Monday, September 21, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Still Kicking
I've been writing, working, taking care of my family. Rinse, repeat. I generally begin thinking about my blog at midnight, and have consistently been choosing bed over it.
Nothing personal, blog. :)
Nothing personal, blog. :)
Monday, July 20, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
The Rules
Random outburst:
I just read a dizzying blog post that contained forty seven* rules for writing novels that had been broken in forty seven books I've enjoyed.
I think I will stick with one rule: write a good story, and someone will read it. That's really all I can do.
*I'm exaggerating. There were really only forty six rules.
I just read a dizzying blog post that contained forty seven* rules for writing novels that had been broken in forty seven books I've enjoyed.
I think I will stick with one rule: write a good story, and someone will read it. That's really all I can do.
*I'm exaggerating. There were really only forty six rules.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Location, Location, Location
Mood: Reflective
Music: Gone Too Soon, Michael Jackson
I was six years old in August 1977. I was outside, playing with neighborhood friends, running up and down the block with the freedom children had then. I didn't have to stay in view of my house. My mother wasn't even outside.
A house was being built at the end of our block, and the construction people had dug the basement and begun to build up the foundation. My friends and I were double dog daring each other to walk the edge of the foundation, and I was taking my turn. I teetered ten feet over the mud pit below, left foot, then right, then left, arms spread out as if, should I have fallen, I would simply have started to flap my arms and fly.
My sister came and found me, and told our little group that people on the radio had just said Elvis Presley had died. I was only six, but I knew who Elvis was. Everybody knew. My parents tended to play other records in the house: Aretha Franklin and Dionne Warwick and Sam Cooke and Shirley Caesar. Still, something about the announcement broke up our play and we all headed home.
That is my earliest "where were you" memory - the first time I can recall exactly what I was doing when something big happened in the world. I don't remember the Vietnam War ending when I was two, and I don't remember Nixon resigning when I was four. Elvis was first.
From there are my other where were yous. I remember sitting in our family room watching the hostages who had been held in Iran deplane. I remember my mother waking us up early one morning to watch Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer get married. And with quite a few events in between, I also remember laying in bed one morning, watching news coverage of Princess Diana's death.
So of course I'll always remember waking up to find out that Farrah Fawcett had succumbed to her battle of cancer, and feeling melancholy and sad, looking at photos of her on the internet and realizing I'd never paid attention to how very pretty she was. And I'll always remember the craziness later in the day, when a friend instant messaged me with the news that Michael Jackson had been rushed to the hospital.
I could do an entire series of posts just on the memories I have that play to a soundtrack of his songs. I could go into detail on where I was, exactly, the first time I heard some of those songs, the times I was almost late for school because I was listening to Beat It or Man in the Mirror on the radio for the first time, and I wouldn't leave my room until the song was finished.
And I know I'll remember standing at my kitchen island, cutting up vegetables, when my son came upstairs to say he'd gotten a text that Michael Jackson had died, and wanted to know if it was true. I'll remember firing up my laptop, hearing my cell phone ring as the screen blazed to life. I'll remember saying to my son, "If that's Gwen, that means it's true."
It was Gwen, who had just read the news from the Associated Press feed. She said just, "Oh, my God!" when I answered.
That's the story I'll tell when one day, perhaps at a party, when someone asks me where I was. We'll all trade stories, all talk about how much it impacted us, or didn't.
I'll always remember.
Music: Gone Too Soon, Michael Jackson
I was six years old in August 1977. I was outside, playing with neighborhood friends, running up and down the block with the freedom children had then. I didn't have to stay in view of my house. My mother wasn't even outside.
A house was being built at the end of our block, and the construction people had dug the basement and begun to build up the foundation. My friends and I were double dog daring each other to walk the edge of the foundation, and I was taking my turn. I teetered ten feet over the mud pit below, left foot, then right, then left, arms spread out as if, should I have fallen, I would simply have started to flap my arms and fly.
My sister came and found me, and told our little group that people on the radio had just said Elvis Presley had died. I was only six, but I knew who Elvis was. Everybody knew. My parents tended to play other records in the house: Aretha Franklin and Dionne Warwick and Sam Cooke and Shirley Caesar. Still, something about the announcement broke up our play and we all headed home.
That is my earliest "where were you" memory - the first time I can recall exactly what I was doing when something big happened in the world. I don't remember the Vietnam War ending when I was two, and I don't remember Nixon resigning when I was four. Elvis was first.
