Alvin Ailey Still Rocks

To say Coco owns a lot of stuff is like saying Starbucks is just a small coffee shop...it's a real understatement. Having helped move said stuff two times this year alone (up and down 2-3 flights of stairs!), I decided that for her birthday, instead of buying her something I would just end up having to move again, I would take her to see the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater (AAADT).

I first saw the Alvin Ailey dancers perform when I was a little girl, and let me tell you it ruined me for all other ballets. It was just so vibrant...the colors, the textures, the music....it was like soul candy. It was the way that they moved, the strength and grace of beautiful brown people of all hues, each with more muscles tone in one leg than I have in my entire body. They were magical, the women with their long silky skirts that seemed as much an extension of themselves as their hair and the men who were more communicative and expressive in their movements than most men are with a full range of vocabulary. I remember hearing Wade in the Water and watching the two huge bolts of blue silk undulating across the stage, ribbons of ocean baptising the dancers dressed in white and carrying those southern umbrellas. And the yellow church fans of the women gossiping. I never knew you could say so much without saying a word.

Every few years, when I am lucky enough to be in the right city at the right time, I get to see it all again. This year is the 50th anniversary. As such, when we were seated, instead of dancing right away they showed a short documentary about the company. Alvin Ailey had been dancing and choreographing for several years before he and a group of young, black, modern dancers performed together as the AAADT for the first time in New York in 1958. Ailey was born in Texas and his southern roots are reflected in the dances he choreographed. He took a very specific set of black experiences and immortalized them in his dances, which are truly like moving canvasses....just rich and artfully designed. The most famous piece Alvin Ailey every choreographed was Revelations.....and let me tell, even after seeing it 4 or 5 times, I can and will most likely totally pay to see it again and again. It just speaks to me. He went on to open a school in New York where young people of all different backgrounds are taught the fundamentals of dance. In 1989 when he became ill, Judith Jamison, one of the most amazing dancers ever to exist on this earth, took over and has been head artistic director ever since.


Before heading to the Paramount, I spent my morning at church. Yes, I made the hike and spent a very long time on the bus, but it was worth it. The message was titled, Enlightenment, Then Laundry....and it was all about the idea of having that Aha! moment. That split second when everything becomes clear. When you see your purpose. When you understand God and know that you, while still retaining your individual identity, are a part of something greater and all encompassing. I've had this moment before. In fact, I could sum up my entire spiritual practice as trying to get back to or move forward into this moment again. That absolute clarity of purpose, vision...the understanding or what people glibly refer to as enlightenment.

This isn't something that always happens at church, in fact it has more often than not occurred in much less traditional venues. Most of what happens in church is me being A.D.D. and having monkey mind. I catch about 75% of what is going on and the rest of me is thinking. "God I love those shoes, I wonder where she got them. It smells like cinnamon in here. I should make a dental appointment." While in Japan with a bunch of high school students, we participated in some Zen meditation. It was great, not because I actually achieved a quiet mind, but because with one glance from the Buddhist monk, the kids were quiet-oh to have that kind of power! I digress.

A few of my kids had actually been practicing meditation for a while. One of them had even gotten so good at it, that he had gained control over his A. D. D. and stopped having to take medication. He often tried to get me to quiet my thoughts. He'd hand me his i-pod and play rain for me and try to get me to find peace, but half way through when I had really let my thoughts drift away, he'd just turn to me and laugh. "I can see you thinking," he'd say. "Maybe we'll try again tomorrow". Then I'd always feel like such a phony and we'd try again and it would be the same. I guess sometimes the message comes to different people in different ways, but the commonality and the main point of the sermon on Sunday was that regardless of how it comes to you, or when or why, given our human nature, it is normal for it to be a flash and not to be something sustainable. Hence the laundry after enlightenment....we work before and after. She talked about how sometimes people get depressed because they can't sustain joy and clarity, but that it's okay. That's just how we're built. The cool part is that we can fall into grace from time to time and in the meantime we have other things to occupy our time.

Halfway through Alvin Ailey, I slipped into one of those moments. I don't know if it was the music or the colors or the beauty of the moment or that rich silent hush that settles into an audience when the lights go down and they're waiting for something to happen, but whatever it was I was having a spiritual experience. Then the white people started clapping off beat and just like that it was gone. I mean it's a ballet you don't have to clap in the middle, you can wait until they're doing their little choreographed bows an what not. Yeah, I know the music is hella good and there are times when you gotta sway and tap your feet, but if you don't know when to clap and can't keep a beat, then there is no need for you to detract from the beauty of the moment by trying. And Jesus how can so many people be so off beat???It boggles the mind. But even with the irritation, it was still a fantastic performance and one I hope to see again. Even in my post enlightened irritation, I could still feel the remnants of grace. Thanks for that Universe.

Coco's 30th Birthday Bash

We celebrated Coco's 30th birthday last night. Coco believes that her birthday is not just a time for her to receive gifts and to celebrate with her friends, but also a time for her to give back and celebrate her friendships. Not only did she treat us all to an elaborate dinner complete with a mini wine tasting (with wine pre-ordered to our individual tastes), but she also gave us each gifts and hand written cards thanking us for this year and every year of our friendship. I was so touched and happy to be a part of the community of fabulous women in Coco's inner circle.

2 years from 30 and 7 years into my friendship with Coco, I find myself in awe of her generosity, content with how our friendship has blossomed and curious about my own impending shift from one decade into another. We never cease to find new ways to mark time, each day another transition, another step towards one thing and away from another.

What does it mean to be 30? Is it just a number, or is it really the gateway into another phase of life. I am kind of hoping for the latter. My early 20s were all about exploration of the world and myself, testing my boundaries, learning my likes and dislikes, and traveling as much as possible. At 28, I've found myself returning to my writing and spiritual contemplation. I have a kind of career, but it's not really what I want to be doing. I'm not married and I thankfully have no children. I think about my mom. By 28 she had been married to my Dad for 3 years and was clear about her professional aspirations. By 30 I was born. I know that you can't really compare lives, given that there are so many varying factors that contribute to who you are, where you are, and what you're doing with what you've got, but I can't help feeling like I should be further along in the plan by now.

Rather than turn this into yet another mopey diatribe about how far I am from who and what I had hope to be by 30, I'd prefer to stick to the celebratory spirit of the moment. Coco, a toast to you: to a lady who is as brilliant and she is beautiful, as classy as she is fun, and as generous as she is caring...Salud and Happy 30! May your path be lined with winning lotto tickets, lots of time to have pho and tea, and a fabulous new space to live in. May you find everything you've been searching for in addition to some fabulous surprises along the way. And may our friendship continue for many years to come.

The Couch Off

The invitation read: "It all began with innocent bantering between two colleagues at the World Affairs Council--"my couch is better than yours." It was all fun and games; a laugh here and joke there. But now, it has been taken to a whole other level, evolving into a "couch off". " Which is where I went last night.

One of my dear friends from grad school commonly referred to as C or Shoshana on this blog, recently purchased a lovely rose colored couch. It's classy, kind of antique looking with nice lines. It's elegant and a fitting addition to her place. Rumor has it, this couch was Shera in a past life and spent a lot of time helping humanity. As a Midwesterner, Shoshana is prone to the occasional bout of shit talking...and that's how it all started. Being non-profity geeks, Shoshana and her co-workers took this idea and ran with it. They created a party hosted by four separate couches and their respective owners. There was a pre-couch survey where the owners of said couches were ask questions such as: "Where was your couch born? What was you couch in a past life? How many things can it do?" and etc. Answers were then compiled into a hand out and distributed to guests. They also had ballots in which we could rate the couch in various categories including, how well it fit with the decor, how well it fit with the owner, comfort, mobility, and etc.





