The faith to move mountains

As I write these words I am a little afraid, but mostly just at peace and elated, like I've been released from being stuck to the end of the suction hose of a giant energy vacuum. I feel light. Yesterday I made the decision to quit my job. It's been a long time coming. For almost two years it has made me miserable, first in little ways, then in big ways.

When I started this job, I knew it wasn't for me, but sometimes you do things because you think you have to, not because you want to. My dream job had fallen through and I was broken hearted and scrambling, panicked about how to pay rent. I got a gig door knocking for health care, which was fine for a while until autumn set in and the rains began. And there I was getting lost and soaked for hours every night in the back woods of Washington with a clipboard and some leaflets, wishing I would just get struck by lightening. I was so desperate for indoor employment and especially something that came with good benefits and a great title, that I overlooked all the warning bells. I cried after my in person interview, not because I thought I hadn't done well, but because I knew that they would hire me.

I knew that this was an under supported program. I knew that my resources would be limited, but I pretended that my boss really was telling the truth. When I was promptly disabused of this notion, I believed in my ability to overcome systemic failures through hard work and creativity. I had a dynamic first year. I did more in one year than had been done in the previous five years, and at the end of it all there were still so many frustrations, so many things I couldn't change, and the general feedback was "wow, you did a lot....do less". So this year I have done just that. I don't take my work home. I barely take it seriously. I have expended maybe a tenth of the energy I did last year and it hasn't seem to make any difference at all, other than in me. I am (was) miserable. I felt like every second I spent at this job...other than checking email...was me wasting precious moments of my life, and that is something you don't get back.

I'm done. I don't want to spend my life creating a kick ass resume. I want to spend my life creating an honorable existence where I am happy, where I am doing something worth doing and not just something that looks good on paper. Though I had already decided to quit, I went to a meeting with the Employment Ministry at the Center for Spiritual Living. It wasn't at all what I expected, but it was just what I needed. I sat there in a room with 30 other people in various stages of employment. There were some who had been or were going to be laid off, others who were stuck in dead end jobs, and others who just didn't know what they wanted. So we prayed together, then we had a discussion about all the ideas we cling to and how they prevent us from doing what we really want to do. I actually didn't say anything the whole time I was there, but I didn't need to. The people who shared their experiences were articulating how I felt.

"God is the source of your income," said the person leading the workshop. "God, not your job." Ever the smart ass, my first thought was "Well does God provide medical and dental?" But then as the idea sunk in, it kind of blew my mind. If God is the source of my income and not this crappy job, then if I let go of this crappy job and have faith in my talents and in God's power something more fulfilling will come to me. Right? Wow that's scary...letting go, giving up control, but isn't that what faith is...believing in what you can't prove, what you can't see, what you just know in your heart. Well when I woke up yesterday I just knew in my heart that I could do better.

Since I can remember I have wanted to be a writer, but I am a practical person. Someone sometime told me that writers don't make any money and that you can't realistically support yourself that way, and this did not appeal to me at all. So though I still pursued a BA in English and Creative Writing, I looked for employment that would allow me to do my writing part time. I became a teacher. I traveled the world. And I don't regret a moment of it, because I loved it and I have certainly stored up a life time of topics to write about, but I have come to the realization that I am letting my fears dictate my life and that is no way to live.

I want to write, but I don't want to have to struggle for money. I've been there. That 6 months I spent in Chile working six 12-14 hour days a week under the table for less than minimum wage, I experienced an exhaustion only comparable to that of grad school. I was beyond burnt out, but worse, I was terrified that I would end up homeless. It's one thing to be poor in the States, but entirely another when you have been robbed of everything you have and you don't have any legal rights or legal access to employment and everyone you know and love is far away. It was the first time I had ever really experienced hunger....I mean real hunger, where you have to choose between spending your last centavos on transportation home or on food and when you get home no one has gone shopping, so there is nothing but rice and it takes so long to make and you have to get up in 5 hours and do it all again. I know I am fortunate. I eventually made enough to get home and to pay my host family back for taking me in when I had nothing to give them.

I digress. What I really want to say is that I'm grateful for every opportunity I've had. I'm even grateful for this crappy job, which has given me a reliable income, great insurance, the chance to meet some amazing people, free tickets to see the Dalai Lama, and a flexible schedule. I am also grateful to God and the Universe for giving me the strength and courage to walk away from it.

I want to write full time and teach part time. I want to paint and show my art. I want to make books and get published. I want to create beautiful things. I also want to take a break from working. So that is what I am going to do. June 14 will be my last day, then I will spend the last two weeks of June on a cheap vacation, possibly in Portland, possibly in Canada. I will take some much needed time to relax and reflect. In July I might travel or I might just stay in Seattle and write.

The fabulous part about this decision is that as soon as I made it everything just kind of fell into place. I will be showing my paintings during Wallingford First Wednesdays, a new art walk that my chiropractor helped to organize. I am also being considered for a flexible teaching position at my other job (the job I LOVE) which would mean not only working someplace wonderful with people I like a respect, but that I would still have lots of time to write, a break all summer, and health insurance. I know my parents are worried about me...which is hard because they just mirror the fear I've had inside me that's kept me from doing what I wanted all these years....but for the first time in a long time I feel really content. I don't feel like I am treading water or waiting for something to happen. It happened and I'm so glad it did.

The Grand Slam

It rained slightly as we stood cued up and waiting for the doors of Chop Suey to open. I'd never been there before. We were obnoxiously early as is my habit and the slam began obnoxiously late, as is its nature. The top 8 competing poets were Tara Harding (finalist in the Women of the World Slam), Micky, Karen Phinneyfrock (sp?)-(the wild card), Danny Sherrard (national poetry slam winner), Angela Dy, Wombly, Matt Gaino, and Greg B - (the other wild card). I had seen each of them before except for Micky, so I knew it would be a good show. First there were a few performances by several other top poets who didn't quite make it for one reason or another: Amber Flame, Ella, Ryler Dustin, and Anis whose last name I forget. Then the feature, Rachel, whose last name I forget. (I may not remember their whole names, but I remember their poems.)

