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?
Saturday, January 31, 2009
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. :)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