Shoshana's house was the kick off house. As a master delegater, she put me in charge of drinks and music. I made pomegranate mojitos (which matched the color of the couch perfectly) and picked a nice eclectic mix of international lounge music. It was fun, and strange. Her place is a studio, but very spacious with hardwood floors and a lot of Japanese influenced art / wall hangings. After a drink, some appetizers, more shit talk, and casting our ballots, we moved onto the next couch in a whole different area of town.

The Danish couch was brown and funky in a trendy cool way. It seats 4-5 people comfortably. Its a bit of a show couch though, as it was placed directly opposite a much uglier and infinitely more comfortable couch. The decor was very That's So 70s Bachelor Pad complete with gin or vodka martinis and fruity jelly beans. Above the couch was a blank wall onto which a projector streamed psychedelic images to go with the Paul Oakenfold. Onward we traveled, to the biggest apartment yet.





Couch 3 was a deep dish sofa that felt like it was swallowing you whole. It was very adult and plush, to go with the jazz, mini quiche and wine. This couch was a baby duck in a previous life and boasts of talents such as: writing maudlin poetry, creating charts in excel, negotiating peace accords, singing ballads in dead languages, beating you in Guitar Hero, and doing the Sunday NY Times crossword in pen. It was also guarded by a very voluptuous cat.







We were getting too drunk to carpool, so we cabbed onward to our final couch of the evening, a navy blue reclining couch from High Point, North Carolina, the "furniture capital of the world". This couch can recline, seduce, win a game of connect four in three moves, negotiate with terrorists, slam a revolving door, compost metal objects, and isn't claustrophobic. It lives in a small studio, most of which is taken up by a bed. Between the bed and the couch there is just enough space for a narrow walkway that leads to a galley kitchen. The couch, though southern, is worldly enough to have Spanish tastes. It's owner imported Cuarenta y Tres (43 a vanilla liquor commonly served with coke in the pubs of Salamanca) and prepared a lovely Spanish tortilla, which was all irrelevant because the couch was so lusciously comfortable.

After a small altercation with the neighbors, who were un-used to anyone trying to host 20-30 tipsy people for a couch off in a studio, we made our way to a local bar where we had tator-tots, sweet potato fries and a few pitchers of beer, while the votes were tallied.

The Results:
Shoshana's couch was judged as having the best taste in drinks, best color, and over all vibe.
The Danish couch was judged most like its owner.
The giant, deep, eat you alive couch, was just as the best fit for the space and decor.
And the winner of this year's couch off...rated the most insanely comfortable, well made, cool featured couch was the last and finally couch, a couch with a texture of a baby's ass, the navy blue recliner from North Carolina.

A good night was had by all, though I still contend that had my couch entered, it would have won. It is the perfect combination of the best of the best, soft, cushy, but not too deep, stylish, bright red, and fabulous.

Grandparents and special friends day

Today at one of the schools I work at, it's grandparents or special friends day, which means the kids are allowed to bring in either a grandparent, a godparent or some other adult that is special to them and lives close by. I've never had this at any school I've ever been to, so it was kind of neat to watch. I think its a great idea to give the kids an opportunity to share their school not just with their parents, but with other members of their family. It spreads out the responsibilty a little and gives those people a bit more of an insight into the daily lives of the kids. My mom was really big on the concept of other mothering. I grew up with a council of amazingly brilliant women who mentored and cared for me and still do in some cases.

I always like to meet people's families. I especially like to see what the kids are like with their families. It explains so much about how they treat others and how they expect to be treated.
There is one little girl that I work with often. She is the daughter of a single mother and she can be a brat. Our relationship is complicated. She often tests my patience. I try to be fair with her. I don't want her to think I don't like her, but I find myself coming down hard on her because I don't appreciate the way she is always trying to manipulate or bully people into doing what she wants. I don't know what percentage of this behavior is inate versus learned, but whatever it is, it gets under my skin, more so because when she gets reprimanded and we call home, I watch her guilt trip her mom. It really pisses me off.

I am the product of a single family household. From the time I was 2 years old, I only lived with one parent at a time....plus I'm an only child, so when I went off to college the whole roomate thing was a very rude surprise :). Though it was different living with each parent (they have very distinct energies and personalities), they made a big effort to coordinate some forms of continuity. If something was inappropriate to do at my mom's house, it was most likely simmiarly inappropriate at my dad's house. My parents are some of the most communicative divorced people I know....they never wanted me to have a chance to pit them against each other.

This little girl doesn't have father. Today we were playing scrabble and she had a total freak out. I looked over and she had started sobbing. When I finally got her to tell me what was wrong, she said she was upset because she felt like she barely got to spend anytime with her mom. I pulled her aside. I told her something I remember my mom telling me when I was about that age and didn't want to take out the recycling. She said sometimes when you love someone and you live with them, you have to do things for them to make their lives easier....even if you don't really feel like it, you have to contribute to the household. I told her that she was just going to have to understand that her mom has to work and take care of business so that they can have the things they need. I told her it was okay to feel sad sometimes, but that she should try a little harder to make things easier on her mom. The hardest thing for parents is to watch their kids struggle and hurt. I don't know if that was the right thing to say or even if she heard me because when she gets upset like that, I can see her tuning me out, but I just want her to try being a little less self absorbed.

I think about what their lives together must be like. She gets pissed and takes it out on her mom, who in turn out of guilt gets manipulated into spoiling her to over compensate. It makes me think how much she would really benefit from having a grandparent or a special friend to take some of the stress off. Someone who could tell her mom not to feel so guilty and alert her to the situations in which she is about to get played and someone who could take this little girl and spend some quality time with her when her mom can't. I wish it could be less complicated, but I do believe that with some time and understanding, they can work something out.

Slam # 4

The slam hat of destiny chose me to go last in the first round and subsequently first in the second round which is my least favorite order, but it was still intensely awesome. I slammed Happy Hour and Afraid to Know me (a first time performance piece on race). I didn't win. I came in at the bottom of the second round, but had I not gone 3 seconds over I would have knocked last year's NATIONAL Slam winner out of round 2...which to me is a major accomplishment. As it was we tied at 26. 8 and there were six of us in round 2. The other 2 poets who didn't advance, were both stellar: one was this guy who came in 2nd place the first time I slammed and took 1st the second time I slammed. He already has a place in the grand slam coming up in April. The other poet competed in the grand slam last year.

It's been interesting to start getting to know people. The other poets have been really supportive and cool about my work. I'm not an every week poet. My Wednesday nights are always jam packed, either with sparring or meetings for work, so I'm a once a month poet at best. But now I am beginning to know who is who. Entering a new community is a little intimidating. It was really good slam, packed with amazing poets. When the host read the list of poets in the slam and more than one of them was a slam champion, it kind of freaked me out a little, but once I'm there, I'm there, and my friends had come to support me. I hate the waiting. I like getting there early to get a good table and have a drink, but after listening to 6-8 poets on the open mike, then the featured performer (who totally kicked ass..I love you Gary Warmwater!), I am antsy to get it over with. It's strange to go from looking forward to something all week to just wishing it were over, but that's what happens when I have too much time to think. I was also a little nervous because I slammed some deep shit last night.

