Thursday, March 30, 2006
Joan C. Browning
is a white woman who was part of SNCC way back in the beginning, and she came to LMU to talk tonight, so I bopped on over to the Union and sat for an hour and a half and got the top of my head taken off, so amazing was this talk.
Just the physical fact of her is a witness. That was the whole point of the lunch-counter, the buses, the train integration-- the point was white bodies taking up space next to black bodies. The point was skin next to skin, bodies as instruments of change. She used her body to change the world. And here's that same body, taking up space here and now, bearing its own witness independent even of the words she spoke. Just the physical fact of her is history. Occupying space at a lunch counter in 1961 is through that thread connected to occupying space in the LMU Student Union in 2006, and LMU gets a little closer to Georgia, the past to the present . . .
But then I was thinking about it more, and how distant is that past, really? If that same body can still be occupying space, this same soul still speak? And I thought about it more, and I realized: I was born in 1984. Dr. King was killed in 1968. The civil rights movement ended approximately fifteen years before I was born. That's NOTHING. Hell, I'm 21. It ended not even 80% of my so-far lifetime ago. And I'm young as hell. I'm barely an adult. Fifteen years before I was born, there was still a civil rights movement, and still a need for one, not even to combat the underground bullshit we got going on now, but just to provide for the physical safety of black people if they wanted to use the same bathrooms as whites. Holy shit. No wonder everything's still all fucked up.
Hey, white people who don't think there's racism anymore: first question-- How would you know whether or not there still is? You're white! You don't have to deal with it. Second question-- Jim Crow, not even institutionalized racism like we have today but actual physical legally-mandated separation of the races along with lynching and other violence by whites against blacks, was still alive and kicking within my parents' lifetime. Burden of proof is not on me. Burden of proof is on you. Prove to me that racism is over.
is a white woman who was part of SNCC way back in the beginning, and she came to LMU to talk tonight, so I bopped on over to the Union and sat for an hour and a half and got the top of my head taken off, so amazing was this talk.
Just the physical fact of her is a witness. That was the whole point of the lunch-counter, the buses, the train integration-- the point was white bodies taking up space next to black bodies. The point was skin next to skin, bodies as instruments of change. She used her body to change the world. And here's that same body, taking up space here and now, bearing its own witness independent even of the words she spoke. Just the physical fact of her is history. Occupying space at a lunch counter in 1961 is through that thread connected to occupying space in the LMU Student Union in 2006, and LMU gets a little closer to Georgia, the past to the present . . .
But then I was thinking about it more, and how distant is that past, really? If that same body can still be occupying space, this same soul still speak? And I thought about it more, and I realized: I was born in 1984. Dr. King was killed in 1968. The civil rights movement ended approximately fifteen years before I was born. That's NOTHING. Hell, I'm 21. It ended not even 80% of my so-far lifetime ago. And I'm young as hell. I'm barely an adult. Fifteen years before I was born, there was still a civil rights movement, and still a need for one, not even to combat the underground bullshit we got going on now, but just to provide for the physical safety of black people if they wanted to use the same bathrooms as whites. Holy shit. No wonder everything's still all fucked up.
Hey, white people who don't think there's racism anymore: first question-- How would you know whether or not there still is? You're white! You don't have to deal with it. Second question-- Jim Crow, not even institutionalized racism like we have today but actual physical legally-mandated separation of the races along with lynching and other violence by whites against blacks, was still alive and kicking within my parents' lifetime. Burden of proof is not on me. Burden of proof is on you. Prove to me that racism is over.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Ishmael Reed is my hero.
Reasons why include but are not limited to poems like the following:
DRAGON'S BLOOD, by Ishmael Reed
just because you
cant see d stones dont
mean im not building.
you aint no mason. how
d fuck would you know.
Reasons why include but are not limited to poems like the following:
DRAGON'S BLOOD, by Ishmael Reed
just because you
cant see d stones dont
mean im not building.
you aint no mason. how
d fuck would you know.
