minute speeches on each side until the 3 undecided became decided and 2 newcomes showed up. It was an interesting process. I actually really enjoyed it, although I did find myself getting frustrated with the Hillary camp...so let me just get on my soap box for a minute and diatribe about why.

YES, Hillary has a womb and some ovaries. She is a woman and I am a feminist, which according to NOW (National Organization of Women) means I should be burning the pictures of all the male candidates in effigy and pledging my undying allegiance to Mrs. Clinton. But hey NOW, just a reminder, NOT ALL WOMEN ARE WHITE. That's right, I said it. Not only are we not all white, we aren't all rich or even upper middle class. Hillary, I have mad respect for you. I believe your health care plan is the bomb, but I also belive that I have about as much chance of becoming a republican (read less than 0), than you have of actually getting that shit passed. WHY? Because, my dear Mrs. Clinton, you are one of the most devisive political figures in existence. The entire republican party LOVES to hate you, and if you were elected, they would do their utmost to block you at every turn. Now, normally I would say fuck it, and vote for you despite it all, but at this juncture in my country's history, I think it is time to be more pragmatic. This is just one reason I cannot vote for you.

Our country desperately needs a leader who can inspire unity and who can work with a variety of different factions for the ultimate purpose of cleaning up the disasterous ces pool Bush has left us in. I believe that leader is Barak Obama. Everyone in the Hillary camp kept going on and on about her experience....but quite frankly, GW had a whole dyansty's worth of experience and it didn't really work for me. Not that the two are comparable, but I just don't want another experienced WA politician to be my president. I want an experienced community organizer who knows people who aren't rich and or white (intimately...not just in a superficial way) and has made it his life work to represent them and act as an advocate on their (our) behalf. I want to vote for a candidate who is not only interested in making health care accessible, but who also recognizes the need to work towards a greener nation and a less fuel dependent economy. I am choosing the candidate who is not on the Board of Walmart.

Truthfully, I don't think that Barak and Hillary fall too far apart on the core issues, but in this election it's the nuances that count. I trust Barak. I don't trust Hillary. I really wish that I could make it uncomplicated and just "vote for the woman", but in the end I must choose the candidate that most resonates with my beliefs.

And so, I am now one of the 5 delegates from my precinct representin' Barak Obama. :) And proud of it....

Love's Season-a rejj poem ©

She was a fleshly woman
A ripe peach of a woman
brown and fragrant
all curves and good hair
full painted lips and sequined lashes

She was a love-to-love-her woman
wrapped in tangerine silks
eyes cutting smiles
across the blue haze of the bar
cheeks flushed with brandy side cars
her hips,
hypnotic,
a metronome
And he was keeping her time

She was a sings too loud woman,
a laughs too long,
a flirts too hard
a shakes it too dirty woman
a moves too fast
a smiles too bright
a loves too deep
a loves soooooo sweet woman

He belonged to her from the first
like seas to the moon
the pull of her
the simple radiance
of a talks too free
a words too true
holds-on too tight woman
aflame, in bloom
full and heavy laden
with everything he never knew he needed

Hers was a love abundant
a more and more kind of love
juicy and thick,
resplendent
a here, there,
anywhere
and everywhere
kind of love
that washed over him
seeped into him
through and through
from flesh to bone to soul
a strips you bare kind of love
And he was bare before her

In those moments undone
so singularly complete
he kissed her palms
lay on her heart
wide open
wide
petals splayed

But he was a sad-to-the-core man
a smokes too much
a drinks too hard
a heart too broken kind of man
And still she loved him

He was a far from home
regrets too many to count
gambles and loses repeatedly kind of man
And still she loved him

A runs too fast
gives too little
just not ready kind of man
And still she loved him

Belonged to him from the first
like moon to seas
his every ebb and flow
taking in
taking in
and in taking,
taking too much

Love’s season was spent
every gift melted
into fire and salt
And he loved her- so much- in his way
but to love herself,
she had to walk away.

Surviving Smallville

Today, I saw the biggest bunny rabbit I've ever seen. It could have eaten a small child it was so fat and it was surprisingly unafraid for a wild thing. It stared me down, then wriggled its nose as if to say, "you can't even get a 6 year old to be quiet for more than 30 second increments, why should I be afraid of you?" Day 2 of Kindergarten, and I am still alive. Barely. They worked me like a Hebrew slave . It took a full hour and an i-pod full of zero 7 to calm down afterwards and still those tiny voices rang through my head.."He hit me....Can I have a bandaid?...I have to go potty?...When can we go outside?...Are you an African?"