Some poems just come to me, mostly in the early morning or late at night when its still dark and I don't really want to get up or turn on the light. I've taken to keeping a notebook next to my bed so I can just lean over without really even having to wake up all the way. Other poems take forever. I write a stanza or a verse and then its just there until I remember to come back to it, sometimes months, even years later. The poem I slammed in round 2 was one of those poems, a conglomerate of two separate poems I have been working on for the last four months that I didn't realize were the same poem until I sat down and youtubed Barak's speech about race relations. I really liked what he had to say, partly because he didn't chicken out. This was a speech where he could have just condemned Reverend Wright and completely invalidated everything he had to say, and I was kind of waiting for him to that as it would have been a very politically expedient thing to do, but instead, he showed some guts and really dug into the meat of all the things we never say in mixed company in a way that was respectful to all parties. I couldn't have done it. And really I'm not in the stage of my life where I want to do it. I want to tell the truth and be unapologetic about it.

While I was writing and re-writing the poem, which still isn't really done yet, I was having all these grad school flash backs. I remember watching the movie the Color of Fear, which is actually really good and worth watching. It's a documentary of a retreat with a group of multi-ethnic men who go to a retreat to talk about race. This is up there on my top 10 list of things I never want to do: be trapped for a whole weekend with guilty white people who think they can ask me anything about my life....like they are entitled to have me share my most intimate and sometimes painful memories for the benefit of their education. So they can really "know what its like", when they clearly can't ever know what its like. And when they get close they freak out and run the other way. So I was remembering my white classmates reaction to the movie and how they didn't want to talk about what was actually said, but only about how the black man in the movie kept yelling. It was so frustrating because they were so uncomfortable that they couldn't even process that what he was saying was the truth. Last night I slammed an angry poem. I will post the poem, but not today. It's still a work in progress. It's one of the first times I've actually been able to articulate this visceral emotion that lives within me and explain a little bit about why.

I talked to my mom a few days ago and she told me this story that just made me sick. She was listening to Story Corp on NPR about a woman remembering her grandmother. Her grandmother saw her painting her finger nails and told her that they didn't used to be able to do that. She questioned her grandmother further because that seemed crazy and her grandmother told her about the time when she was a little girl. Her mother worked in the house of a white woman, and one day that woman threw out some old nail polish. The little girl took it from the trash and painted her nails. Later she went to a store in town and when the store owner saw her hands he grabbed then and told her niggers couldn't wear white lady's nail polish. He took a pair of pliers and ripped off every single one of her finger nails. Let me repeat that. This white man took a pair of pliers and ripped the finger nails off a black child simply because he could.

What he did was reprehensible, but what to me is even scarier are the crimes that have been perpetrated against people of color in the name of the law, by our own government. Now that slavery is over, now that "Indians" have casinos, and Japanese people have received their checks for the internment, we're just supposed to forget it ever happened. Get over it. Move on. Well thanks for the PSA, but I'm just not ready yet. It seems to me like the equivalent of a rape victim being told by her rapist that now that he knows he did a bad thing and he sent her an apology card, she should just get over it. He made things all better right? He gets to dictate how she's supposed to feel and what is a suitable compensation for the damage done. What kind of sense does that make? Yeah, I'm still angry. And I talked about it, and it was interesting because some people were really not ready to hear me. I got a range of scores, but more interesting was the total silence, the little shocked gasped...it's so weird to have my writing be interactive. I'm so used to just sending it out into space and then maybe getting some feedback, but the immediacy of the slam is kind of intoxicating. Sometimes its very call in response, the audience feeding off of you and vise versa. Last night it wasn't like that at all. But it was worth it.

7 Cherry Blossom Haiku

1. spring is here again

the cherry blossoms in bloom

make me write haiku

2. awkward around him

but can't stand to be away

I like him too much


3. Sun in Seattle

albinos seen at the park

best "sick day" ever

4. morning fun in gym,

little kids shakin it up

hula hoop for life

5. another season

marking the days without you

missing you always

6. lilacs and Jasmine

her indelible pheromones

the scent of her skin

7. stomach butterflies

he takes me by surprise, smile

a first kiss gone right

Still Brave: The Politics of Race and Gender in the 2008 Election

Today instead of my personal rantings, I would like to let someone smarter than me share her thoughts....the following is an article written by my mother.

In the midst of one of the most exciting election seasons in recent years it is important to acknowledge that still in the new millennium Americans continue to suffer from the traditional problems of historical myopia and dichotomized thinking. Those problems were succinctly captured twenty five years ago in the seminal text All the Women are White, All the Men are Black but Some of us are Brave: Black Women’s Studies edited by Gloria T. Hull, Patricia Bell Scott and Barbara Smith

Dichotomized thinking was recently exhibited in remarks made by former vice presidential candidate Geraldine Ferraro when she insisted that Barack Obama’s campaign would not have been as successful if he were a white man. Gloria Steinem has also exhibited this kind of dehistoricized myopic vision in a recent New York Times op ed piece which stated in part, “Gender is probably the most restricting force in American life whether the question is who must be in the kitchen or who could be in the white house. “ She went on to say “That’s why the Iowa primary was following our historical pattern of making changes. Black men were given the vote half a century before women of any race were allowed to mark a ballot.” Later she ask why the sex barrier is not taken as seriously as the racial one and her response to her own question is “because sexism is still confused with nature as racism once was.” While Gloria Steinem is, and has been, a warrior in the struggle for women’s rights for at least 50 years herself, and has worked diligently to incorporate a race and class analysis into her understanding of gender she, Ferraro, and other second generation white feminist still don’t quite get it.

It is useful to recall some of that history that was alluded to in Steinem’s piece in a manner that provides some historical context for the dichotomized debates that echoes within our current presidential election season. Steinem is partially correct when she says that Black men were given the vote half a century before women of any race but she fails to provide the nuances of that story. In 1865 the 13th amendment to the constitution prohibited slavery, the 14th amendment decreed that no citizen could be denied the rights guaranteed by the constitution including the right to vote in1868 but it was the 15th amendment that granted Black men the right to vote (not Indians or immigrants nor women of any color). […All the men are Black]

Prior to the Civil War a coalition had been forged between abolitionist and suffragist and at that time the eradication of slavery was prioritized. After the war as the country struggled with the question of what to do with the “freed” people an argument arose over whether the 15th amendment should be supported despite its obvious shortcomings.

Fredrick Douglass argued passionately that “When women because they are women are dragged from their houses and hung upon lamp posts; when their children are torn from their arms, and their brains dashed upon the pavement; when they are objects of insult and outrage at every turn; when they are in danger of having their homes burnt down over their heads; when their children are not allowed to enter schools; than they will have the urgency to obtain the ballot.” When it was pointed out to him that the Black women were being victimized in exactly those same ways, his response was that Black women were treated in this way on the basis of their race not their sex and that white middle class women had ways to redress their grievances that were not afforded to them” (i.e. black men). [All the women are white.] He concluded that “The death of slavery did not automatically mean the birth of freedom,” and that “Slavery is not abolished until the Black man has the ballot” […All the men are black]. Douglass characterized this time in history as the “Negro’s hour” and felt strongly that universal male suffrage had to be secured first.