Monday, March 27, 2006
White privilege, part 2
So I walk into my English class today knowing that the textbook contains eight poets, all of them white. I think well, maybe we'll get other readings to flesh things out a little.
No.
And I'm looking around the classroom, and I think well, maybe we're going to have one class member who isn't white.
No.
And then the professor, who is white, says she's going to read some poems about spring after we go over the syllabus, and I think Oh good, some of them might be by people who aren't white.
No.
And the professor says we're going to practice poetry explication next class, so I go up to her after class and ask if we can do some Gwendolyn Brooks or Nikki Giovanni or Amiri Baraka or something, because every single poet she's referenced so far has been white. And she says, "Tell you what. You pick a poem you want explicated and bring in copies for everybody."
Which, okay, whatever. I know by now that any time I want to see non-whites represented, I have to do extra work, because the attitude is very much "Here's the canon, which is white Americans and British people, and if you want to do anything else, then that's just extra." I'm waiting for the day when it's an all-black or all-Latino or all-Asian canon and the damn okies got to do extra work if we want to see our pale faces, our privileged experience in our classes. But that day's a long way off.
So I'm heading out to go, and the professor says, "But yeah. That's a good point. But it was just that I wanted to concentrate on a few poets, and there was that book handy, and they all just happened to be white."
What? Lady, did you just hear yourself? That's like the ultimate statement of white privilege. "I know this is selecting and favoring one ethnic group only, but there's a textbook for it, which makes my job easier, so I'm going to do it anyway, and I can get away with it."
And I say that somebody should do a class on the Black Arts Movement sometime soon, and she says "Oh yeah. A few years ago we actually did a class on the Harlem Renaissance. We did the music and the poetry and the dancing and everything. It was good."
So she's apparently not even aware of what the Black Arts Movement is, let alone the fact that it happened in the 1960s and 1970s and is still causing uproar today. Plus apparently no black people have written anything of note since the 1940s.
So here's the question: drop, or stay and influence?
So I walk into my English class today knowing that the textbook contains eight poets, all of them white. I think well, maybe we'll get other readings to flesh things out a little.
No.
And I'm looking around the classroom, and I think well, maybe we're going to have one class member who isn't white.
No.
And then the professor, who is white, says she's going to read some poems about spring after we go over the syllabus, and I think Oh good, some of them might be by people who aren't white.
No.
And the professor says we're going to practice poetry explication next class, so I go up to her after class and ask if we can do some Gwendolyn Brooks or Nikki Giovanni or Amiri Baraka or something, because every single poet she's referenced so far has been white. And she says, "Tell you what. You pick a poem you want explicated and bring in copies for everybody."
Which, okay, whatever. I know by now that any time I want to see non-whites represented, I have to do extra work, because the attitude is very much "Here's the canon, which is white Americans and British people, and if you want to do anything else, then that's just extra." I'm waiting for the day when it's an all-black or all-Latino or all-Asian canon and the damn okies got to do extra work if we want to see our pale faces, our privileged experience in our classes. But that day's a long way off.
So I'm heading out to go, and the professor says, "But yeah. That's a good point. But it was just that I wanted to concentrate on a few poets, and there was that book handy, and they all just happened to be white."
What? Lady, did you just hear yourself? That's like the ultimate statement of white privilege. "I know this is selecting and favoring one ethnic group only, but there's a textbook for it, which makes my job easier, so I'm going to do it anyway, and I can get away with it."
And I say that somebody should do a class on the Black Arts Movement sometime soon, and she says "Oh yeah. A few years ago we actually did a class on the Harlem Renaissance. We did the music and the poetry and the dancing and everything. It was good."
So she's apparently not even aware of what the Black Arts Movement is, let alone the fact that it happened in the 1960s and 1970s and is still causing uproar today. Plus apparently no black people have written anything of note since the 1940s.