Chop Suey is poorly ventilated, a red and black painted hot box with a sticky floor and a long golden dragon suspended from the ceiling...in short, very uncomfortable, but trendy and kind of fun. At times I had flashbacks of summer in Wisconsin. It was oppressively humid, but there was still a kind of buzz from the nervous energy, and good creative vibes. I was accompanied by Mz. Blu, my poetry companion for most of this season. She is a die hard ride to the slam, a finicky critic easily bored and less easily amused. She believes in poems that make sense and hates any mention of unicorns. She also writes and sometimes slams, but mostly reads in the open mike and supports me while I slam and lose and slam again and lose again...sometimes winning the crowd or feeling like I won because I did myself and my poems justice, but in points losing. She is the one that reminds me that there is more than one way to win. The slam is such a weird obsession for which I have no legitimate explanation other than that it combines two major parts of my nature, my need to express myself creatively and my irrational need to be the best at something.

So there I was in the audience as Roberto Ascalon announced the slammers. "Take a look. These are the top poets in Seattle," he said and I was overwhelmed with a deep desire to be on that stage...to be the best. So the analytical part of me kicked in and I watched each performance carefully looking for commonalities and differences. What makes a champion? What makes someone the best? Is it Danny Sherrards ability to cram way too many words into one phrase before being forced to take that sharp intake of breath, or Tara Harding's frantic gesticulating and liberal use of swear words? Or is it just that cadence, that flow of one word to the next in a unique sequence that evokes an image or a feeling, makes a statement, asks a question or just moves you? I am intrigued...and was pretty stoked to see some amazing poetry. There were two dirty rounds and then a final 3. My favorites, as usual didn't quite match the judges. Angela Dy rocked my world on poem 2 especially....also I thought Tara Harding was poorly scored considering her performance.

In the end Matt Gaino took first followed by Wombly and Danny Sherrard. The three of them are joined by Karen Phinneyfrock-who was fabulous (Oh Canada...) to form Seattle's 2008 slam team. I wish them luck.

Peace and Happiness Homework

Recently I have started attending Shoshana's church. I call it that, but it's not exactly an accurate description, as it is an interfaith worship space that honors and draws from not only the Christian tradition, but all the main, mostly monotheistic, faiths...Judaism, Islam, Buddhism...and what have you. I am still not quite what you would call a regular....my schedule and moods are what they are...but I am making an effort to go more frequently.

So early last Sunday, Shoshana and I made the pilgrimage across town. We got there just early enough to do a little meditation which for me and my monkey mind meant about 5 minutes of actual meditation and 20 minutes of jotting down thoughts in my notebook. Then there was music. The choir of lights performed and they were pretty fabulous and instead of our regular (priest? pastor? lecturer?) spiritual leader, we had a special guest...the head of all the churches. I forget her name, but she was good and interesting.

She gave us a bit of homework, which I have been working on all week...it's called a happiness exercise. We are supposed to envision a quarter of the world then fill it up with blessings of peace and happiness and then the next quarter and then the next until we have sent out well wishes to the entire earth. I found this to feel very intangible and I felt really insincere doing it, so I decided I was going to try a different approach. All week, from the time I get up in the morning, I have been mentally sending out peace and happiness vibes towards everyone I encounter. I get up hella early, then I catch a bus which drops me off about 20 minutes (walking-5 by bus) away from my job. I like the walk. I use that time to say my prayers, memorize my poetry, or just listen to my ipod.

So this week starting from when I stepped out of my door I silently wished people happiness. Sometimes I would add in peace or that they have a good day...just to change it up a little, but you get the idea. These well wish wishes extended from people just walking by to those driving by, then gradually this extended out to well wishing everyone in the stores I was passing or in the buses or those people who travel these same streets during the day. I have wished all of Seattle peace and happiness...first Seattle, then maybe the world.

What I have discovered is that it is very difficult to wish someone happiness and joy from a sincere space without smiling, so I have spent a lot more time smiling this week. Also, I like to look at people as I am wishing them well, which accidentally has resulted in more interactions with strangers than I am comfortable with. I intentionally build a barrier when I am out in public because I have a bit of weird people karma. I don't like to make eye contact if I can help it. I don't know what it is that people see in me, but if I walk around unguarded I attract a lot of cling-ons. Some people just want to chat, which is okay, though I am not always in the mood to chat, others seem to want something from me. I have had some creepy experiences. Though this week, with the exception of one mentally ill person and one homeless man that reeked of piss and stale alcohol, my interactions have been mostly positive. One of the guys I see on the bus every morning, and have seen on the bus every morning for months, greets me with a smile and tells me to have a good day when I get off...he never did that before. I have to wonder if he isn't responding unconsciously to me to day the same. It seems funny to me that I have disable my defenses to wish blessings on people, but I suppose it makes sense that I would have to be open to be connected. Hmmm. More discomfort.

Sometime somewhere I got it in my head that it would be easier to be a better person, that one could be a good person and not necessarily have to act on it, but the older I get the more I see that you are what you do and how you feel. You must respond accordingly. And that can get uncomfortable. As the day goes on, I become forgetful, then as I catch myself having negative thoughts towards people. I remember that I am trying to send out happiness, and it puts me back in a better frame of mind. It doesn't always work. Sometimes the people in question have irritated me so much that I find myself qualifying the happiness wish with internal comments like: "I hope you have a good day even though you're an asshole." "May God grant you happiness and the ability to use a turning signal before you kill six people with your stupidity." But hey, I'm working on it....and I guess that's got to count for something.

2007 Poems

I was rolling through a file of some of the poems I wrote last winter, just to put different words in mouth and I came across some cool stuff including a poem for Carl Rux. I saw him perform "The No Black Man Show" last year and he was phenomenal. He combined music and spoken word and what I thought was especially cool was that he deliberately used the page. In slam, the best slammers I have seen so far have one thing in common, they memorize and recite from memory....so I have been shoving my poetry back in my head, which seems counter intuitive as I am constantly working to pull it out. I realize more and more that I am much more writer than performer, which is not to say I don't enjoy a little acting. Theatrics can be fun, but when it comes down to it, I am about all about the page and it was really cool to see this amazing spoken word artist and his ensemble do the page as well. Here is an excerpt from the poem I wrote after watching him...it's still kind of unfinished and another two poems I rediscovered. It's funny to feel how different my voice is in my current stuff from my previous work.