From there are my other where were yous. I remember sitting in our family room watching the hostages who had been held in Iran deplane. I remember my mother waking us up early one morning to watch Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer get married. And with quite a few events in between, I also remember laying in bed one morning, watching news coverage of Princess Diana's death.
So of course I'll always remember waking up to find out that Farrah Fawcett had succumbed to her battle of cancer, and feeling melancholy and sad, looking at photos of her on the internet and realizing I'd never paid attention to how very pretty she was. And I'll always remember the craziness later in the day, when a friend instant messaged me with the news that Michael Jackson had been rushed to the hospital.
I could do an entire series of posts just on the memories I have that play to a soundtrack of his songs. I could go into detail on where I was, exactly, the first time I heard some of those songs, the times I was almost late for school because I was listening to Beat It or Man in the Mirror on the radio for the first time, and I wouldn't leave my room until the song was finished.
And I know I'll remember standing at my kitchen island, cutting up vegetables, when my son came upstairs to say he'd gotten a text that Michael Jackson had died, and wanted to know if it was true. I'll remember firing up my laptop, hearing my cell phone ring as the screen blazed to life. I'll remember saying to my son, "If that's Gwen, that means it's true."
It was Gwen, who had just read the news from the Associated Press feed. She said just, "Oh, my God!" when I answered.
That's the story I'll tell when one day, perhaps at a party, when someone asks me where I was. We'll all trade stories, all talk about how much it impacted us, or didn't.
I'll always remember.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Writing.
A story "came in". From nowhere! Very exciting.
Well, not really from nowhere. A concept has been floating around my head for a while, and while I was driving the other day, the plot materialized out of thin air. Now I'm working on pulling it out and onto paper.
Feels great.
Well, not really from nowhere. A concept has been floating around my head for a while, and while I was driving the other day, the plot materialized out of thin air. Now I'm working on pulling it out and onto paper.
Feels great.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Rummaging
Straightening my office desk today, I came across an old notepad of poems. Here's one I wrote on June 2nd, 2002:
10:56pm
out of things to do
i sit and contemplate
this place
this moment
all is done
or waiting
the day has long sunk past the horizon
and me?
i wish for sleep
it is moments of nothingness
that i abhor
when i am busy
i can avoid the depths of myself
----
No clue why my pants were in a twist that night. :D
10:56pm
out of things to do
i sit and contemplate
this place
this moment
all is done
or waiting
the day has long sunk past the horizon
and me?
i wish for sleep
it is moments of nothingness
that i abhor
when i am busy
i can avoid the depths of myself
----
No clue why my pants were in a twist that night. :D
Friday, April 24, 2009
And.... scene.
Mood: Good
Music: No Charge, Shirley Caesar (no link posted, you can find it online)
---
Yesterday I received a letter from my health insurance company. They wanted to remind me that my son would be eighteen years old this summer, and therefore they would no longer carry him unless he met certain criteria (such as being a full time student, which he will be).
Wow.
Obviously I've known his eighteenth birthday was coming. One could argue that I've known it was coming for nineteen years, so although I feel as if time slipped by very quickly, I am not shocked by his birthday in and of itself. I am shocked to realize that there is a world out there, that, in just over two months, will view my child as an adult, with all the rights, privileges, and hassles thereof, save a very few.
Mere feet above my head as I type this, socks and gym shorts lay scattered on my son's bedroom floor. Various components of homework projects are scattered through the three floors of our home. If I turn on our desktop Mac and search the history, among the visits to Itunes, MySpace and Facebook, I'll find evidence of a trip to Gaia, an online world of user created cartoon characters.
My son is still afraid of the dark (but then, so am I). He doesn't like to hang mirrors on his wall, because waking up and seeing yourself in the mirror in a darkened room is scary. He eats cereal for his after school snack and still requests Oreos if I ask him if he needs something from the grocery store (sometimes I indulge him. Sometimes I don't).
He is not a man, but he isn't a child. The word tween has been reserved for a younger set. Young adult still seems a couple of years away. I don't have a word to describe what he is, but I know for sure what he won't be in ten weeks: a baby I can fiercely protect from the rest of the world.
I can't call the insurance company, shake my verbal fist and demand that they cover him regardless of his student status and age. I can't call the Pentagon and berate them for requiring him to register with Selective Service. I can't get angry at the 7-11 if he decides to purchase a pack of cigarettes.