Some Black women such as Frances Ellen Watkins Harper agreed with Douglass in his support of the 15th amendment believing that it was imperative that Black men receive their voting rights because while the ballot was “desirable” for women it was “vital” for black men. Although agreeing to “let the lesser question of sex go” she also made the astute observation that “white women all go for sex, letting race occupy a minor position” when the interest of black male abolitionists were pitted against the interests of white women suffragists. But Frances E. W. Harper and Sojourner Truth both Black women abolitionists and suffragette took opposing stances on this issue. Thus Sojourner Truth advocated strongly for women to get the vote at the same time as men. Indeed after the passage of the 15th amendment Sojourner Truth in Michigan, Susan B. Anthony in New York State, and Mary Ann Shadd Cary in Washington D.C. expressed their frustrations with the limitations of the 15th amendment by attempting, unsuccessfully, to vote in several local elections.

Clearly opinions about this critical issue were not monolithic. Women’s Suffrage movement leadership and some of its members became openly hostile to Frederick Douglass—both Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton argued that universal suffrage for women was no less compelling than universal male suffrage and in fact they began to express antiblack sentiment publicly as their movement began to factionalize around this question. Stanton went so far as to proclaim that “it is better to be the slave of an educated white man, than of a degraded, ignorant black one”. She moved to form the National Woman’s Suffrage Association so as to separate herself from the cause of Black people.

Frances Dana Gage, a less well known suffragette at the time (the author of articles on Sojourner Truth and a champion of the rights of poor immigrant women) was part of a group that did not feel the same way about the 15th amendment which granted “universal suffrage” (to men) regardless of race, color, or previous condition of servitude.” She found the position of Anthony and Stanton indefensible and stated “Could I with breath defeat the 15th amendment I would not do it. That amendment will let the colored man enter the wide portals of human rights. Keeping them out, suffering as now, would not let me in all the sooner.”

What Steinem did not acknowledge in her op ed piece is that while Black men did enjoy the right to vote for a very short time in the 19th century much of the later part of that century was spent in taking the ballot from him through legal maneuvers within state constitutions, grandfather clauses and terroristic attacks—including threats, property destruction and lynching--a time that has been characterized as the nadir in our history. And when women were granted the right to vote early in the 20th century once again women were defined as white as the same tactics used against men were deployed to disenfranchised Black women. [All the women were white]

Including a historical perspective of “the ground we stand on” during this election means also acknowledging that it was not until the Voting Rights Act of 1965 that “we the people” finally began to become more inclusive of people of all colors and both genders.

As we navigate through this significant time in our history it is also interesting to remember that in 1952 Charlotta Spears Bass, a Black activist and newspaper editor in California was nominated for the vice presidency of the U.S. on the Progressive Party ticket. Its platform called for peace, an end to discrimination and segregation, unemployment and government corruption. Bass clearly felt that neither of the main stream parties were committed to working for Black people and she campaigned fiercely-- especially against Richard Nixon. Her campaign stressed not only civil rights and peace but also the issue of women’s rights and she encouraged women to run for political office [But some of us are Brave].

In 1972 Shirley Chisholm made her bid for the presidency on the democratic ticket. She ran because she felt qualified for the office and was convinced that she had a right to run. She had been the first black woman to be elected to the U.S. House of Representatives in 1968 where she served for 14 years. As an early member of NOW, a founder of the national Women’s Political Caucus and spokesperson for the National Abortion Rights Action League (NARAL) she was definitely a feminist. She was disappointed by the lack of support for her campaign from both Black men and white women—Black men resented her because they felt the first Black to be a candidate for the office of president should be a male while many white feminist provided conditional support. In fact Gloria Steinem signaled the media that she would support Chisholm’s candidacy in the states where George McGovern was not on the primary ballot.

This is an exciting and historic election season. While the visual image of the Republican candidates appeared “normal”—that is middle aged (to older) white men—there was a bit of a nuance with one candidate being a Mormon and the other an Evangelical Christian. Lest we forget, on the Democrat side the first cut included a white woman, a Black male, a Hispanic male and a white male who was wealthy enough to get his populist views aired (this in itself was an interesting contradiction)

While it is easier to identify historical dichotomized nuances such as male/female; black/white and even richer or poorer, it is more uncomfortable to identify the dichotomous lapses that characterize these contemporary times. What if the debate was broaden to incorporate Hispanic and Latino voters instead of, or in addition to, the typical focus on the Black and white dichotomy? NPR recently reported that 44% of all Hispanics had voted for Bush while since 1960 up to 85% of all voting Blacks voted for Democrats. How does religion factor into this round of presidential politics? There are some 10 million Hispanic evangelicals which rises to some 15 million if you include charismatic Catholic Hispanics so what role will religion play among Hispanic voters? What are the gender politics among Hispanics and how does class affect their voting patterns? Do Mexicans vote differently from Cubans or Puerto Ricans in the South, or the West or the Midwest for example? Will the Republican hard line stance on immigration lose the Hispanic vote despite their social conservatism? Why does Hillary Clinton resonate more with Hispanics than does Barack Obama? Does that difference in voting preferences reflect an underlying tension between Hispanics and Blacks? Why isn’t there more analysis of this Black/Brown divide? Why aren’t Blacks more supportive of Hispanics around the issue of immigration? Can we as Blacks and Browns, and indeed Native Americans and Asian Pacific Americans, heterosexuals, bi and homosexuals, articulate commonalities around issues of social justice and human rights? What will it mean for American to actually become a multi cultural, multi racial society in the 21st century? Will this have a positive impact on the way in which we address the impact of globalization on all of us but most especially on the poor among us?

Rather than squabbling over whether a white woman or a Black man should have the opportunity to be a historic first we must develop a more profound vision that incorporates issues that reflect the convoluted reality of race, class and gender in 21st century America. We must demand that our candidates and their supporters present comprehensive nuanced proposals that reflect the realities mentioned above so that voters can in turn make thoughtful decisions about the future of our country in this globalized world. It is imperative that we behave as if “…Some of us are Brave”!

Stanlie M. James
Director African and African American Studies Program
and Professor Women and Gender Studies
Arizona State University

Easter Sunday

Most days I try to wake up a few minutes earlier than absolutely necessary and I lay there staring at my vision board. It is the first and last thing I look at everyday. Sometimes I pick a specific section to focus on. This week, I am slamming, so I focus on seeing myself as someone with a powerful voice and strong writing, but I have also been really drawn into the right side of my board, which is the spirit and illumination side. It is probably the least wordy part of the board and has these gorgeous pictures of stars and lanterns for illumination and wonder. I want to know God. I want to learn how to make my mind quiet and to rediscover the faith that used to come so easily to me, so what better time than Easter to reconnect with my spiritual life.

I was raised in the Episcopal Church, one of the few things my parents absolutely agreed upon. Though I don't really go that much anymore, there is still some part of me that resonates with that way of thinking. Through my journey as an Episcopalian I have learned not only to believe, but to question and examine my beliefs. We are a religion of loving skeptics. We want to believe, but we also want it to make sense. One of the most famous Episcopalians, was a bishop by the name of Shelby Spong, who wrote a series of controversial books about why Christianity must change or die. He talked about Jesus as a man and how he most likely had not only brothers and sisters, but a wife...also named Mary. Many people called him a heretic. He received death threats and hate mail from people who said he wasn't a Christian, but Bishop Spong viewed himself as an agent of change. He never strived to tread on middle ground, but rather chose to be a radical... to be so far left that he effectively moved the center. He is one of the only reason I can still even consider myself a Christian, albeit a Christian who doesn't believe in heaven and hell, other than in the context of the realities we create here on earth, and a Christian who doesn't believe that there is only one path to God.