When I look at some of these kids, I can sometimes see exactly who they are going to grow up to be. Some are sweet, naive and compassionate. They are the kind of people who give you chocolate when you're crying. They share toys. They play with whoever. While other kids will lie to your face, if they think they can get away with it. They hit. They bite. They push other kids off the swing set and steal their shoes. I had to bench two kids today for outlandishly bad behavior. I watched a boy spit into another boy's open mouth from 5 paces away. I was impressed by his aim, but totally grossed out and shocked because there was absolutely no reason for it. It is the sheer randomness that floors me most...how some kids will just turn around and punch other kids not because they were hurting or bothering them, but just because they feel like it. Is there some genetic code that makes these kids more pre-disposed to being psychopaths or is it their parents?

My time spent with the little people has thoroughly disabused me of any nostaligic notions that being a kid is preferable to being an adult. Yes, they do get to snack often. There is play time and singing and messy painting, but there are also mean kids and ADHD kids that knock you down or try to land their lego planes on your castle of blocks. Really it's not that different than being an adult. Within the class, there are leaders and followers, there are rules that the adults set, and a whole seperate set of rules that are kid dictated. They decide who plays with whom, which games are open and which games are by invitation only. It's actually kind of fascinating to see how all of this plays out. No. Kids aren't all that different, just shorter, less subtle, more energetic versions of their future selves.

Subbing for Kindergarten, a haiku

Dirty nose and hands,
Little people making noise,
3 days of crazy

Mars in retrograde / Missing you

Everytime I hear those four little words "mars is in retrograde", I want to run to the nearest bomb shelter with a box of kleenex and some krispy kremes. This means rain...not the standard Seattle mist... but a thick sludge of rain that takes place in my head. It's a rain made of everything that I don't want to think about. Each time it's happened, I've found myself drenched in memories, sometimes the embarrassing ones, but mostly the painful stuff. The universe seems to conspire to remind me of every feeling I haven't finished feeling yet, be it processing conversations with an ex or grieving for a best friend who died eight years ago.

This cycle is the same. Over the weekend, I made my way home to visit my mother and my grandmother, who is not doing so well. While there, I was rummaging through the few remaining boxes of my stuff and came across the yearbook from my senior year of high school. It was a sucker punch below the belt, the pages and pages of people I never want to see again, and worse, a half page note from the one person I'd give anything to see again. When does it stop? We were close for seven years and she's been gone for eight. Shouldn't there be some type of nuclear half life that diminishes the weight of grief over time.....and if so why are my eyes burning? Why does the pit of my stomach feel hollow the way it did when I first heard the news, like a part of me, vital to my ability to be okay, has just disintegrated.

Robin I miss you. I'm sorry we never went to Jamaica together. I'm sorry you never got to go to South Africa. I wish we could have danced more. I still call your mom every November and L. or B. leave flowers for me every year when I can't get back. I love you.

A pissed off global citizen

Today I met with a group of students in an anti-racism course. I was invited by a colleague who I am partnering with to develop a training. We are proposing a training for faculty on how to support the inclusion of "underrepresented" students (read: anyone not white, straight, female, able-bodied and upper middle class) on study abroad programs. It was really important that I go to this group and hear students tell me about all the insanely racist and F!@#ed up things that happened to them while abroad, but it was also hard to hear. Let me back up now to give you a short bit of background on me.

I am a traveler. I have studied, taught, and lived abroad for several years. For the past three summers, I have taken high school students to Japan, so I know a little sumthin sumthin about facilitating diverse groups of people abroad. I also know what it is like to be a participant in a program where I did not feel supported...and I think that is why my hands are shaking as I write these words.

Today I mailed off my absentee ballot. It was the first time in my life that I was able to cast a vote for a black man to lead this nation. Even though WA is stupid and our primary doesn't count, so I must now also go Caucus in order to pick my candidate, I voted anyway for the sheer symbolism of being able to feel like something has changed. Then I came to work, back to this institution of which I am a graduate, back to this institution of which I am now an employee, and I spent the majority of my day searching for research to support the reasons why my institution should approve and sponsor my training. Of course the most powerful reason for me is that after studying abroad with this institution and having an experience that could have been infinitely better with the proper facilitation, my training could be a preventive measure and save tons of other kids of color from the agony of___________ (fill in the blank with: being discriminated against in a foreign country in very familiar ways, having their study abroad leader ignore the fact that they are being mistreated, leaving the US only to feel even more marginalized, andetc) .