At eighteen, I was a lethal combination of stupid, shrinking and pretty. My son is a calmer soul, more content with himself, more sure of what he does and does not like and less shy about asserting these things when necessary. While he has the expected apprehension of his age and stands as good a chance of deciding college is not for him as he does graduating with honors, whatever he chooses, I sense he'll have an easier time making peace with himself than I had at his age.
That's comforting, because when I look at him, it's impossible not to see hints of the boy in a Garanimals jumper and Stride Rite shoes, talking a mile a minute, always asking why and how. It's nearly as impossible to visualize the rent paying, car owning, career making person with his own health insurance he's supposed to begin morphing into in two months, by the insurance company's standard. But I'll keep an eye out and watch this person emerge, because scared shitless as I am, I'm also looking forward to meeting this man, my son, my new and pending friend.
Music: No Charge, Shirley Caesar (no link posted, you can find it online)
---
Yesterday I received a letter from my health insurance company. They wanted to remind me that my son would be eighteen years old this summer, and therefore they would no longer carry him unless he met certain criteria (such as being a full time student, which he will be).
Wow.
Obviously I've known his eighteenth birthday was coming. One could argue that I've known it was coming for nineteen years, so although I feel as if time slipped by very quickly, I am not shocked by his birthday in and of itself. I am shocked to realize that there is a world out there, that, in just over two months, will view my child as an adult, with all the rights, privileges, and hassles thereof, save a very few.
Mere feet above my head as I type this, socks and gym shorts lay scattered on my son's bedroom floor. Various components of homework projects are scattered through the three floors of our home. If I turn on our desktop Mac and search the history, among the visits to Itunes, MySpace and Facebook, I'll find evidence of a trip to Gaia, an online world of user created cartoon characters.
My son is still afraid of the dark (but then, so am I). He doesn't like to hang mirrors on his wall, because waking up and seeing yourself in the mirror in a darkened room is scary. He eats cereal for his after school snack and still requests Oreos if I ask him if he needs something from the grocery store (sometimes I indulge him. Sometimes I don't).
He is not a man, but he isn't a child. The word tween has been reserved for a younger set. Young adult still seems a couple of years away. I don't have a word to describe what he is, but I know for sure what he won't be in ten weeks: a baby I can fiercely protect from the rest of the world.
I can't call the insurance company, shake my verbal fist and demand that they cover him regardless of his student status and age. I can't call the Pentagon and berate them for requiring him to register with Selective Service. I can't get angry at the 7-11 if he decides to purchase a pack of cigarettes.
At eighteen, I was a lethal combination of stupid, shrinking and pretty. My son is a calmer soul, more content with himself, more sure of what he does and does not like and less shy about asserting these things when necessary. While he has the expected apprehension of his age and stands as good a chance of deciding college is not for him as he does graduating with honors, whatever he chooses, I sense he'll have an easier time making peace with himself than I had at his age.
That's comforting, because when I look at him, it's impossible not to see hints of the boy in a Garanimals jumper and Stride Rite shoes, talking a mile a minute, always asking why and how. It's nearly as impossible to visualize the rent paying, car owning, career making person with his own health insurance he's supposed to begin morphing into in two months, by the insurance company's standard. But I'll keep an eye out and watch this person emerge, because scared shitless as I am, I'm also looking forward to meeting this man, my son, my new and pending friend.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Thank you!
To the person who found my daughter's (brand new) shoe and stuck it in between the bars of my car's luggage rack: thank you.
Maybe you heard my initial aggravated exclamation, when I looked down and saw a little stockinged foot kicking her brother's stroller seat.
Maybe you saw me worriedly walking through the store, looking under shelves and merchandise.
Perhaps you overhead the conversation I had with the store manager, or saw her checking the Lost and Found box and taking down my home number, in case the shoe was found later.
Maybe you were pulling out as I shut my car doors to go inside, and you saw her shoe tumble to the ground.
Maybe you came out, saw a child's shoe, and deduced that the station wagon with the car seats was a good candidate for belonging to the shoe.
Whatever made you pick up that shoe and put it somewhere I was sure not to miss it: sometimes the smallest things mean so much. You made my day and in turn, I hope everything about yesterday fulfilled your own wishes tenfold.
Maybe you heard my initial aggravated exclamation, when I looked down and saw a little stockinged foot kicking her brother's stroller seat.
Maybe you saw me worriedly walking through the store, looking under shelves and merchandise.
Perhaps you overhead the conversation I had with the store manager, or saw her checking the Lost and Found box and taking down my home number, in case the shoe was found later.
Maybe you were pulling out as I shut my car doors to go inside, and you saw her shoe tumble to the ground.