I am a lazy Christian though. I pray, but never enough. I give thanks, but never enough. So I felt a little guilty about going to church this Easter. I didn't even celebrate lent this year, but I went anyway at the invitation of Shoshana, who attends an interfaith church. I have been to this church several times and have been toying with making it my new spiritual home, but there are two things that have stopped me. One is that it is really a pain to get to on Sunday mornings. I have to take 2-3 buses and they don't match up, so that's about an hour and a half one way to a place that would take 16 minutes to get to by car (according to map quest). The other, more substantive reason is harder to admit. It's about my anger.

During grad school, a process akin to taking a potato peeler and skinning any vulnerable part of me and then dousing them in rubbing alcohol, I discovered within me a deep dark well of anger towards white people. I don't think it's rare. In fact, I can't think of a single friend of mine who is of color and grew up in this country, who hasn't confided similar feelings to me. I am not crazy anymore like I was during grad school, but I have also not worked through all of these issues. Truthfully I am not sure if I can work through all these issues...maybe my goal is to at least be at peace. My anger is not at specific people, it's more about privilege. I get angry when I feel like people are taking liberties. I often meet white people who try to touch my hair...I mean strangers on the street...COME ON! I have a personal space bubble and God only knows where there hands have been. Or I meet the people who are so happy that I'm black and want me to tell them all about it...again strangers...I have a bubble. I have boundaries and I want them respected. It's not about being unfriendly, it's about wanting the option of whether or not I get to choose to engage.

God is very personal to me. I used to enjoy going to church, but my churches have mostly been populated with very talkative, old, white people. These people are lovely, but sometimes when I am praying, I have some very personal emotions, and it has become more and more difficult for me to feel comfortable praying in this kind of venue. I don't want to chit chat. I don't want to hug strangers. I don't want to talk to them about why I need to pray or what I'm praying for. I mostly just want to be left alone at church, which is a huge difference from how I grew up. I used to be a part of a church community. We shared meals and had relationships with one another, but as I get older, I just don't have it in me. The solitude of meditation is very appealing, but I have a monkey mind and it does help me to go somewhere to pray. But then I begin to feel like a bad Christian because I can't turn off my anger which manifest itself a standoffish outer shell and a need to leave church a few minutes early to insure no one invites me for pancakes afterwards. I want to pray about it and talk about it, but how can I do that with people who inadvertently trigger me. I have visited some black churches, but find the majority of them to be too patriarchal for my feminist sensibilities. They are also very time consuming and far from where I live. Another Episcopalian value is that church doesn't have to be much longer than an hour. You will never be there for 4 or 5 hours such as some Baptist churches.

I have been looking for a place to worship that has a diverse population, that is consistent with my beliefs, someplace where I can meditate on a provocative message and that has good music (something you rarely get in the Episcopal Church). Shoshana's church is as close as I've gotten in Seattle. Shoshana is white. I love her and because we are close friends I feel comfortable worshipping with her, but when we got Easter, and the other people started pouring in around us, I got uncomfortable. There was this lady next to me who wanted to chat and ask me questions. I had just finished mediating in silence for a half and hour and I just wanted to sit and listen to the music. In the end, I humored her, but I was irritated.

The service in general was pretty amazing. I felt inspired, the music was superb, and the message of the day was all about rising, choosing to rise, choosing to make a new beginning. I want to do that. I'm just not quite sure how yet. I am interested in trying out this church, but hesitant. Is there a way to open myself up to God and find a new spiritual home without having to be vulnerable in public and without having to engage (until I'm ready) with other people probably doing the same thing? Or should I just try to be more disciplined and learn to meditate at home? I pray for simplicity. I pray for my anger and negative feelings to dissipate. In the meantime I will take this space to feel how I feel.

The art of fake dating

Coco says romance is always the woman's idea and that even if a man asks a woman out, it must first become her idea and what she wants for it to go anywhere. I have been thinking about this a lot lately and trying to come up with a working definition of dating as well as a deeper analysis of what it means to date. According to Wikipedia and Websters Online Dictionary, a date is : " an occasion when one meets and goes out with a potential lover or future spouse. In this sense, the purpose of a date is for the people dating to get to know each other and decide whether they want to have a relationship. However, the term is also used to mean a social evening between people who have an established relationship, particularly if the goal is to relax away from day-to-day responsibilities, such as caring for children."But what about the gray area? Can you go on dates if you are neither looking for a lover or a spouse and don't have an established relationship with someone? I guess you could call it fake dating. All of the ingredients of dating, but without the expectation.

A little over a year ago, I met a hippie at a coffee shop. We'll call him Julian. Julian is more than 20 years older than me, he doesn't have a phone, he works when he feels like it, and he has and continues to travel around the United States hitch hiking. We had known each other casually for a few months, when he asked me to accompany him to dinner and a movie in celebration of the anniversary of his giving up smoking. I agreed to go, but subsequently felt really weird about it. Was this a date? The purpose was to get to know each other and hang out in a new way, but he is really not my type. At that point, I wasn't even sure if I wanted to be real friends with him or if I wanted to maintain our acquaintanceship. I get kind of weird about new friends when I'm not sure of their motives, but in the end I went and we had a lot of fun. In fact we decided that we would see another movie the next week and the next.

During this time I met and began dating my most recent ex....we'll call him the Big Round Headed Liar (RH for short). Real dating RH did not interfere in anyway with my fake dating Julian, but now RH is gone. Julian went to New Mexico for a couple of months, cause that's what traveling hippies do I guess, then he made his way back here. We have resumed our fake courtship, but recently he has made gestures that suggest that I may be the only one fake dating, such as giving me a giant heart shaped box of chocolates on V-day and asking me out on a "double date" with some mutual acquaintances. We never kiss. There is no hand holding. Payment varies, sometimes we go dutch, sometimes he pays, sometimes I pay depending on who has more money.

In trying to figure this out I have come to some realizations about my belief system. Most of what I believe about dating comes from TV, not from real life. On TV, real dates end begin with flowers and end with kisses, so I am always kind of looking for both, and often irritatingly disappointed. Wisconsin was horrible place to begin dating. I started when I was 17 and it was a disaster of awkwardness. To have all those lovey, crush feelings returned in such a garbled, complicated way, made me weird about dating. Perhaps that is why I often slip, trip, and fall into my relationships. They sneak up on me. I don't date a lot, I either get involved with people I already know or I have 1 or 2 real dates and suddenly its like we're in a relationship...which of course shifts the focus of the date.

I recently went on what might have been a real date with a very tall and brilliant man who we'll call Brooklyn. During the course of post dinner tea, we started talking about dating and relationships and Brooklyn confessed that throughout his 20s he was all about being in a couple. He says he is decidedly more comfortable in relationships. Which is exactly the opposite of me. I want to be in a relationship, or so I tell myself, but when I am sometimes I find myself feeling a little constricted. It can be work...I mean you have to compromise, there are hurt feelings, and conflicting time schedules. Being alone is so much simpler. I confessed this to Brooklyn and he kind of laughed at me. I told him I'm not that great at dating and that I wish I knew what it was supposed to look like. If I can see something done right, I can usually imitate it. He said the big secret is that no one knows how to date and that for him it was just always better having someone else there with him not knowing either. Brooklyn is embracing singliciousness at the start of his 30s and finally getting brave about figuring it out alone. And as I end my 20s, I think I'd like to be brave as well and start real dating, hopefully with less disastrous results.