To The No Black Man

your story and my story intertwined
my muse
you are to me
Sixo’s 30 mile woman
but instead of putting the
pieces of me together
you help me to do it myself
when I hear
your words
my words return to me
tumble to the page
the complete thoughts
trapped in the brokeness
of my fragmented mind
congeal
the devisiveness of individuality
born of a
black woman
living is the world born of a black woman
as the only daughter
born to a
black woman
as the only legacy of
a black woman
it is always
the WHITE (black) man show

Letters to God

In the stillness
i know your name
things forgotten
time left behind
incense and fresh polished pews
rough hewn stone floors
the quiet
of a garden courtyard
ripe with spoiled flowers
over perfumed petal
white and pink silk
adrift in your breeze
I celebrated you gladly
lifted voice and
lips to chalice
drank you…
In the stillness
i still know your names
know the part of me
that can’t
won’t let you go

A Night With Medusa

Pompei at dusk
in the cool of
gilded shadows
dark hues
of nights
drums light the air
On the road,
unspoiled, still unsoiled
by light or time
or things unsaid
before our journey
begins
you take my hand
not knowing that I won’t be led
you take my heart
not knowing that nothing is ever free
you mistake stillness
for submission
and when you turn
to see me
the curve of me
the curl of my lips
the span of my hips
the snakes of my hair
the dark of my stare
look carefully
and you can see
the ruins of your wasted heart
a jeweled map
into the deeper soul
of someone as yet unconquered
If you listened closely
you will hear
the pounding in me
drums like a call to prayer
you will submit to me
wade into my fire
surrender to this desire
So deep
I’ll let you
seep into me
through the fault lines of
my earthen heart
then
I’ll shake you apart
Shatter you
piece
by
piece
everything you every thought you might be
constructs of identity
no longer holding meaning
when you’ve come undone
when the end has come
in my flame is your peace
so surrender
surrender
Surrender
render your flesh unto me
ease into this fire
surrender to this desire
knowing I will consume you
monsoon you
my black and blue currents
swirl through you
Strip you to bone, ash
remnants of anything
you ever thought you had

The Great Happiness Space: Tales of an Osaka Love Thief

I guess given that the weather is so finicky that this is a great time for movie watching. I just watched this documentary called the Great Happiness Space: Tales of an Osaka Love Thief which follows around Issei, the number 1 host at a host bar in Osaka.

During the first of the two years I lived in Japan, Osaka became my second home. It was the easiest city to get to from my tiny farming town, and I was fortunate enough to make some fabulous friends there. It became my weekend sanctuary, my little American colony, where I could speak in English, eat cinnabons at Universal City, salsa dance at Balihai, or watch Africans impersonate New Yorkers while selling Sean Jean and FUBU gear in Americamura. I really got to know it well, not just the touristy parts either, I walked the city day and night, getting lost, getting found, having adventures, marveling at the sheer amount of electricity needed to keep all those signs aglow.


I even managed to go to a hostess bar, which was kind of an accident. The beautiful Shrilankan I was dating at the time was friends with an Osaka native with a penchant for hostesses, so when he came to visit me (he was living in Tokyo at the time) we ended up meeting up with his friend at his favorite spot. It's embarrassing, given that these are establishments synonymous with the exploitation of women, but I was kind of excited to get a chance to go. I wanted to see what it was like. I had imagined it to be a seedy tavern...more like a strip club than a bar, but in terms of looks, it was like any other bar...there was mood lighting and nice furniture...the only difference is that we were assigned a hostess, actually two, who were a combination of waitresses that never left and entertainment. A hostess gets paid to flirt and chat with you. Though I am sure there are some under the table agreements where you can get more for your money, the basic premise is just like going on a paid date.


As per usual, the mere sight of my brown skin caused a stir. All the hostesses gathered around me. My date's friend joked that he would always bring me back just to get all the free attention. I ordered a rum a coke, but they were out of Bacardi, so someone actually went to a store to buy it for me. In the meantime I was treated like a princess, all the hostesses wanted to touch my hair and skin...they were so nice about it that I didn't mind...and then they asked me if I could sing. It just so happens I am the karaoke queen, so I sang and they got out tambourines and jammed with me. It was loads of fun and probably ridiculously expensive, but I never saw the bill.


What I never realized is that there are also host bars with Japanese men as hosts. They aren't exactly prostitutes either. Well.....they could be...but they try to avoid sleeping with their clients because it keeps them coming back. They say they deal in fantasy...the illusion of love. This film was a fascinating look into a world I walked past a million times, but never really ventured into over the course of my two year stint.


It was both really sad to see all these women with painfully low self esteem spending THOUSANDS of dollars (tens of thousands of yen) just to get some flirtation and compliments from these guys and also really fascinating to see what their lives are like: both the hosts and the women who are seemingly addicting to visiting the hosts. Some of the women had even become prostitutes in order to support this insane cycle...and what is even more crazy about that is that they often make way less than the male hosts do, even though the physical demands on the men are much less. It was creepy, but definitely interesting and thought provoking.

Afraid to know me-rejj ©

I was just doing some revisions on this season of poems and I think I'm done with this one...as slammed during slam 4...well at least for now. I don't know that I am ever really finished, but here it is.

You ask me why I’m so angry?
Why we can’t discuss this
quietly, politely, over cookies and tea
or have a nice public discourse
in a “safe space”
where you can sing kumbaya
and have your little Q and A
ask me to talk about racism today
first I prove to you its real,
then you get to decide
how I’m SUPPOSED to feel
and put a volume control on how loud
I can raise my voice.
Well the rumor is
America is all about freedom of choice,
so I’m saying NO.
No, I’m saying fuck you
God bless Barak for his patience,
but as for me I’m through.