Maybe you came out, saw a child's shoe, and deduced that the station wagon with the car seats was a good candidate for belonging to the shoe.
Whatever made you pick up that shoe and put it somewhere I was sure not to miss it: sometimes the smallest things mean so much. You made my day and in turn, I hope everything about yesterday fulfilled your own wishes tenfold.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Sunny Mondays
Mood: Winning
Music: None, again
I'm actually enjoying my Monday, which is either a sign of spring or a sign that I have finally fallen off the deep end.
At least four to five times this weekend, I thought of something to blog about, decided I wouldn't stop doing whatever I was doing, and promptly forgot about it. Because blogs (like books and stories) so rarely write themselves, this is something I need to work on.
Yesterday I began a short story with the working title "Christians Who Cuss" (I am never sure where to put the period, so am avoiding it by admitting I don't know). The story may evolve into something longer; I'm not yet sure. The central character has many spiritual similarities to me, and the overall theme is an examination of her journey in determining who God is and is not.
The story came to me as I was traveling last week with a coworker, who shared some thoughts from his own spiritual journey in one sentence, and then let out a stream of expletives the next, in a story so funny I was wiping tears from my eyes. It caught my attention - the marriage of these two seemingly incompatible trains of thought, the way he was so carefree in tripping both the highly spiritual and basely secular off his tongue. I was reminded of a story I once read, about a person who asked God whether or not it was okay to put down the Bible in favor of a comic book, and God answered back, "Please feel free to read the comic book. All I really want is for you to invite me to read it with you."
That story has stayed with me as I bump around life, mainly believing, often questioning and sometimes doubting. I hope I can bring a little bit of that feeling to my story. We'll see.
Happy Spring. :)
Music: None, again
I'm actually enjoying my Monday, which is either a sign of spring or a sign that I have finally fallen off the deep end.
At least four to five times this weekend, I thought of something to blog about, decided I wouldn't stop doing whatever I was doing, and promptly forgot about it. Because blogs (like books and stories) so rarely write themselves, this is something I need to work on.
Yesterday I began a short story with the working title "Christians Who Cuss" (I am never sure where to put the period, so am avoiding it by admitting I don't know). The story may evolve into something longer; I'm not yet sure. The central character has many spiritual similarities to me, and the overall theme is an examination of her journey in determining who God is and is not.
The story came to me as I was traveling last week with a coworker, who shared some thoughts from his own spiritual journey in one sentence, and then let out a stream of expletives the next, in a story so funny I was wiping tears from my eyes. It caught my attention - the marriage of these two seemingly incompatible trains of thought, the way he was so carefree in tripping both the highly spiritual and basely secular off his tongue. I was reminded of a story I once read, about a person who asked God whether or not it was okay to put down the Bible in favor of a comic book, and God answered back, "Please feel free to read the comic book. All I really want is for you to invite me to read it with you."
That story has stayed with me as I bump around life, mainly believing, often questioning and sometimes doubting. I hope I can bring a little bit of that feeling to my story. We'll see.
Happy Spring. :)
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Just Do It
No specific mood, really. And no music is playing.
~~~
The last time I sent out a few chapters for a quick look see, my friend told me the plot reminded her of something she saw on Lifetime once. Or somewhere similar. She graciously added that the movie had been entertaining, at least.
It may have been an After School Special.
Or, perhaps, a Scholastic Reader story. One of the short ones. In the big font.
Clearly, I needed to identify an alternate plot. And that's what I've been doing - musing about my next long format story. And producing at work - a lot - but since work isn't terribly important to my inner well being, I will skip the details on that.
The plot is a key stepping stone - perhaps the key stepping stone - to writing a story of any length. Characters can surprise you during the process, can evolve in ways you didn't foresee or take actions that you hadn't anticipated, but they don't really show up at all until you've provided them a vehicle. You know - four sisters make the best of life while their father is away fighting... what war did Mr. March fight in, anyway? Or guy with a hunched back falls in love with a beautiful woman. In a tower, I think.
You have to have a story, and while it can be the literary equivalent of a straight to DVD movie, I think I'm capable of producing something more. A "B" movie with a Paris Hilton cameo, at least (I am kidding. Really. Though I might not turn my nose up if the Wayans brothers called).
But I digress. I'm having plot issues, and my lately my writing has been choppy, giving me seasickness when I go back to read it (please use this post as Exhibit A).