Self Defense

Last night I got my ass handed to me in sparring. That's right, I got beat up by a 14 year old. He is 3 belts ahead of me and light years faster and I just didn't have it in me. It was all I could to do to stay upright and finish the round, but I did it and I actually feel better today. Maybe it just took someone else kicking my ass to realize how badly I've been beating myself up all week. I have been in a bad way, mired in this repetitive self abusive loop of negative thoughts blaring in my head "What are you doing with your life?" "Why are you still in that stupid job?" "You should have finished your book 10 years ago" and just generally " R, YOU SUCK! GET IT TOGETHER!" After the first roundhouse kick to my chest protector, something snapped in me. All those other voices shut up and there was only one voice left saying "Defend yourself. Don't let this kid kick your ass, block, punch, kick. "

Afterwards, I was supposed to go to the U2 movie at the IMAX with Shoshana, my friend voted most likely to move to Ireland to follow Bono around. :) .The movie wasn't playing, so we ended going back to her place for mochi and wine. I told her how I was feeling and what I've been thinking and she looked straight at me and said it was gift. Her theory is that I am given the gift to process and to go through these dark moments so that at some later date, I will be stronger and more prepared for even more challenging things to come.

If this is true, I would like to return this gift to the Universe. Please take it back. I am strong and full of character and have processed a hell of a lot already. I don't want to go through this anymore. I am done. No, I don't have it together, I haven't finished my book, or my play or that collection of short stories and poetry. I never converted my capstone into articles. I do still intensely dislike my primary job, but I just can't feel bad about it like I have been. It's getting me nowhere. This job may suck, but it's easy and it pays for my insurance. And as my mom points out, I've been pretty busy traveling and getting degrees and stuff...that's a lot of time away from writing books. Part of me feels like these are lame excuses, but the rest of me is ready to defend myself from myself.

I am ready for second, third, and fourth chances to get things right. On the night I found out Sue had passed away, Shoshana and I held our own private vigil for her. We said prayers and watched the sun set over the lake. Then at her insistence, we walked over to my taekwondo dojang and I was awarded my blue stripe. Since then it has been hard for me to go there. I took a few weeks off, but this week I have started going regularly again. It's hard.

At the beginning of each belt, there are so many new techniques to learn. And even the old techniques must be perfected and corrected. Sometimes I just want to walk away, but then I look at the new white belts coming in. They are awkward. They are just learning proper stances and how to block and punch and they make a lot of mistakes. That's exactly how it was for me, constantly messing up. I felt embarrassed. And now, I still mess up, but I am able to mark my progress. I can break boards. I can occassionaly stick my turning side kicks during sparring. My roundhouse kicks is are solid. I have learned so much in just over a year. Maybe that's the trick, you try something new, you mess it up, you try it again and again, and eventually you can get it right. Maybe that's the whole point and if I just keep trying to be a better person and lead my life with integrity, I'll get there, but for now I am just at the beginning. I'm doing better than before, but it's all a journey.

Love Sucks

Feeling a little broken hearted today. Strange. I was riding home on the bus a few nights ago eavesdropping on the conversation behind me. This boy, he must have been 16 or 17, was on his cell phone telling his friend he never wanted to fall in love again. He couldn't imagine ever having to go through that kind of pain again. Word. Who hasn't been there? When I was 17 all I wanted was to fall in love. All my friends started dating before me. Wisconsin was not a kind place to me. And when I did start dating, it was a disaster. Love is never like TV says it should be. I'd like to say that it's gotten better, and maybe if you ask me another day, I could give you a different opinion, but in this moment, I am little tired of the emotional roller coaster. I think it would suck never to fall in love again, but it's kind of shitty either way. I want things to be simple, but they aren't, so here is what I wrote, my hate poem to love:

You are the indelible shadow on my heart

the bruise that doesn't fade,

the wound that bleeds cyclically,

my stigmata,

my good thing gone bad,

my best thing I wish I had never had,

the black star

on my iris

clouding my innervisions

You are a collection of my worst decisions

the division between sobriety and stupidity

the antidote to the simplicity

of an existence that is drama free

You are the Seth to my Osiris

ripping through me

shredding the fabric of my self esteem

You are the chaos that rains on my fire

until I feel small and squelched

and not in control

You asked me to dance

and I thought I said no.

Maybe I said yes...

but the answer was no

I'll say it louder the next time

I feel the seductive pull of you

the kiss on a bare shoulder

a warm hand

at the base of my spine

fireworks in my night sky

The haze of unspecified desire

won't move me to speak your name

I know you're a liar

Every time, you promise

to take me higher,

but elevation

is just a temporary levitation

before the crash.

I'm not afraid of heights

I just hate the fall.

Greta and the Flying Squirrel

* NOTE: I am tired of using initials and I know too many people whose name starts with S, so from now on everyone gets a cool fake name. *

This weekend I had a total flashback. From the time I was 9 years old until I turned 17, I attended an Episcopal church camp out in the woods of northern Wisconsin from at least one week out of the summer. As I got older, I even worked there. It was peaceful place for me. I learned to canoe there. I took long walks, rode horses (yes, in my younger years I actually communed with animals), and learned to navigate the paths even at night with no flashlight. I wasn't afraid of the dark there because I knew it so well and I felt so safe with the people around me. I was even confirmed there and feel a very spiritual connection to the stillness I associate with being in the woods, which is exactly how I felt waking up after a mostly sleepless night spent at a camp down in Gig Harbor. This camp is much fancier. There is a climbing wall, tennis and basketball courts, a pool and even a high ropes course, but for me the feeling it evoked was the same and being there gave me the space for reflection and clarity that I've been needing, as well as the opportunity to catch up with a great friend.

I first met Greta 9 years ago in Spain. She seemed sweet, but kind of soft spoken and I wasn't sure if we would be friends or not. Then I was visiting the dorm that she lived in and I walked into her room just as she had put her bra on her head, fitting her entire head into one cup. She pulled the straps down on either side of her face like a bonnet and made a goofy face. It was so unexpected. I just couldn't stop laughing. I love people who make me laugh (it's a thing). So we became friends and we've been cool every since. Turns out, in addition to having an awesome sense of humor, Greta is an old soul, a grounded presence, and just in general cool as hell.

Greta is not someone I see everyday. She lives about an hour away from me. She has a family and a great job that keep her busy, but when we do see each other I feel like she is such a kindred spirit. She is the type of friend who will turn to you over coffee and say "Hey, do you wanna go to Barcelona next weekend?" and mean it. So when she called me to ask if I wanted to go on a retreat with her, I jumped at the chance. It couldn't have come at a better time. I have been in such a funk. So Friday I caught a bus down south and we had a leisurely lunch. Then we stopped at the Korean spa to soak in the baths and get sea salt scrubs. I have never been so thoroughly scrubbed in my life. It was kind of gross. I feel like I lost five pounds in dead flesh. But my skin was just gleaming when they were through. After an impromptu shopping trip and a fabulous Mexican dinner, we drove down to the camp grounds where we would be staying for Women's Wellness Weekend.

Even with the other women all around, there was a stillness that calmed me. Greta and I checked in and had some cocoa. We were the first ones to get to the cabin so we chose our bunks and then settled down to talk. I like meeting new people. I enjoy the rush of excitement you feel when you first start a friendship and find that common ground as a person goes from being a stranger to a friend, but there is nothing like being with someone who really knows and loves you. We spent the weekend just chilling, talking or not talking, gorging on chocolate, reading, staring out at the water, and doing yoga.