You see, America is never my safe space
You say turn the other cheek
but I only have one face
one heart
one mind
one body
one spirit
divided into this double consciousness
that allows me to know you intimately
Wheras you never catch onto my complexity
You can’t “help” me
and I could help you,
but we all know how Thanksgiving ended
Perhaps some gifts are best left ungiven
and that’s how it feels
like I am the greatest gift never offered
never taken
my spirit of unity
the dream cyclically deferred
potential continuously ignored
abhorred


You claim you wanna know me,
but only in February
FUCK your 28 days
29 in a leap year
You say you wanna know me,
but I only smell your fear
the same thing they smelled
Right before the genocide
or the homicide
when a cop decides
a black man armed with a pen
should be shot 40 times

Save the hallmark moment
I’ve heard all about King’s dream
but the reality
is a lack of humanity
coupled with injustice
that kills any chance of racial harmony
Its 2008
Why do nooses STILL swing from southern trees?

You say I have no right to be angry
When in lew of reparations
you demand
that I concede my history
pretend your victory didn’t involve destroying me
so you can sleep guilt free

Or if it gets too hard, just kill me again
then split me open
from nape to navel
assuming you can learn everything you need to know about me
from the autopsy
white latex hands
probing from the inside
you take what isn’t given
ask the dead for the forgiveness
for fear you won’t get it from the living

You split me open
to never know me
to unmake the memories
of everything you say never happened…
to see the shape of my guts
the soft fleshy pinks
of the parts of us that look the same,
don’t worry, we’re not the same.
The difference
was never our physiology,
but rather the lives we choose to lead

I dare to seek my answers among the living
split loaves of bread
in communion with those among me
who would share
their humanity

Split my corpse,
but you can never split my soul
into two neat halves,
a pomegranate
all the bits of me
parceled in tiny crimson seeds
to be fished out with a spoon
and displayed in a glass bowl.

No. It’s just not that easy
To know me,
is to know
and engage with the reality of
the whole and living being.

BARACKY: The Movie

Okay, It's Monday and I am just not that technologically advanced to figure out how to embed this video into my blog right now, but might I suggest...if you are looking for a laugh....check this out. Thanks Mom, it was a nice way to start the day.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RyhIBXNfqMA

Life and Death

We said goodbye to Coco's adopted father yesterday. He passed away last Sunday. He was a kind hearted man who loved basketball, golf, and fishing. I never saw him without a grin on his face. He was always so lighthearted I didn't even know that he was ill with cancer until earlier this year. He took it all in stride and lived each day with grace and wit. He leaves behind two daughtrs, a wife, and a lot of very sad fisherman and basketball players. He was the kind of guy who would play outlandish practical jokes or charm his way out of speeding ticket by razzing the officer....a man's man. He taught Coco how to smoke a salmon...which is insanely hilarious...because if you know Coco, she is just not the outdoorsie-lets catch a salmon and smoke it-type of girl. But that's what makes it so tragic. He opened his heart to her and welcomed her into his home. She became his daughter and it makes me cry just knowing how deeply she will miss him. At least he didn't suffer as much as he could have. He had more good days than bad and when it comes down to it, isn't that what we're all kind of striving to do....live our lives with as much joy is as possible?

On my way home from the service, I got a call from from my friend Sunny. Though Sunny was a little under the weather, she really wanted to go to the African American Film Festival at Langston Hughes. I didn't have any real plans, and I could do with some cheering up, so we went to the Seattle premiere of the movie This is the Life. I LOVE THIS MOVIE...LOVE! I will be buying this movie when it comes out in September. It's just what I needed to remember the good stuff.

This is the Life is a documentary about the hip hop movement that took place at a spot called The Good Life in LA back in the 90s. The Good Life is a health food restaurant that has live music of varying genres at night. A woman name B Hall, a community organizer in South Central LA and her son started a Thursday night hip hop night for the local kids in need of something to do. There was a no cussing rule and if you got on stage and you were whack you were asked to Please pass the mike. The whole film was just funny and interesting, full of great stories and characters.

What really got to me was that it was positive space where young black people could hang out and create art. It wasn't some smoky bar. It wasn't a place where you could drink and drug (though it did seem like there was some weed in the parking lot during the after party, this was not the focus) or spend a lot of time being negative. They built a community and came up with some inspiring and original music. Some of the artist included: The Freestyle Fellowship, Ganja K, Rude Abstract, Meduse, Mex 2, Jurassic 5, and many more. Around the mid 90s, record labels started showing interested and many of these kids had the opportunity produce albums and be super stars abroad and in the states. Though not everyone got their happy ending, it was a totally uplifting night that made me think about Youth Speaks and the Slam and Ladies First at the Hidmo. There are so many awesome things going on for young people of color in the city and I'm excited to be a part of it.

Losing yet another person...there have been so many this year...sometimes gets me stuck in feeling like I'm not making my way fast enough, but this film reminded me to enjoy myself and to focus on the things I really want to be doing in life, in order to lead a good life. Art and poetry, and hanging out with cool kids is really where its at for me.

Does a fish need a bicycle?

There is this line from a U2 song...also a popular sentiment within the mainstream "so-called feminist" propaganda..."A woman needs a man, like a fish needs a bicycle." For the longest time that's how I felt. When I think about my needs, I think about getting a job that doesn't make me crazy. I need some sanity. I need a roof over my head, frequent trips to a massage therapist, outlets for spiritual and creative expression, and a new rain coat. I need time to reflect. I need an income that covers my expenses from practical to frivolous. But, do I need a man? It'd be nice, I'd like a man, but I don't know that I need one.