So that's why I haven't posted much. I'm short on Dramamine. And short on drama (this is a good thing). But I'm not shutting down shop altogether, and will make a better effort to fling something into cyberspace more regularly. That's what Mrs. Early, my childhood piano teacher, would suggest, because practice really is what makes perfect.
Note to self.
~~~
The last time I sent out a few chapters for a quick look see, my friend told me the plot reminded her of something she saw on Lifetime once. Or somewhere similar. She graciously added that the movie had been entertaining, at least.
It may have been an After School Special.
Or, perhaps, a Scholastic Reader story. One of the short ones. In the big font.
Clearly, I needed to identify an alternate plot. And that's what I've been doing - musing about my next long format story. And producing at work - a lot - but since work isn't terribly important to my inner well being, I will skip the details on that.
The plot is a key stepping stone - perhaps the key stepping stone - to writing a story of any length. Characters can surprise you during the process, can evolve in ways you didn't foresee or take actions that you hadn't anticipated, but they don't really show up at all until you've provided them a vehicle. You know - four sisters make the best of life while their father is away fighting... what war did Mr. March fight in, anyway? Or guy with a hunched back falls in love with a beautiful woman. In a tower, I think.
You have to have a story, and while it can be the literary equivalent of a straight to DVD movie, I think I'm capable of producing something more. A "B" movie with a Paris Hilton cameo, at least (I am kidding. Really. Though I might not turn my nose up if the Wayans brothers called).
But I digress. I'm having plot issues, and my lately my writing has been choppy, giving me seasickness when I go back to read it (please use this post as Exhibit A).
So that's why I haven't posted much. I'm short on Dramamine. And short on drama (this is a good thing). But I'm not shutting down shop altogether, and will make a better effort to fling something into cyberspace more regularly. That's what Mrs. Early, my childhood piano teacher, would suggest, because practice really is what makes perfect.
Note to self.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Please Report
Mood: Reflective
Music: Are You Alright, Lucinda Williams
I joined Facebook in August, and since then have reconnected with people I had previously assumed I would never hear from again. It's nice, knowing that old friends are a click away, that we can check in and keep up with each other's lives. Not resuming a central position in each other's day, but maintaining enough contact to honor the great days we jointly remember. It's a great platform, save for the fact that it makes me miss one of my friends even more.
When I listen to this song, I think about the guy who was my one of my best friends. We grew apart when I got married, him reacting in that peculiar way so many men do when their female friends decide to devote their lives to another man: disappearing. It's an action that speaks libraries of volumes.
I'm cheating a little. We were more than friends once, so many days ago and in such an unofficial manner that it seems a tiny drop of water standing against the whole sea. We were young. It happened. I thought we'd moved on. We moved into a siblingship, talking each other down from so many ledges, serving as each other's life consultants. He specialized in introducing me to new things - not all of them safe (or exactly legal).
I specialized in almost getting him killed. He moved across the country, and when I'd meet his new friends and say my name, their eyes would light up. "Oh, you're her. The one that almost got him killed. Twice."
Three times, actually, if we count that night in Atlanta.
I want to ask him just who I'm supposed to go to when I need a male perspective from someone who doesn't have the bias of being in love with me. I want to ask him why he drives to my parent's house to check in during the holidays, but doesn't send an email to see how I've fared in the five years since we spoke. I want to ask him why it was okay for me to answer the phone at three am to discuss the status of his heart, but it was not okay for him to support me in the largest relationship I've had in my life. What does that mean?
I wish I knew he was okay, and eating well, and still scuba diving, and still protesting against the government, and... still alive, in that way that means so much more than simply breathing in and out.
And it's not just me, KME. There are a few of us; you know who we are.
We miss you. Are you alright?
Music: Are You Alright, Lucinda Williams
I joined Facebook in August, and since then have reconnected with people I had previously assumed I would never hear from again. It's nice, knowing that old friends are a click away, that we can check in and keep up with each other's lives. Not resuming a central position in each other's day, but maintaining enough contact to honor the great days we jointly remember. It's a great platform, save for the fact that it makes me miss one of my friends even more.
When I listen to this song, I think about the guy who was my one of my best friends. We grew apart when I got married, him reacting in that peculiar way so many men do when their female friends decide to devote their lives to another man: disappearing. It's an action that speaks libraries of volumes.
I'm cheating a little. We were more than friends once, so many days ago and in such an unofficial manner that it seems a tiny drop of water standing against the whole sea. We were young. It happened. I thought we'd moved on. We moved into a siblingship, talking each other down from so many ledges, serving as each other's life consultants. He specialized in introducing me to new things - not all of them safe (or exactly legal).