Saturday afternoon Greta decided to take an art class. And I decided to see what being a flying squirrel was like, so I joined some other women in hiking up a trail to the high ropes course. There, they strapped me into a harness, hooked me onto a rope that was looped through a pulley. The other women grabbed the other end of the rope and took off running and I shot up 50 feet into the air. Though this was definitely not one of the things I had planned on doing with my weekend, it was awesome. It was like flying only with a very tight and reassuring harness binding me to safety. While I was up there swinging around, some part of me came back...the part of me that is not mopey and irritating, but likes to be adventurous and enjoy new things. Afterwards I went to meet Greta for a footsoak and a facial, but we were early so we just sat out on the deck chatting and staring out at the water. Life is too damn short to waste feeling so bad. I am ready for spring and ready to take on new challenges and move on with my life. Thanks Greta for such a beautiful gift. Next stop: Victoria! Or maybe Cadiz next year for our 10 year reunion! I don't know where I'll be, I just know I'm ready to try again.

Yeah, he's black...and he'll make a damn good president too.

This morning I woke up to the voice of Geraldine Ferraro on NPR furiously denying that she is a racist. Ms. Ferraro "resigned" from the Hillary camp after making an off-hand comment about how Obama would not be where he is in the presidential race if he were not black. I don't think it's a racist comment. Actually, I agree with her, though perhaps not for the same reasons. Through her statement, she implies that it would somehow be more difficult for Barak to compete with Hillary if he were white. Well then the same argument could be true of Hillary. Would she still be in this race if it weren't for her gender? These are stupid, immeasurable questions. And I am particularly irritated by the implication that being black is now some kind of advantage in a presidential race. Not in this country! Quick, name the last black president we had...and if you say Bill Clinton, I will have to hurt you.

Here is my Public Service Announcement for today. I would like to remind all the white people who have somehow forgotten, that WHITE, is the color of the ultimate "race card". It is WHITE privilege (albeit combined with nepotism and a lot of money) that allowed for the Chief in Thief, an inarticulate, C average student, mediocre to the core, to ascend to the rank of President of the United States. Let's review, if you're black, scratch that, if you are NOT white and you grow up in America and want to get a job not at McDonald's, a C average will not get you anywhere. A C average doesn't get you into Yale, but the right (white) family name and some duckets does the trick.

In 1998 Peggy McIntosh published an article called White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack. She wrote: "I decided to try to work on myself at least by identifying some of the daily effects of white privilege in my life. I have chosen those conditions that I think in my case attach somewhat more to skin-color privilege than to class, religion, ethnic status, or geographic location, though of course all these other factors are intricately intertwined. As far as I can tell, my African American coworkers, friends, and acquaintances with whom I come into daily or frequent contact in this particular time, place and time of work cannot count on most of these conditions."

"1. I can if I wish arrange to be in the company of people of my race most of the time.
2. I can avoid spending time with people whom I was trained to mistrust and who have learned to mistrust my kind or me.
3. If I should need to move, I can be pretty sure of renting or purchasing housing in an area which I can afford and in which I would want to live.
4. I can be pretty sure that my neighbors in such a location will be neutral or pleasant to me.
5. I can go shopping alone most of the time, pretty well assured that I will not be followed or harassed.
6. I can turn on the television or open to the front page of the paper and see people of my race widely represented.
7. When I am told about our national heritage or about "civilization," I am shown that people of my color made it what it is.
8. I can be sure that my children will be given curricular materials that testify to the existence of their race.
9. If I want to, I can be pretty sure of finding a publisher for this piece on white privilege.
10. I can be pretty sure of having my voice heard in a group in which I am the only member of my race."

McIntosh goes on to list 40 more benefits to being white (which you can check out at http://seamonkey.ed.asu.edu/~mcisaac/emc598ge/Unpacking.html ), but really these are just the tip of the iceberg. Think of all the time Barak has wasted fighting racism in his life and all the doors closed to him on the basis of his blackness. Ferraro raises an interesting question though...where would Barak be if he were white? With all the added privilege and opportunity theoretically he could have been much more successful. Perhaps he would already be the president.

Another assumption I would like to dispel, while I'm up on my soapbox, is the idea that all black people are voting for Obama soley on the basis of his race. There is no such thing as a monolithic black people. We are not the Borg. We do not share one collective identity. Blackness is just as vast, diverse, and all encompassing as whiteness. Often I feel like we are pigeon holed into these incredibly simplified check boxes...if you are black you must _____________, if you are black you believe_________, if you are black you will act_________. No one ever makes these asinine fill in the blank statements for white people. It is not assumed that because you are white you must vote for a white candidate on the sheer basis of their race, or that you hold identical beliefs to all other white people. This is yet another white privilege...the privilege of personhood, the privilege of being able to have an opinion and then not immediately have it accredited to everyone in your race. "Well R think this, so that means all black people must think this." It's illogical, insulting, and stupid to insinuate that an entire population of people would be so uncomplicated, so simple, that we would just pick a president on the basis of one factor. Al Sharpton is black too, but I would never vote for him.

I digress. Back to Barak. I think I have already sufficiently extolled Obama's virtues in previous blogs so I'll just say that in addition to all the fabulousness he brings to the table (experience as a community organizer, experience abroad-beyond Mexico and Canada, a Harvard Degree, time in the Senate, and etc), his being black brings with it an understanding that no other president has ever had... the experiential knowledge of what it is like to be a person of color in the United States. I don't care who said it, Bill Clinton was not the first black anything....let's be clear. He is a white man, who grew up in a white country, with ALL of the benefits of white privilege. Hillary too has reaped every benefit of white privilege and exploited feminist ideals for everything she could, yet no one blames her success only on her race or gender....so why Ferraro would feel comfortable making similar statements about Obama is beyond me.

What I would like, is for Geraldine Ferraro, and a whole bunch of other white people, to stop staring at skin color and take in the whole person in the entirety in which anyone should hope to be known.....not just gender, race, and class, but ability, personality, values, education, and etc. I look at who Barak Obama is in addition to his blackness, or perhaps the person he has evolved into as result of having to work against the same systemic oppression that I do battle with everyday, and I think, this is a person I would actually want leading and representing my country. This is the person I want as my president. This is the first time since I've been old enough to vote that I can even think that with conviction.

Would I be AS compelled to vote for Obama if I didn't feel like he could empathize with at least a portion of the experiences I have had in my life? No. And that would make him like every other candidate in the field right now. Thankfully he is unique and also black...

A walk in the forest

A couple of weeks ago, I was out having pho with my friend Coco, an almost weekly tradition, and she said she dreamt about me. Coco often makes cameo appearances in my dreams too, so I guess its not that unusual, but this time she says we were out walking in the forest. Now that is weird. I might make the occasional foray into a wooded area provided it's not uphill. I was a girl scout, I went to camp as a kid, but Coco? No. She is a city person through and through. The likelihood of the two of us walking around in the forest is up there with me going snowshoeing for kicks (read: never never ever happens). So she says we were just walking in the forest and then it got really really dark and then she woke up. Short dream...but jam packed.