In a recent conversation with one of my close guy friends...also one of the few people I know who is truly in touch with his emotions and ridiculously articulate about it...he opened me up to the idea that men want to feel needed. One of the criticisms I got from my ex is that I was so self sufficient (while he on the other hand was so self absorbed). He looked over at me one day and he was like "you're just sitting there reading your book and chillin out, it's like I'm not even here." I turned toward him to give him some attention, but in my head I was thinking, why do I need to entertain you? In retrospect, I realize it was one of his many inarticulate ways of asking me if I needed him. Again, I don't know that need is the right word. I wanted to be with him. I enjoyed being in a relationship, but needing someone is a whole separate animal. I like the independence that comes with solitude. I like knowing that I am the only person I need in order to live my life. But I also like dating and being involved with men, so what is the balance? Do I have to pretend I need some guy for him to feel secure enough to be with me? That sounds like a lot of work.Or is the key that maybe it's enough for a fish to want something as unwieldy and complex as a bicycle?

So then I turn the question back on myself, do I need to feel needed? Not particularly. Whenever I get in a relationship, be it romantic, or just a friendship and I feel like that person is starting to become co-dependent, it kind of freaks me out. I mean, it's one thing to share a close bond with someone and to lean on them from time to time, but another entirely to feel like you need them...either to comfort you when you are sad or validate your choices or whatever. Do I need my friends? Yes, but not all of my needs are focused on one friend at any given time. It's less about needing a specific person and more about needing to feel supported from time to time and having people in my life who love me to manifest that support.

I keep thinking about the idea of marriage as being some sort of completion, but can two halves ever really make a whole? Don't you have to be whole first in order to not lose yourself in the other person? More questions I don't really have the answer to....but food for thought.

Compassion

In keeping with this year's season of my life, I had two friends visiting me from out of town last week, one from fair Hamilton, NY and the other, a surprise guest from Boston on her way back from Thailand and Bali. The former was in town for a job interview, and as she got the job, she jetted out a few days early to go pack to come back. The latter, had just had a rough trip and suffered a close family loss (another reoccurring theme this year), so when Shoshana found 2 extra tickets to see the Dalai Lama, I figured it was Divine providence that she should accompany us.

Saturday, the 3 of us made the pilgrimage down to Qwest field where the main event would be held. It was a gorgeous day, warm and sunny and perfect. I have been reading the autobiography of the Dalai Lama for the last year. It's one of those books I read a little of in between less serious books. He is an interesting person and I went, like lots of people went, hoping for a moment of revelation...a church sermon ah hah moment. Instead, I got a bracelet, generously distributed by the seeds of compassion folk, and a great view of the back of the Dalai's head. Okay, I'm not saying it wasn't cool...the Dalai Lama has a fabulous sense of humor, so from the parts I was able to understand, I at least had a good laugh, but once again (I swear this is like a reoccurring theme) I was seriously irritated by white people and their social hierarchy.

There must have been like 12 people introducing the Dalai Lama. There was the Katy Couric look alike from King 5, and a barrage of even less recognizable representatives of the upper eschelan who gave speeches...stupid speeches about nothing, each stating exactly what the other had that they were "so honored to have this chance to introduce the Dalai Lama" and this would be followed up with an exercise in how many times you can use the word compassion in a sentence. Come on people, get a thesaurus! The only three that are even worth remarking upon further were: William Bell, founder of the Casey Family Foundation. He talked about compassion for children and his action plan to help alleviate the need for foster families. Then there was Christine Gregoir...our esteemed Governor, who talked also about all the children she has helped to get health care and adequate education through the legislation she has passed. I have to gibe her props. She is doing some amazing stuff. And then there was the dude from the first nations, whose name I totally didn't catch.

First nations guy was dressed in the ceremonial garb, huge feather headdress and all. He didn't actually have a lot to say other than to acknowledge the tribes native to this area and to mention the fact that before Quest Field was here it was native lands....some important white guy in a speech after his made some irritating follow up comment (that was both condescending and stupid) about how we should really show compassion towards the Native Americans and I was like "too late!" It's pretty damn easy to show compassion to people once they're dead or otherwise nonthreatening...it reminded me of the time I was listening to NPR about how the Mormons were posthumously baptising the victims of the Holocaust so that those "poor Jews" could have an opportunity to ascend to heaven. I am not making this up. Some would describe their actions as compassionate, and the rest of us would say they had a lot of frickin nerve....the audacity often astounds me.

And then he made the comment that just makes me cringe every time I hear it about how race, gender, class, and all those other parts of our identity that make us who we are don't really matter. How we should show compassion to everyone despite it. HOW Privileged! That's great that when you're a rich, important, white, man, little things like that don't matter, but for the rest of us, our identities come with realities that impact everything about our lives from whether or not we can buy shampoo at the grocery store to whether or not we can get a job, be educated and learn histories that reflect the contributions our people have made in society. I had a 5th grader ask me if I was from Africa yesterday. I told him no, I'm from Iowa. And he got all confused....he said "but your skin is brown...and your hair, you look like an African." I said yeah, but I was born in Iowa and raised in Wisconsin and when I trace my family tree back for the last several generations, on my mom's side everyone is from Iowa and on my Dad's side, they are all from the south.

I am AMERICAN like apple pie, arrogance, and the dogma of religious freedom. But even a 5th grader can tell you, that is not all you see when you look at me. My Challenge, my question is can you have compassion for me when it does matter? Can you confront your discomfort and fear of who I am and how who you are is complicit in my oppression and move beyond it, not despite me, but because of me, because you genuinely want to know and empathize with me, because you are ready to begin a new conversation? When you can have that kind of compassion for me, I will stop making snide comments and show compassion for you with my eyes open to who you are and what kind of a shared history we have.

Until then, all we can share is a day at Qwest field...you "so moved and honored" to be in the presence a great spiritual leader, and me as sarcastic as ever, loving the part when the Dalai Lama told us to figure out our own issues and that he didn't have the answers for everything. I appreciated the honesty.