I specialized in almost getting him killed. He moved across the country, and when I'd meet his new friends and say my name, their eyes would light up. "Oh, you're her. The one that almost got him killed. Twice."
Three times, actually, if we count that night in Atlanta.
I want to ask him just who I'm supposed to go to when I need a male perspective from someone who doesn't have the bias of being in love with me. I want to ask him why he drives to my parent's house to check in during the holidays, but doesn't send an email to see how I've fared in the five years since we spoke. I want to ask him why it was okay for me to answer the phone at three am to discuss the status of his heart, but it was not okay for him to support me in the largest relationship I've had in my life. What does that mean?
I wish I knew he was okay, and eating well, and still scuba diving, and still protesting against the government, and... still alive, in that way that means so much more than simply breathing in and out.
And it's not just me, KME. There are a few of us; you know who we are.
We miss you. Are you alright?
Sunday, January 25, 2009
On Church Hats And Such
Mood: Good
Music: Call Him Up (Can't Stop Praising His Name), Times Square Church
It may not have started with the fist bump, but that was certainly the story that caught our attention: Michelle Obama, greeting her husband on stage after it became clear that he would receive the Democratic nomination, offering her knuckles and a steadfast gaze. They bumped fists, and the media went into an uproar.
What was that? What does that mean? Is that new? Where did that come from? Is that something black people do? "Oh," breathed the black community at large. "They don't know about that?"
It happened again at the inauguration. Aretha Franklin appeared onstage in an ornate hat; five days later, the Washington Post is running the photo again, because everyone is still talking about it. It was so... different. Wasn't it? A little flashy?
I sat at a table last week with my sisters in ethnicity, and there were good natured eyerolls, accompanied by a smidgen of boredom. "Please," said one. "It's just a church hat."
Next, we howled when CNN flashed a question at the bottom of the screen, pondering whether or not Barack Obama had delivered for black people or not. I pointed out the time. "It's been more than twenty four hours since he took office, and I just want to note that so far he has done nothing for me. The jerk."
He is the first black president. Or, if you're splitting hairs, the first president of direct and recent African descent. Every move he makes is another first, and the man has caused enough breaking news segments to cause my pals working in newsrooms to weep. They are busy.
At that dinner, I offered my take to my sisters. "They don't know us," I said. "Not in this context. The country is getting to know us."
We are a nation of immigrants, a collection of people who abandoned their individual cultures to cobble out a new one together, christening our efforts in hot dogs and baseball and apple pie. We don't know each other, not really. We drive into our garages and hide most homages to our respective rituals behind closed doors. In public, we strive for sameness, bristling at the notion of fitting into stereotypes, regardless of whether the stereotype is positive, or true. That's why Michelle and Barack could bump their fists together and cause an uproar - it's not a gesture most blacks offer to someone outside the "family."
One of my coworkers, who is Jewish, told me how she restrains herself from pretending to spit on the ground when she hears bad news. The "pfft pfft pfft" is common in her family, but she doesn't do it at work. Someone might say, "Bob is late; I hope he wasn't involved in that pile up on the beltway," and she'll respond, "I hope not, too," instead of pffting away the horrible thought as she might have done at home.
Now we'll have forty eight months watching a minority family live in a glass house. There will still be some secrets; I doubt Michelle is going to invite the cameras when she gets the relaxer in her hair touched up or smoothes cocoa butter on her girl's knees to combat ashyness. But the nation will perhaps see more fist bumps, and more church hats. We'll probably see Malia and Sasha with their hair in twisted ponytails, that hallmark of hairstyles for little black girls.
Already, Barack stepped to a microphone at one of the balls and declared he'd better do some dancing "with the one who brung me", demonstrating the relaxed banter we use at home, and almost never in public, lest someone not realize we are kidding and accuse us of not knowing how to properly speak.
My sisters and brothers will marvel at the things that end up making the news. There will be a lot of smiling.
Come on inside; we don't bite. Clap your hands, move your feet, and let the choir sing.
Music: Call Him Up (Can't Stop Praising His Name), Times Square Church
It may not have started with the fist bump, but that was certainly the story that caught our attention: Michelle Obama, greeting her husband on stage after it became clear that he would receive the Democratic nomination, offering her knuckles and a steadfast gaze. They bumped fists, and the media went into an uproar.
What was that? What does that mean? Is that new? Where did that come from? Is that something black people do? "Oh," breathed the black community at large. "They don't know about that?"