So here's the question: drop, or stay and influence?
Teo
My brother has a beautiful poetic soul and I hope that never gets squished out of him even if he decides to be a business person or an accountant or whatever money-driven crap he's studying right now. From the e-mail he wrote me yesterday:
It's hard finding absolutes and it sucks. I want to know 100% whether [nice, politically conservative Christian woman] would go out with me or not. I want to know 100% what happened when we were kids. I want to know 100% if God exists and how he operates. Though I desire a definitive answer to all of these, it's not there, so I have to be careful not to create one myself. That's what upsets me about so many "religious" people. What faith is involved if God's existence is as clear as our own?
My brother has a beautiful poetic soul and I hope that never gets squished out of him even if he decides to be a business person or an accountant or whatever money-driven crap he's studying right now. From the e-mail he wrote me yesterday:
It's hard finding absolutes and it sucks. I want to know 100% whether [nice, politically conservative Christian woman] would go out with me or not. I want to know 100% what happened when we were kids. I want to know 100% if God exists and how he operates. Though I desire a definitive answer to all of these, it's not there, so I have to be careful not to create one myself. That's what upsets me about so many "religious" people. What faith is involved if God's existence is as clear as our own?
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Cuando maduro, quiero ser la pagina "Entretenimiento" del Impacto Latino.
?Por que? If you even have to ask, I know you have not read the "Entretenimiento" page of the Impacto Latino. It always makes me reir. Every time.
This week:
PEPITO Y LA COMPRA-- Pepito and his mom, or possibly just Pepito, or possibly just his mom, go to the grocery store repeating what needs to be bought: salt, mangoes, and a yo-yo (this is Pepito's contribution to the list). A bunch of stuff happens that I would totally understand if I spoke Spanish, but I don't! Then there are cops! Or maybe not! Or maybe someone just calls them or threatens to call them! Or maybe there is a cop-related . . . I don't know . . . cereal? . . . or something? And then Pepito starts repeating the list like this "a yo-yo, salt, mangoes, go to jail . . ."
LA MOSCA Y EL FILETE-- "Waiter! Waiter! A fly! A fly!"
"What about a fly?"
"It's carrying my steak away!"
EL NINYO Y EL MERCADO (I can't figure out how to put in a tilde, so please forgive the odd spelling)-- A kid and his mom go to the grocery store. [Ed. Note: This set-up is comedy gold.] She tells him to wait by the doorway and she'll be back in five minutes, which . . . I don't know about you, and maybe the mercado is not like the Kroger's I go to, but I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that. Is the kid going to be there when she gets back? We can only hope. Anyway, he comes in to find her almost right away. Apparently some guy sat down next to him and farted. The mom, in her characteristically nurturing way, says "That's it? Why did you feel the need to come get me?" The kid says something that I would be laughing my butt off at right now if I spoke Spanish!
EL GALLEGO Y LOS KILOMETRES-- A foreman hires a gallego, whoever that is, to paint some lines on the road. First day, he gets 10km done. Second day, he gets 5km done. Third day, he gets 2km done. Fourth day, the foreman pulls up alongside him at the end of the day and notices the guy's done only 10m. "I don't understand," he says. "First day, you got 10 km done. Today, only 10m?" "Well, yeah. I keep having to go further and further every time." He's starting at the same place every day.
PACO Y SU CARTEL-- So Paco opens up a restaurant close to a highway. His friend Pepe [a name that, like the happy union of parents, children, and grocery stores, is comedy gold] says "Hey, you should put up a sign by the highway to attract customers." A month later, Pepe's driving down the highway and goes by the exit closest to Paco's restaurant. He doesn't see any signs, and he figures Paco gave up on the restaurant business. And he's driving, driving, driving. 10 minutes later, he sees this enormous lit-up sign: Restaurant-- Go back 5 km."