Slam 5

I'm getting tired of not making it to the third round. Did I have a good night? Yes. I slammed a brand new poem...I mean I finished this shit earlier today...and it was the bomb. I performed it beautifully, if I do say so myself. (Everyone else thought so too. I got mad props.) I made inroads with the poet community, and I did make it to round 2, so overall I am pretty satisfied with my night. However that competitive part of me says it's my turn. During round two I flubbed...how I could perform my brand new never been performed piece perfectly and flub on an old stand by that I've had memorized for over a year...I don't know, but I was kicking myself because tonight was my night. And then it wasn't. So I will wallow for about 5 more minutes, then I'm going to bed and when I wake up I am only gonna remember people laughing their asses off and cheering for my poem. I will rock the slam. Next month I'm gonna win. I'm not kidding. I know the points are not the point, the point is the poetry, but that's just it, I want my poetry to be like the perfect wheel kick, insanely powerful and capable of knocking someone on their ass with ease. And I'm close.

The Afro Petting Zoo Is Closed: A Public Service Announcement in 3 Parts

1

Freedom of speech is all cool,
but sometimes my hair be talkin’ shit
Not when she’s twisted or braided down
and wrapped in silk,
but sometimes,
when freshly washed and oiled
smelling like coconut and ocean
all soft and luscious
billowing up and out
wild and free,
she gets an attitude
and starts talking to strangers.
She be like “Psst. Hey. I look soft don’t I?”
She says “ Touch me, I’m like perfumed velvet,
You know you wanna touch me.”
* Now this is important: Don’t listen to her.

2

The following is a dramatization
based on several unfortunately true stories
Saturday night at the club,
She was blond and sparkly
Shellacked into white go-go boots
and a pink spandex mini-dress
that was made to hold
much less of her,
but she didn’t care.
It was her birthday!
She was pink and special
And the tequila was free!
As she tottered out into the street
Loosely supported by two equally drunk friends,
Her eyes fixed on me,
A vision of chocolate goodness,
The tremendous fluff of my ‘fro
So soft, so downy, black cotton candy
Cried out to her
Like a giant puffy siren
Singing her towards
Her own destruction
“Touch me.
I’m just as plush as that rabbit you had in kindergarten,
Pet me.”
It all happened quickly.
She let out a squeal of elation
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEE”
Startling the crowd of cool kids smoking by the door.
Shedding her two friends,
like a beer stained coat,
she came careening towards me
The fat in her dress set into motion
Like two warring sock puppets
Tarped in pink,
A mass of bubble gum jello
jiggling,
JIGGLING
Her two hands
Like the metal grabby claws
In those glass bins filled with toys
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEE”

coming closer, closer....
*SLAP*
The slap reverberated through the street,
Smoking ceased
The bouncer eyed us warily,
The only sound,
the throb of diva house spilling out from the club.
A smile was turned upside down.
Pink sparkly lips quavered:
“It’s my birthday,” she whimpered “You didn’t have to do that…”
OH, but I did.
Don’t let this happen to you.

3

It’s big, it’s invisible,
And it surrounds me constantly
I like to called it:
My personal space bubble.
In the words of singer, song writer
India Arie
I am not my hair.
All views expressed by my hair,
Are not necessarily my views
And any invitations issued by my hair
Are subject to interpretation
And possible recrimination
So to avoid potential litigation
Or possible bitch slapping
Treat me like I am the VIP lounge
Complete with velvet ropes
And burly men named Thor
Forming a barrier between you and my hair
If you’re not on the list,
Don’t touch me.
Thank you for your time and attention

2 Weird Dreams

Two nights ago, I dreamt my cousin Nicky was opening a restaurant. I went to the opening to be supportive. I hugged her and she was just beaming. It was a small cafe, kind of dark, with really dark blue walls and tables set with white candles. At some point I went somewhere else. I was preparing for a poetry slam and Nicky said she'd be having a slam at her place so I went back, but there was barely anyone there and it was more of an open mike. I decided I still wanted to read, but just one poem so I was looking through my stuff and finding a place to sit. Then Nicky's boyfriend came in. He was this big, dumpy looking, light skinned brother and he was a total asshole. I mean just rude and abusive. He was mean, not just to her, but to her customers. He became dangerous. He went into the kitchen and took a pair of scissors and cut some woman's pinky finger off.....all the way off, with just regular scissors. It was terrifying and people were crying and freaking out, but no one made any moves to go anywhere or to call the police. I wasn't scared though. Actually I was pissed. I watched him moving through the room enjoying people's fear of him. His eyes settled on me, and I was shaking my head.

I said: " I don't why these other people let you do this to them, but you're not gonna do that to me. And I'm gonna tell you why. It's called self respect. I don't know what's wrong with them, but I have way too much self respect not to defend myself, so if you're gonna come for me, you better come hard, because I will not tolerate you threatening me. "

He just grinned at me and pointed at me with the scissors. For some reason I had a big umbrella in my hand and I raised it to keep him at arms distance. Then he rushed me and even though he was way bigger than me, I grabbed the scissors and began wrestling them from his hands all the while yelling at him. Suddenly he shrank and turned into a little boy of about 4 or 5 years of age. He was still gripping the scissors and it took some force to get them from him, but I did and then I held his two hands together in one of my mine and tilted his chin up so he was looking me in the eye.

"What is wrong with you," I demanded? "You don't get to do that. You can't do that. It's wrong and you know it."

And he just started to cry and I was like "Let it out baby. Let it all out. You have a choice. You don't have to be that person." Then I woke up.

Last night I dreamt I was in a big white tower at the top of a hotel and it was shaking like there was an earthquake, but just the top part, the rest was fine, and the doors got caved in and we were trapped up there, but then I somehow found a way down. I was late for some kind of meeting. Then there was this crazy white lady. She and I knew each other and I guess we had been deciding if we were going to have children or not and she decided she wasn't going to and I had decided I was. She handed me a drink with what looked like a purple lotus and a tampon wrapped floating in it. The tampon wrapper was actually a pill and I knew she was trying to poison me so I didn't have the baby, so I wouldn't drink any of it and she freaked out and started yelling at me. I stood my ground and told her she was crazy and that I had a right to do what I wanted. Then I woke up.

I have no idea what any of that means. Shoshana says being in a restaurant is a sign of being overwhelmed by choices and that scissors have something to do with make decisions. If anyone has any other ideas, I'm curious to know what you think.