It happened again at the inauguration. Aretha Franklin appeared onstage in an ornate hat; five days later, the Washington Post is running the photo again, because everyone is still talking about it. It was so... different. Wasn't it? A little flashy?
I sat at a table last week with my sisters in ethnicity, and there were good natured eyerolls, accompanied by a smidgen of boredom. "Please," said one. "It's just a church hat."
Next, we howled when CNN flashed a question at the bottom of the screen, pondering whether or not Barack Obama had delivered for black people or not. I pointed out the time. "It's been more than twenty four hours since he took office, and I just want to note that so far he has done nothing for me. The jerk."
He is the first black president. Or, if you're splitting hairs, the first president of direct and recent African descent. Every move he makes is another first, and the man has caused enough breaking news segments to cause my pals working in newsrooms to weep. They are busy.
At that dinner, I offered my take to my sisters. "They don't know us," I said. "Not in this context. The country is getting to know us."
We are a nation of immigrants, a collection of people who abandoned their individual cultures to cobble out a new one together, christening our efforts in hot dogs and baseball and apple pie. We don't know each other, not really. We drive into our garages and hide most homages to our respective rituals behind closed doors. In public, we strive for sameness, bristling at the notion of fitting into stereotypes, regardless of whether the stereotype is positive, or true. That's why Michelle and Barack could bump their fists together and cause an uproar - it's not a gesture most blacks offer to someone outside the "family."
One of my coworkers, who is Jewish, told me how she restrains herself from pretending to spit on the ground when she hears bad news. The "pfft pfft pfft" is common in her family, but she doesn't do it at work. Someone might say, "Bob is late; I hope he wasn't involved in that pile up on the beltway," and she'll respond, "I hope not, too," instead of pffting away the horrible thought as she might have done at home.
Now we'll have forty eight months watching a minority family live in a glass house. There will still be some secrets; I doubt Michelle is going to invite the cameras when she gets the relaxer in her hair touched up or smoothes cocoa butter on her girl's knees to combat ashyness. But the nation will perhaps see more fist bumps, and more church hats. We'll probably see Malia and Sasha with their hair in twisted ponytails, that hallmark of hairstyles for little black girls.
Already, Barack stepped to a microphone at one of the balls and declared he'd better do some dancing "with the one who brung me", demonstrating the relaxed banter we use at home, and almost never in public, lest someone not realize we are kidding and accuse us of not knowing how to properly speak.
My sisters and brothers will marvel at the things that end up making the news. There will be a lot of smiling.
Come on inside; we don't bite. Clap your hands, move your feet, and let the choir sing.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Work, Shrmirk.
Mood: Still happy
Music: Working For The Weekend, Loverboy
I'm sure anyone reading this blog only does so after work, on their own time, using their own equipment, because you are much too busy being productive at your job during the day. Right? Excellent.
The following free e-book will then be of little interest to you, because you only read books at night, curled up in your Snuggie. You don't need something on screen, readable when your boss is within walking distance of your being, helping to whisk away the minutes lest you start contemplating how much it would hurt to drag the letter opener across your wrists. But I digress.
Heather Wardell, blogger, author, is releasing her novel, Life, Love and a Polar Bear Tattoo online. And free. And lest you start turning your collective noses up at a book not sold in Barnes and Noble, lemme tell you here missy: walk a mile in the shoes first. I've only walked a yard and am already nodding my head and deeply understanding.
Book Summary:
When Candice's in-laws were killed eight months ago buying a huge faux polar bear rug for her Christmas present, she lost more than just two of her favorite people: she lost her husband Ian as well. After only two years of marriage, their guilt and pain have left them living together but apart, unable to really talk for fear of what they'll say to each other.
Ian leaves for a month-long contract overseas, and Candice plans to use the time apart to decide whether her marriage can be saved. When her ex walks back into her life as the new client at work, ten years more attractive yet saddened by his own recent loss, she's left wondering what she really wants from life and love.
Book Location:
http://www.heatherwardell.com/files/LifeLovePolarBearTattoo.pdf
No, haven't read it yet. But will.
On weekends.
Music: Working For The Weekend, Loverboy
I'm sure anyone reading this blog only does so after work, on their own time, using their own equipment, because you are much too busy being productive at your job during the day. Right? Excellent.
The following free e-book will then be of little interest to you, because you only read books at night, curled up in your Snuggie. You don't need something on screen, readable when your boss is within walking distance of your being, helping to whisk away the minutes lest you start contemplating how much it would hurt to drag the letter opener across your wrists. But I digress.