JAIMITO Y SU ABUELO-- Jaimito and his grandfather are hanging out. They're walking down the street, and Jaimito sees a piece of candy on the sidewalk. He goes to pick it up, but his grandfather says no, don't pick stuff up from the ground. So he doesn't, and they keep walking, and pretty soon they walk by some money on the sidewalk. "Remember not to pick stuff up off the ground," Jaimito's grandfather warns him. And they keep walking. And all of a sudden, Jaimito's grandfather trips over something and falls down. He says "Hey, Jaimito, help me up." And Jaimito says "I'm not supposed to pick stuff up off the ground."
EL OSO POLAR-- This mom polar bear and baby polar bear are walking in the snow. Baby polar bear says "Hey, mom, is it true that I'm a polar bear?" Mom says yes, you're a polar bear. More walking. "Hey, mom, is it true that I'm a polar bear?" Mom says yes, honey, it's true. More walking. "Hey, mom, is it true that I'm a polar bear?" Mom: "Why do you keep asking, honey?" Baby polar bear: "I feel really cold."
LA NOVIA-- "I heard you and your girlfriend broke up. What happened?" "Well, I wasn't rich enough and didn't have a good enough job for her." "You didn't tell her you're the nephew of the owner of all the biggest warehouses in town?" "Of course I did. So she broke up with me and now she's my aunt."
LA CUCARACHA-- So one day a boy is walking along the street and sees a cockroach. So he says "Hey, cockroach. Where are you going?" And the cockroach says "Home." And the boy squishes it and says "You're going home?" I think if I spoke Spanish this might actually come across to me as a joke and not just a retelling of a random act of cruelty.
EL MEXICANO Y EL CAFE-- A Mexican man walks into a bar and says to the bartender, "I would like some really strong coffee." Then there's something about a porqueria, which I thought was a word for dirt. So the bartender makes some coffee and puts-- gunpowder? Yeah, gunpowder-- in it and gives it to the Mexican dude, who drinks it. Then the next day the Mexican dude comes back to the bar and the bartender says "Was the coffee strong?" And the Mexican dude says "Oh yes it was," and then there's something about him killing a horse.
PEPITO Y EL LIBRO DE MISTERIO-- So Pepito, returned from his grocery-store/prison adventure, or maybe it's another Pepito, walks into a bookstore and says to the guy who sells books "Excuse me, sir, but I don't imagine you have a mystery novel that will leave my mouth open, do you?" Whooo! Presumptive idiom time! I assume he means "that will surprise me a lot" and not actually "that will force my jaws apart," because you could force a person's jaws apart with any book, really, if you use it right. Not that you should, just that you could. But anyway, the guy says "Yes, I do." And Pepito says "What's it about?" And the bookstore guy says "About a murder that takes place in this millionaire's house, and they're all trying to figure out who did it." And Pepito gets all excited and says "What's the title?" "The Killer Butler."
DE POLONIA A OCCIDENTE-- A guy who lived in Polonia decided to immigrate to Occidente. So the flight attendant was talking to him and said "Why do you want to immigrate to Occidente? You're not happy with your job?" And he says "I can't complain." So she continues: "You're not happy with the taxes?" And he says "I can't complain." She's really curious now, and she says "So you're not happy with how much they pay you?" And he says "I can't complain." "Then why do you want to immigrate to Occidente?" "Because there I can complain." Ooo. I'm not sure if this is a political comment or what. If I spoke Spanish, I might be.
So there's my guera fun for the day . . .
?Por que? If you even have to ask, I know you have not read the "Entretenimiento" page of the Impacto Latino. It always makes me reir. Every time.
This week:
PEPITO Y LA COMPRA-- Pepito and his mom, or possibly just Pepito, or possibly just his mom, go to the grocery store repeating what needs to be bought: salt, mangoes, and a yo-yo (this is Pepito's contribution to the list). A bunch of stuff happens that I would totally understand if I spoke Spanish, but I don't! Then there are cops! Or maybe not! Or maybe someone just calls them or threatens to call them! Or maybe there is a cop-related . . . I don't know . . . cereal? . . . or something? And then Pepito starts repeating the list like this "a yo-yo, salt, mangoes, go to jail . . ."