My Better Self -rejj ©

She wants to meditate
breath in and zen out

palms up-turned
mind ocean wide
pulling in spirit like the tide


She wants to know God
like Grandma wants to meet the baby
hold it, wrap it in a blanket
and remember the new
the potential of each moment
the gift in answered prayer


She wants to be in it and of it
a realized vision of elevation
a skyward expansion
of spiritual levitation
a gift offered and recieved
in warmest heart of God
She wants to know soul peace.

I love voting..I mean really!

Yesterday I did my duty as a delegate. Go Barak! I don't know if this is a side effect of having to work everyday or going to grad school and having to sit through four and a half hour long classes, but anytime I know I have to be somewhere all day I anticipate boredom and irritation. Even so, I made my decision to be a delegate and I take that responsibility seriously, so I rolled in about a half an hour early. I signed in and then signed up to continue as a delegate. Then my neighbor (and friend from high school) and I worked the crowd a little and found a spot in the bleachers. The high school gymnasium was pretty packed, mostly with Obama supporter.

As it turns out it was awesome! I was both fascinated and invigorated by the process. The democrats surprised me and started promptly at 10:00am...I appreciate that. We had a short intro, then did the flag salute thing. I stopped staying the pledge in the fourth grade and still won't say it, but I stood respectfully, then our congressman Jim McDermott gave a speech. The theme was unity among the democrats. He encouraged us not to pick on the Hillary supporters and vise versa, but to focus on beating McCain. There were several other speakers some of whom are reps and some of whom wish to be reps in the future. It was all interesting.

It was about 11:00am before we actually got the first credentials report: which is a roll call of all the delegates and alternates signed in. The lady who was doing the tally was sick and had lost her voice, but she was so committed to doing her duty that she read the report anyway. There were over 1,000 of us present from the 1st and 7th districts, but some delegates were absent, meaning that many alternates were seated as delegates...which of course changed the count. The reason this was so important is because the State delegates are awarded based on the count, so for example if half of the Hillary people didn't show up and there weren't alternates to take their places as delegates, she would have actually lost delegates....even though on the local level she had x amount of delegates, the number that it translates into on the state level would be smaller. I don't understand the math precisely, but you get the idea.

In the meantime, in between counts we voted a lot. It was awesome. I love voting. There is nothing like getting to participate in making changes that will ultimately make everyone's lives a little better (well, hopefully). I had received the democratic platform in the mail and read through it, but I guess what I didn't understand was that these aren't things are set in stone. The platform consists of a series of statements and action plans beginning with our values which are: seeking peace, counteracting global climate change, protecting the environment, health care for all, fighting poverty and homelessness, economic justice, quality public education, fiscal responsibility, redesigning the criminal justice system, respecting religious freedom, and separating church and state. It is very much a work in progress and contains specific goals on how to proactively live out values. Anyone can add a resolution or move to strike a resolution, or add a word here or strike a word there. So we started by going through each item, section by section. People came up to the mike and flagged anything the felt needed changing....this took a very long time. Afterwards we voted to ratify any unflagged sections (which were like 10 sentences out of a long ass word document). Then we went back over the flagged material. First someone would explain why they chose to flag a section and any proposed change they would like to make, then 2 people could speak for it and 2 could speak against it...then we voted. I felt very empowered....like I was actually getting to make decision about my country. It also felt strange and cool to be in a room with a lot of people who seemed to want to make the same decisions that I did.

Once all the alternates were seated, there was a second credentials report. As the Kucinich and Undecided delegates accounted for less than 15% of the total delegates, they were not eligible to send delegates to the state convention which means that they were given the opportunity to switch their votes if they so chose....and several did. So the final numbers for the 1st were 84 seated delegates-23 for Hillary, 61 for Barak, translating into 1 delegate and 1 alternate for Hillary and 4 delegates and 1 alternate for Barak. In the 7th there were 1061 delegates seated, 277 for Hillary and 809 for Barak translating into 14 delegates and 7 alternates for Hillary and 41 delegates and 20 alternates for Barak. So out of the 809 seated delegates for Barak, 145 men and 123 women (including yours truly) signed up to continue on to the state level. Each delegate was allotted 20 seconds to explain why we should be allowed to continue and then we all voted on 20 women and 21 men (we flipped a coin for the odd delegate) on an elaborate 4 page ballot. This took HOURS! But I thought it was so fabulous that we each got to state our piece. There were some really amazing speakers and interesting people. We heard from Union shop stewards, people with severe health problems and no health care, nurses, immigrants, veterans, and all sorts of people about why they were supporting Barak Obama and why they wanted a change to go to the state convention in June.

Well, I made it! I am alternate # 3 and will be headed to Spokane this June to raise my voice and represent Barak Obama!

Change

There is nothing worse than being sick when it's nice outside, except for being sick and stuck working double shifts with 25 screaming, germy kids, having emotional explosions. That sums up the last few days: me well medicated and stumbling through a land mine of emotionally volatile children. Now I was a sensitive child, I had my moods and there were definitely some kids I liked better than others, so I'm not saying I don't feel some empathy for these kids, but sometimes I just don't see what the big damn deal is. I understand them getting upset because someone copied them or got on their nerves, but I don't understand the intensity of their response. The sobbing and stomping out of rooms. That to me is reserved for really important shit like if someone has physically harmed me, or if I feel betrayed...it's not something I whip out cause someone told me the game I made up was boring. I mean I watched a kid burst into tears because he didn't know snack had been served....keep in mind there was still plenty left and there was nothing stopping him from eating, but the sheer fact that he didn't immediately know that it was available to him sent him into a tailspin and ruined the next several hours. It's kind of freaky that someone so young could be so troubled so soon in life. It gets me thinking about change.

My challenge for this week, in addition to maintaining my own cool (I find illness makes me short tempered...I don't have a lot extra energy for pleasantries), has been to think about interrupting emerging patterns that have been manifesting themselves among the children I work with. One of the girls I work with often has taken to bullying....at the same time she is constantly positioning herself as a victim. If she gets caught bullying, she cries and either accuses the other child of lying (even if one of us adults witnessed her doing wrong) or she blames it on the other child saying they did something to provoke her-to her credit, sometimes they did, but 9 times out of 10 whatever they did doesn't not warrant the ferocity of her response.