Heather Wardell, blogger, author, is releasing her novel, Life, Love and a Polar Bear Tattoo online. And free. And lest you start turning your collective noses up at a book not sold in Barnes and Noble, lemme tell you here missy: walk a mile in the shoes first. I've only walked a yard and am already nodding my head and deeply understanding.
Book Summary:
When Candice's in-laws were killed eight months ago buying a huge faux polar bear rug for her Christmas present, she lost more than just two of her favorite people: she lost her husband Ian as well. After only two years of marriage, their guilt and pain have left them living together but apart, unable to really talk for fear of what they'll say to each other.
Ian leaves for a month-long contract overseas, and Candice plans to use the time apart to decide whether her marriage can be saved. When her ex walks back into her life as the new client at work, ten years more attractive yet saddened by his own recent loss, she's left wondering what she really wants from life and love.
Book Location:
http://www.heatherwardell.com/files/LifeLovePolarBearTattoo.pdf
No, haven't read it yet. But will.
On weekends.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Next Year's Card
Mood: Happy (Houston? We have sun!)
Music: I'm Too Sexy, Right Said Fred
My husband informed me the other night that he wishes we'd send out our photos with our holiday card. I reminded him that I did send a photo out with some of our cards, and despite the fact that it wasn't specifically a family holiday photo, and I didn't bother to play with the borders or otherwise put in much effort before I sent it to Target for printing, it was a photograph. Of us. Housed within a holiday card.
I think he's been bitten by the bug, because he didn't find this sufficient. One, I didn't include it in all the cards. For instance, I didn't include it in the card that went to the photographer who actually snapped the photo because duh - she already has it. "Not printed or framed," my husband pointed out, a thinking I find slightly ambitious. There are a limited number of households that desire to display our framed, smiling faces on their side tables. Perhaps a slightly larger contingent that might feel moved to toss our photo into an album, so we can become those people they used to know when they crack open the album twenty years from now.
A good half of our holiday card list would have filed our photo in the trash bin post Epiphany. I saved them a step and did not include a photo.
Now I'll spend next December and January thinking about my poor children's crumpled little faces as they lie at the bottom of a pile of discarded holiday cards, since I have been requested to include our photo in every holiday greeting in 2009. Actually, the request was to make our photo the holiday greeting. Forget Jesus in the manger! Old news! People want to see the Mannerz Family!
So. I apologize if you considered my card stuffed with photo gauche, or did not receive a photograph at all. I was being modest. And modesty does too sometimes come packaged in laziness. I checked.
Next year, your greeting from us will be properly outfitted.
And I guess I have until then to do something with my hair.
Music: I'm Too Sexy, Right Said Fred
My husband informed me the other night that he wishes we'd send out our photos with our holiday card. I reminded him that I did send a photo out with some of our cards, and despite the fact that it wasn't specifically a family holiday photo, and I didn't bother to play with the borders or otherwise put in much effort before I sent it to Target for printing, it was a photograph. Of us. Housed within a holiday card.
I think he's been bitten by the bug, because he didn't find this sufficient. One, I didn't include it in all the cards. For instance, I didn't include it in the card that went to the photographer who actually snapped the photo because duh - she already has it. "Not printed or framed," my husband pointed out, a thinking I find slightly ambitious. There are a limited number of households that desire to display our framed, smiling faces on their side tables. Perhaps a slightly larger contingent that might feel moved to toss our photo into an album, so we can become those people they used to know when they crack open the album twenty years from now.
A good half of our holiday card list would have filed our photo in the trash bin post Epiphany. I saved them a step and did not include a photo.
Now I'll spend next December and January thinking about my poor children's crumpled little faces as they lie at the bottom of a pile of discarded holiday cards, since I have been requested to include our photo in every holiday greeting in 2009. Actually, the request was to make our photo the holiday greeting. Forget Jesus in the manger! Old news! People want to see the Mannerz Family!
So. I apologize if you considered my card stuffed with photo gauche, or did not receive a photograph at all. I was being modest. And modesty does too sometimes come packaged in laziness. I checked.
Next year, your greeting from us will be properly outfitted.
And I guess I have until then to do something with my hair.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
And Away We Go
Mood: Restless
Music: Myself, humming
I'm in a mood. I wish the sun would come out.
The end. :)
Music: Myself, humming
I'm in a mood. I wish the sun would come out.
The end. :)
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