LA MOSCA Y EL FILETE-- "Waiter! Waiter! A fly! A fly!"
"What about a fly?"
"It's carrying my steak away!"
EL NINYO Y EL MERCADO (I can't figure out how to put in a tilde, so please forgive the odd spelling)-- A kid and his mom go to the grocery store. [Ed. Note: This set-up is comedy gold.] She tells him to wait by the doorway and she'll be back in five minutes, which . . . I don't know about you, and maybe the mercado is not like the Kroger's I go to, but I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that. Is the kid going to be there when she gets back? We can only hope. Anyway, he comes in to find her almost right away. Apparently some guy sat down next to him and farted. The mom, in her characteristically nurturing way, says "That's it? Why did you feel the need to come get me?" The kid says something that I would be laughing my butt off at right now if I spoke Spanish!
EL GALLEGO Y LOS KILOMETRES-- A foreman hires a gallego, whoever that is, to paint some lines on the road. First day, he gets 10km done. Second day, he gets 5km done. Third day, he gets 2km done. Fourth day, the foreman pulls up alongside him at the end of the day and notices the guy's done only 10m. "I don't understand," he says. "First day, you got 10 km done. Today, only 10m?" "Well, yeah. I keep having to go further and further every time." He's starting at the same place every day.
PACO Y SU CARTEL-- So Paco opens up a restaurant close to a highway. His friend Pepe [a name that, like the happy union of parents, children, and grocery stores, is comedy gold] says "Hey, you should put up a sign by the highway to attract customers." A month later, Pepe's driving down the highway and goes by the exit closest to Paco's restaurant. He doesn't see any signs, and he figures Paco gave up on the restaurant business. And he's driving, driving, driving. 10 minutes later, he sees this enormous lit-up sign: Restaurant-- Go back 5 km."
JAIMITO Y SU ABUELO-- Jaimito and his grandfather are hanging out. They're walking down the street, and Jaimito sees a piece of candy on the sidewalk. He goes to pick it up, but his grandfather says no, don't pick stuff up from the ground. So he doesn't, and they keep walking, and pretty soon they walk by some money on the sidewalk. "Remember not to pick stuff up off the ground," Jaimito's grandfather warns him. And they keep walking. And all of a sudden, Jaimito's grandfather trips over something and falls down. He says "Hey, Jaimito, help me up." And Jaimito says "I'm not supposed to pick stuff up off the ground."
EL OSO POLAR-- This mom polar bear and baby polar bear are walking in the snow. Baby polar bear says "Hey, mom, is it true that I'm a polar bear?" Mom says yes, you're a polar bear. More walking. "Hey, mom, is it true that I'm a polar bear?" Mom says yes, honey, it's true. More walking. "Hey, mom, is it true that I'm a polar bear?" Mom: "Why do you keep asking, honey?" Baby polar bear: "I feel really cold."
LA NOVIA-- "I heard you and your girlfriend broke up. What happened?" "Well, I wasn't rich enough and didn't have a good enough job for her." "You didn't tell her you're the nephew of the owner of all the biggest warehouses in town?" "Of course I did. So she broke up with me and now she's my aunt."
LA CUCARACHA-- So one day a boy is walking along the street and sees a cockroach. So he says "Hey, cockroach. Where are you going?" And the cockroach says "Home." And the boy squishes it and says "You're going home?" I think if I spoke Spanish this might actually come across to me as a joke and not just a retelling of a random act of cruelty.