But really I am just angry that it's been almost a decade since my trip, and I am meeting with students who are repeating my experiences. These students are angry. They are alienated. Some of them cannot discuss what happened without crying. They have been mistreated. They have been marginalized. And really, who needs to leave the good old USA for that. They have come back even more damaged...and all in the name of taking advantage of an international opportunity to become a "global citizen". I am left unsettled and furiously questioning: What kind of citizenship is my institution promoting? What can I do to set things right? Why is it once again MY responsibility to correct the actions of a racist organization? When will change come?

Breaking Boards

Mrs P. , my Tae Kwon Do (TKD) instructor, is an amazon. She’s tall and thick with muscles from years of being a professional rower. Her hair is always slicked back in an efficient pony tail and her uniform is impeccably white. She is pushy. I remember the first time I walked into the Dojang a little over a year ago. It was like walking through the markets in Senegal and accidentally making eye contact. She latched onto me and she wasn’t going to let me leave without making a commitment to try TKD, so I did and after the first month I was hooked.

It’s never easy. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes I get frustrated because I’m practicing all the time and it doesn’t feel like I’m getting better, even though I know I am. When I first started I had to unlearn the stances and style of punching I’d practiced during my brief stint as a boxer. Since then, I’ve leaned how to stand, block, punch, and kick. I’ve earned my Green belt, which is exactly in the middle between being a white belt who doesn’t even know what things are called and a black belt who can practically levitate while kicking and spinning at the same time. More than the basic techniques and sparring, I’ve learned a lot about self discipline, control, and faith. There have been moments when Mrs. P has looked at me and asked me to do things I either didn’t know how to do or was absolutely convinced that I would never be able to do. I felt that way the first time I did a hook kick, but I also knew that if she asked me to do it, I didn’t really have much choice but to comply.

So on Thursday when I showed up to class and Mrs. P said we’d be breaking boards, I knew I had to do it, moreover I had spent the whole day excited and looking forward to it…..but suddenly I realized that as cool as it sounded, I really didn’t want to do it. I felt this intense rush of fear course through me. Who was I kidding? I was about to break my hand. Yes, I am strong, but I am still so sloppy sometimes. I over rotate through my turning side kick, my fingers are never close enough together when I knife hand strike. Even when we were doing warm up punches I accidentally left my thumb sticking out too high on my fist so that I smashed it against the target, something I have never done before. I was mortified. This is stuff I work on everyday, but I’m not done working on it yet, so it occurred to me that I shouldn’t really be trying anything like board breaking.

Like I said, if Mrs. P. asks you to do something, you do it. Sometimes when she looks at me, I feel like she has these special BS goggles that see straight through my façade into my insecurities, which is why I wasn’t surprised that she picked me to go first. We had to do two hand techniques and two kicking techniques. I chose hammerfist and backfist. A hammer fist, as you can imagine, is when you use all your body weight and come down from above.

The Dojang got really quiet. One of my classmates held the board and Mrs. P explained what I was supposed to do, then everyone got really quiet again and I stared at the board. I took a deep breath and made a conscious decision to have faith in myself. My fist came down at the precise right angle and the board snapped in half. Everyone clapped. The second time I tried backfist. My fist hit the board and made a loud noise, but didn’t break. Thankfully neither did my hand. I came in at the wrong angle and didn’t follow through. It was embarrassing and kind of painful, but Mrs. P gave me that look and told me to do it again, so I did and this time I shattered it into three pieces that flew across the floor. It hurt, but I was okay. I broke two more boards, one with an axe kick and one with a side kick, both on the first time. When we had finished Mrs. P took the opportunity to dispel a myth. She said the reason we break boards isn’t about conquering a piece of wood, but rather it’s a very practical test of our ability to endure the impact of striking a solid object without padding. It’s seen as a type of conditioning. It made me think about all the other tests I’ve had in my life. Often I think about these challenges as something to conquer, when maybe it’s enough to be able to withstand their impact and get through them unscathed and with a little more faith in my own ability.