On the way back from Cove, we had to cross the mountains at night. S drove for the first few hours, but then she got tired and her contacts were irritating her, so we switched. When I was in high school, I had a physics teacher who taught us about velocity and momentum by showing us videos of car crashes...with test dummies of course, but even so, after that I was never really that interested in driving. I wouldn't have even gotten my licence, but my Dad made me when I turned 18. Since then I have only had 2 cars: a beat up 14 year old Chevy whose gears I stripped while learning the art of stick shift, and a Honda Civic that they made me get in Japan in order to get from school to school. Oddly enough I was great at driving on the left side of the road. I even got my Japanese licence (a story for another day). In fact I have 3 licenses, but I don't own a car, and I haven't since 2003...which means mostly I spend most of my time walking or waiting for the bus. If, by some fluke, I have to drive, it's usually in the city. On the road home from Cove I discovered I hate driving in the mountains at night.

It was pitch black. No visible moon, no stars, no street lights. I am not generally afraid of the dark, but I am afraid of driving into blackness. I haven't been that scared since the time I watched the Shining with a co-worker and he hid in the crawl space of the building we worked at then literally jumped out of the wall onto me. The roads were curvy and steep and the whole time I couldn't help but think of Sue's mom looking into my eyes and imploring me to drive safely. So I took a deep breath and kept my brights on. I focused on following the paint on the road and for a while I was okay, until the paint disappeared. Everyone else was sleeping.

I decided it was good time to pray, so I called on God and my spirit guides or whatever forces kept me from being killed in Thailand (another story for another day) and after about 5 minutes, S and C woke up. S felt better and we were less than an hour away from home, so we switched places, but for the next two days every time I closed my eyes I saw and felt the road. Was that my forest? A dark night on a mountain road? Or is the forest how fearful I've become of every little thing? I used to be bold. I know now that time is finite, I've learned this lesson well, but now I'm afraid I won't get to do the things I want to do and more importantly, the things I am supposed to do. And this fear is debilitating. I want to be brave again, brave enough to walk into the darkness of the unknown and shine my own light.

20 something crisis

Even when I was little, I was clear on who I was and what I wanted...in more than just the way that children memorize the spelling of their own names or latch onto whatever profession their parents are...I just knew. Even before I could read, I told my mom I wanted to be a writer. She used to read to me, hoping to encourage me to learn to read myself, but in my head it was enough that she knew how to read. We were communal. She shared her ability to read with me, so I didn't feel like I really needed to know, but when she told me that learning to read was a prerequisite to being a writer, I learned. It was that simple...and in a way it has been that simple for me throughout my life. When I decide I am interested in doing something, I find out what it takes and then I go do it.

But now, two years from 30, everything seems so much more complicated. I still know who I am, and I have some rough ideas on what I want, but I'm beginning to question if what I want will make me happy. S points out that after losing Sue, maybe now isn't the best time to be asking these big life questions, but I can't help it. I'm impatient. I often have this feeling like there is something I am supposed to be doing, some greater purpose than drinking mojitos and working a job that makes me miserable. But what is it? Should I quit my job and move to Spain? C says I am headed back to Chile because my map keeps falling off the shelf (is that really a sign?). I know I should be grateful for having options, but sometimes it feels so infinite. It's like we're all given this road map of our lives at birth, but as we get older it starts falling apart. There are whole sections of road missing and crazy unexpected detours and we're just supposed to figure it out. I'm not sure, but I think I might be lost. I keep thinking I should be farther along than I am now. My Dad laughs when I tell him this and reminds me that he was 40 before he found his calling. My mom says that this is my time to really step into myself. This is when my life is supposed to open up like a lotus blossom, but thus far I just feel like I'm passing time.

Saying Goodbye in Cove...

Thursday we said goodbye to a friend and celebrated the life of Susan (Sue) VanSchoonhoven. S, M, C and I drove across the eastern pass, which was both beautiful and treacherous. We had a long time to talk and sing and play good music. We ate ice cream and told stories and cracked jokes. I never quite know how to feel when these things happen. I have been miserable for the last few days. Moreover, I have wanted to be miserable, to reflect the grief living in my heart, but being surrounded by my girlfriends, I couldn't help but feel some happiness...and a bit of guilt. Guilty for laughing at S's funny faces and jokes, when I should be mourning. Guilty for squandering the precious time I could have spent with Sue. Why hadn't we done this before? I had been to Japan to see M. I had made sure to meet up with C is Seattle, and S is San Diego, but I had never been to Cove. And this was the worst possible reason to go.

We arrived an hour early and went through the town taking picture and counting churches (5) and cows (many). It's really out there in God country, nothing but big skies, mountains, and fields dotted with cows and horses and the occasional house. I know Sue would have loved the landscape and the solitude. Since we had time, we stopped for french fries and milkshakes at the drive in and laughed some more and told more stories, each of us growing increasingly nervous about seeing Sue for the last time. Then it was time and we went to the church. I saw H, Sue's sister, almost immediately and she gave me the biggest hug and then all the sadness I had been distracted from pressed down on me.

For the next few hours, we shared our stories about Sue. Even those who couldn't be there with us, had a chance to speak. We read out letters and emails from around the world. Sue's father and sister spoke with simple eloquence about their Sue and who she had been to them and what it meant to lose her. It was something special. I don't think I have the words to convey what it felt like, but I want to try because those of you who couldn't be there deserve to share in this goodbye. It was like seeing Sue and meeting her all over again for the first time. Each person brought with them their own piece of her and we gathered them together, stories, songs, and conversations.

Then we were allowed to view the body and I will never forget it as long as I live. There was such an irrevocable finality to it as I realized, really just knew through and through, that she was gone. I thought of everyone I've ever loved and lost and everyone I will ever love and lose and I cried until I felt empty inside. But then I realized I was just emptying the sorrow. All the best parts of those people remain with me with plenty of space for new love. This is just how life is. We have to keep going. When H read the Neruda poem, I stopped feeling guilty and just felt grateful to be a part of the moment, to get the chance to meet Sue's amazing family, and to be there supporting and being supported by good friends. And Sue's family was so happy to have us there. They told us repeatedly how much it meant to know that their daughter had been so well loved, but really we are the lucky ones to have been so well loved by our friend that it would make such an impact on our hearts and spirits to watch her pass away.

Sue was buried in the Cove Cemetery, a place she loved and visited every time she was home, beneath a tree that kept snagging my hair, on a plot with a headstone bearing her family name. We blew bubbles over her casket and left her with flowers. Afterwards there was a reception and we got to really talk with Sue's family and friends. The apple did not fall far from the tree. She comes from a stock of brilliant, good hearted people.

At the reception, I finally got to hear Sue sing. They played a cd of her music. Sue's father asked me to tell him a story, but I think we got sidetracked, so here is a short memory I have. Most of my time spent with Sue, was time we shared with our group, but every once in a while, we would get together alone. Grad school was really hard on me, not the scholastic part, but all the other emotional stuff. One night when I was feeling angry and sad, I made my way downtown to where Sue lived. She saw that I was feeling bad and took me to my favorite Indian restaurant. We had a glass of wine and some good food and she listened to me. She was so non-judgemental that I knew I could trust her with the truth, so I told her things I hadn't been able to say to anyone else, then I started to cry. When I started to cry, she did too. That's the kind of friend she was. She cared. Months later when I was about to go to Japan and she was in the midst of Contact we met up again, and this time it was my turn to prod her with questions. It was my turn to help her process. And she allowed me to be the friend that she had been to me.

And now I have to say goodbye one last time. Sue, I will carry you with me wherever I go, and I will go and live as best I can. I will travel and sing and laugh and dance, so that when we meet again, I'll have some good stories to share with you. And I'll hold onto my friends a little tighter. I promise. I love you.