EL MEXICANO Y EL CAFE-- A Mexican man walks into a bar and says to the bartender, "I would like some really strong coffee." Then there's something about a porqueria, which I thought was a word for dirt. So the bartender makes some coffee and puts-- gunpowder? Yeah, gunpowder-- in it and gives it to the Mexican dude, who drinks it. Then the next day the Mexican dude comes back to the bar and the bartender says "Was the coffee strong?" And the Mexican dude says "Oh yes it was," and then there's something about him killing a horse.
PEPITO Y EL LIBRO DE MISTERIO-- So Pepito, returned from his grocery-store/prison adventure, or maybe it's another Pepito, walks into a bookstore and says to the guy who sells books "Excuse me, sir, but I don't imagine you have a mystery novel that will leave my mouth open, do you?" Whooo! Presumptive idiom time! I assume he means "that will surprise me a lot" and not actually "that will force my jaws apart," because you could force a person's jaws apart with any book, really, if you use it right. Not that you should, just that you could. But anyway, the guy says "Yes, I do." And Pepito says "What's it about?" And the bookstore guy says "About a murder that takes place in this millionaire's house, and they're all trying to figure out who did it." And Pepito gets all excited and says "What's the title?" "The Killer Butler."
DE POLONIA A OCCIDENTE-- A guy who lived in Polonia decided to immigrate to Occidente. So the flight attendant was talking to him and said "Why do you want to immigrate to Occidente? You're not happy with your job?" And he says "I can't complain." So she continues: "You're not happy with the taxes?" And he says "I can't complain." She's really curious now, and she says "So you're not happy with how much they pay you?" And he says "I can't complain." "Then why do you want to immigrate to Occidente?" "Because there I can complain." Ooo. I'm not sure if this is a political comment or what. If I spoke Spanish, I might be.
So there's my guera fun for the day . . .
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Quote of the Day,
from an e-mail from some Christian dude associated with a group we worked with for Interfaith Dialogue Club:
"The project of bringing heaven down to earth always results in bringing hell up from below."
--Lesslie Newbigin in "Foolishness to the Greeks"
What do y'all think?
from an e-mail from some Christian dude associated with a group we worked with for Interfaith Dialogue Club:
"The project of bringing heaven down to earth always results in bringing hell up from below."
--Lesslie Newbigin in "Foolishness to the Greeks"
What do y'all think?
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
My work here is done.
About five minutes ago, I finished my last paper for the quarter. Its title is "I'll Give You a Fist to Fuck: Sexual Identity, Performance, and Power in Gayl Jones' Corregidora."
Non-French Antoine laughed when I told him that. "Heh. So what's the actual title?"
Yeah, that is the actual title.
And it's a quote from the book.
Corregidora is one hell of a novel.
About five minutes ago, I finished my last paper for the quarter. Its title is "I'll Give You a Fist to Fuck: Sexual Identity, Performance, and Power in Gayl Jones' Corregidora."
Non-French Antoine laughed when I told him that. "Heh. So what's the actual title?"
Yeah, that is the actual title.
And it's a quote from the book.
Corregidora is one hell of a novel.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
"Somnolescent Duck" would be a good name for a rock band.
The other day when I walked by Mirror Lake, the ducks were still mostly asleep, each standing there at the edge of the water with its head all cranked around backward and tucked under a wing. Awww. I had to stop and watch them for awhile, as they woke, to notice how first the feet would shift and then the eyes would open and then they'd finally stir their heads and wings and go look for bugs for breakfast. I played a little game with one of them, one of the ones that looks kind of like a small winged Holstein with a beak and webbed feet:
Schu: (inches toward Holstein duck)
Holstein duck: (eyes Schu warily but doesn't move a muscle)
Schu: (inches toward Holstein duck)
Holstein duck: (eyes Schu warily but doesn't move a muscle)
Schu: (inches toward Holstein duck)
Holstein duck: (moves ever so faintly away from Schu)
Schu: (inches toward Holstein duck)
Holstein duck: (picks up head a little and moves away from Schu)
Schu: (stops)
Holstein duck: (settles down, putting head back partially under wing)
Schu: (inches toward Holstein duck)
Lather, rinse, repeat. But then I felt bad about annoying the Holstein duck, as the fact that it was still kind of sleeping at 10AM indicated to me that it, as one of LMU's residential ducks, had been having some late nights along with the college kids who probably keep said duck up at all hours of the night, so I turned to go back in to work, abandoning my project of trying to look more closely at the feathers of the Holstein duck, and there was some middle-aged guy walking in the opposite direction, so I told him "Look. The ducks are still asleep." Surely everyone appreciates a somnolescent duck, right?