Not Much longer-a rejj poem ©

It’s like I’m stuck in
that Salvador Dali painting
where time is melting away
in the endless wastelands,
but the desert is my job
and I am so thirsty
for a sip of meaning
my lips are cracked and bleeding

Here every silence
every un-sighed sigh
and fake smile
seconds before
I hear myself saying
‘yes sir’
is me
losing ground,
losing grace,
losing integrity,
always
Losing

While inside
I HEAR HER,
clawing
kicking,
and cussing
MAD AS HELL.
She’s banging on the walls.
She’s painting signs and writing letters.
She’s building a bomb and stock piling stones
and plotting The Revolution.
Red war paint streaks her cheeks and
she’s got a bullhorn
and she’s screaming at the top of her lungs
‘DON’T DO THIS TO ME! I HAVE RIGHTS!’
‘Shhhhh.’ I say. ‘I’ve got bills.’
I button up my collar,
push my hair down a little,
shine up my shoes
all respectable like
and slide on the mask
‘I’ve got responsibilities,’ I tell her.

I lock her in tight before I go to
that place.
She’s got to stay there,
her and her neck rolling,
loud talking,
truth tellin’ ass.
She’s got to stay inside,
so I make the walls extra thick,
mix my own concrete
with every reason
freedom isn’t free

Aren’t we all
share cropping for a percentage
of our liberty
to be paid out
in small increments
over time

We turn ourselves into seed
take the broken pieces
and bury them in soil
trying to pretend
it’s enough to
have medical and dental

But she won’t pretend with me.
She is my loud ass
Jiminy Cricket
She’s yelling:
‘You don’t know what you’re doing!’
but I know (I know)
‘That’s my soul,’ she tells me.
‘MY SOUL, getting torn apart daily
by murderous eagles and it’s not regenerating!
Is it too much to want a little fire?
I never took what wasn’t already mine.
But you, you just give it all away.’

We both know what she wants…
She wants to travel the world
with Jimmy’s band of gypsies
She wants to eat wild strawberries
still warm from the summer sun
She wants to take body shots of tequila
off the abs of a pro-wrestler
She wants to join the circus
and have sex on a trapeze
wearing nothing but pink sequined pasties
and a grin to beat the band,
She wants freedom.
but I can’t give it to her,
then who would pay my student loan?

So I go to
that place
and grin and lie
and let the best of me
rot in a cell
in the bottom of my heart
And when it isn’t enough,
this daily act of subservience
Mr. Man remembers to put me in my place
And in these
‘get me some coffee,’
moments of condescension
where I am not my degrees
or my experience
but rather
a young black face
getting ground up
in the combine
that tills the fields
planting the next generation
of white supremacist patriarchy

Mr Man says:
‘Hey, nothing personal.’
He says: ‘It’s nothing personal’
as he wipes his shoes
on the ruins of my dignity.
When to me
it is so deeply personal
being complicit in my own
capture and enslavement

In these moments
I hear her crying,
her voice grows dim,
arms tired of flailing,
spirit tired of fighting
she shrinks a little more
a cotton voodoo doll
in scalding water
But every tear is like the tide rising
There are cracks in the foundation
of the prison that binds us both.
And freedom is coming…..

Batman

I don't have a TV because if I did, I would spend all day flipping back and forth between cartoons and the debates. I love cartoons. My favorites are Xmen, Samarai Jack, Boondocks, and of course Batman. What I always loved about Batman was his ability to get beat up. I mean if you are superman or you have mutant powers you can take a beating and it's not that big of a deal, but if you are batman and all you really have is a high tec rubber suit and some martial arts moves, and some super villian sends his thugs to play the congas on your kidneys, I have to give props for your ability to survive to crime fight another day. I spent MLK weekend hanging out with my Dad (who has two tvs) and while channel surfing I came across Batman Begins. I had seen it before (and dug it), but as I was watching an unanimated Batman go through the awkward stages of beginning hero-dom, I was reminded very much of the crappy transitional phase me and many of my late 20 something friends fresh out of grad school or bangin' abroad jobs are going through right now. We have all the tools to be professional ninjas and yet nothing ever quite goes as planned. Either we get passed up for jobs or the jobs we do get leave us bored, frustrated, and wondering how our bosses (in many cases younger and or less qualified) got to where there are with only a tenth of the talent, and even less intergrity. It can get on my last nerves, especially when faced with the daily condescending comments I receive as a young looking person with a higher up sounding title. But Batman, oddly enough, gives me faith. I don't have a couple million dollars, a butler, or even a car, but I do have all the tools I need to take the beating and get up and get better. Day by day.