So this week we had some long heart to heart talks. We talked about intention and making choices. I have been trying to get her out of this victim mentality which not only serves as an attempt to manipulate adults for sympathy, but also allows her to shirk responsibility for her actions. We also talked about empathy and karma. I am not the only one who has these experiences with this girl, and all the other adults in her life (with exception of her mother who is in denial) are in agreement that she needs some support and that we need to intentional guide her towards some better behavioural alternatives. But then there is the question of nature vs nurture. Is this just who she is? Or is this learned behavior that can be interrupted? How much change is possible?

I ask myself the same question in other parts of my life. Every time I go to the chiropractor and she tells me how much better my back is looking, I ask her how she can tell given that it still hurts in the exact same places. She cracks me this way and that, sometimes there are machines involved. At the end I feel my spine and neck lengthened, but within the next few hours I'm bunched up again. She says it's a long process, but that change is possible and that believe it or not, my spine is getting trained to straighten out. In the meantime my shoulders stay tight, the muscles between the blades are constantly knotted and my neck stays short. I try to sit up straight and relax more, stretch and roll my neck, but I still slip back into the same familiar positions.

I often find myself frustrated by the slow pace of change at my other job. Last year I came into this position all bright eyed and idealistic, full of energy and ready to make some positive changes...and I did. I did a lot. In fact I did more than had been done in 5 years, but the feedback at the end of it was "Wow, that was great. Now do less". After easing away from the bitterness and frustration of feeling unappreciated and like all my efforts were just treading water, barely keeping a program adrift in the ocean of status quo and mediocrity...I realized that I did not have to work so hard or struggle so vehemently when all those around me were perfectly content to do nothing. Sometimes change doesn't have to be my sole responsibility and sometimes change is the exact opposite of what is valued or desired by an organization. Truly I would have quit this job ages ago if it weren't in such a cool city and didn't provide fabulous medical, dental, and chiropractic care. But I've hung there and my reward has been meeting some pretty cool people and getting my faculty training proposal passed.

Today was the first day of my global learning seminar, where all the people whose proposals were passed came together to present our ideas. It is the first of five meetings. I had read blurbs on the other proposals, but it was cool to put faces to ideas and hear them fleshed out a little more. My proposal is all about creating a training for faculty leading short term study abroad programs on how to integrate US diversity into an international context. The one commonality between all of us is that we are all interested and working towards change, but as to how realistic / viable this change is....I'm not so sure. I have hope though. At the end of the meeting the lead facilitator pulled me aside and said not only was she excited to have me at the seminar, but that she has been actively searching for funding that would institutionalize my training. As for whether institutional change is an oxymoron or not, but I guess I'm ready to find out.

Why I failed my Biology Final

The following is a story my Freshman Biology teacher told us before we were allowed to take the final-I didn't end up having enough time to finish and I totally failed, but I remember this story more than I remember any parts of the class. So here goes:

Once there was an architect. He was an amazing architect that designed both commercial buildings and luxury homes. All the rich and famous people sought him out to create their dream homes and he had a very successful and lucrative business. After a while he got kind of bored. It was hard for him to be a dream maker....using his gifts to make everyone else's visions come to life... but never really realizing his own. So he decided to retire, but before he could get all his affairs in order he was approached by a mysterious gentleman. The man told him he wanted a house. The architect was about to tell him that he was no longer building houses, but there was something about the man that made him curious. He ask the man what kind of house he wanted and the man answered: "I want you to build me your dream house, the house you would create for you, to your tastes."

"Well what kind of budget are we operating on?"

"Money is no object," said the man. "I will spend whatever it takes, just make sure it's perfect....exactly what you want it to be."

The architect was thrilled. He had been waiting his whole life for this opportunity. He thanked the man for such a gift and immediately set to work assembling blueprints and a crew of the best workers. He imported special glass and marble from Italy and crystal chandeliers from France. He brought in expert wood cutters and artisans to carve secret panels and to make each doorway unique. His days were consumed with getting everything just right, and for the first year it was wonderful, seeing his dream house come together. Then as construction was near completion, it began to bother him. Here was his dream house, and this other man was going to get to live in it. Even after making his commission and retiring, if he were to create the house again, it would never be an original and it bothered him. He just wanted to be done with the whole thing, so secretly, he began to cut corners. Instead of using original Moroccan tiles for the patio, he used a knock off of lesser quality. He didn't lay the foundation as deep as he could have. When one of the Chandeliers broke he replaced it with a glass one. No one could tell the difference though. From the outside the house was a marvel.

Once it was finished, the man hosted a huge gala to celebrate the completion of the house and to honor the career of the architect who had officially retired. The house was stunning, absolutely breathtaking. Once the guests had toured the house, everyone gathered in the ballroom. Waiters brought around champagne and when everyone had a glass the man raised his in a toast to the architect. By this time the architect just wanted to go home. He just wanted to be done with the house, but he smiled and nodded as graciously as he could when the man asked him to stand by him.

"Here's to you. To a man who has brought such beauty and light into the world. This house is truly a marvel."

The architect could hardly contain his irritation. He wished he had never met this man. But the man hadn't finished. He handed the architect a small beautifully wrapped box.

"This is for you," the man said. "Please, open it."

The architect carefully unwrapped the box, then opened it and inside was a pair of keys.

"These belong to you," he said. "This house is yours now. I have watched your work for years. I have seen how you have tirelessly worked to help realize the dreams of others and it became my wish that you would one day get to realize your own dream. This house is truly a marvel. And now it is yours."

The architect began to cry, and everyone thought he was crying tears of joy, but really he was thinking about the glass chandelier and every other short cut he had taken. He thanked the man. Then 6 months later, he committed suicide. He couldn't stand to live in the house he had made because in cheating the man, he had only cheated himself.

The Moral: Make sure you're building a house you can live in.