His response, utterly without hesitation or pause: "Guess we could do like cow-tipping-- go duck-tipping, huh?"
The other day when I walked by Mirror Lake, the ducks were still mostly asleep, each standing there at the edge of the water with its head all cranked around backward and tucked under a wing. Awww. I had to stop and watch them for awhile, as they woke, to notice how first the feet would shift and then the eyes would open and then they'd finally stir their heads and wings and go look for bugs for breakfast. I played a little game with one of them, one of the ones that looks kind of like a small winged Holstein with a beak and webbed feet:
Schu: (inches toward Holstein duck)
Holstein duck: (eyes Schu warily but doesn't move a muscle)
Schu: (inches toward Holstein duck)
Holstein duck: (eyes Schu warily but doesn't move a muscle)
Schu: (inches toward Holstein duck)
Holstein duck: (moves ever so faintly away from Schu)
Schu: (inches toward Holstein duck)
Holstein duck: (picks up head a little and moves away from Schu)
Schu: (stops)
Holstein duck: (settles down, putting head back partially under wing)
Schu: (inches toward Holstein duck)
Lather, rinse, repeat. But then I felt bad about annoying the Holstein duck, as the fact that it was still kind of sleeping at 10AM indicated to me that it, as one of LMU's residential ducks, had been having some late nights along with the college kids who probably keep said duck up at all hours of the night, so I turned to go back in to work, abandoning my project of trying to look more closely at the feathers of the Holstein duck, and there was some middle-aged guy walking in the opposite direction, so I told him "Look. The ducks are still asleep." Surely everyone appreciates a somnolescent duck, right?
His response, utterly without hesitation or pause: "Guess we could do like cow-tipping-- go duck-tipping, huh?"
Friday, March 10, 2006
"What you need is a woman."
This title is an actual comment made to me by a (surprisingly sensible) classmate.
We've only been divorced for what, three months now? Four?
But there's a woman I know, and she's lovely, and she knows about linguistics and she laughs like rain and she smiles at me and her hair's pretty short and the general consensus from everyone I've asked is that I do have some kind of chance with her . . .
So how the hell does a person go about dating? It's never been an issue for me before-- I was religiously flipped out, then J asked me out, then we got engaged on maybe our seventh date, got married, and the rest is history. How do normal people ask each other out? What do you do on a date if you're not a closeted Jesus freak and an impoverished pregnant justice fighter? Maybe it's weird to just walk around campus and sit under trees holding hands and reading horoscopes and trying to feel the baby kick and singing.
How do you know when somebody's interested in you? What if they're not? How do you bring up real things, and when? Y'all are just hanging out a month into things, eating pizza, and all of a sudden "Hey, just so you know, I was sexually abused almost my whole life, birth to seventeen, until I left for college, and now I get flashbacks and nightmares and am diagnosed with the worst kind of PTSD there is and might actually never be able to get rid of them or even go to sleep in the same room as you without twitching endlessly and waking up in a cold sweat and wanting you and resenting you all at the same time"?
I don't remember, more generally, what a person talks about on a date-- I'm guessing the kid and ex-wife are not key topics, but what else do I know how to say? I don't remember (if I ever knew) about dating protocol surrounding physical contact. Is it dorky to ask someone "Hug: good, bad, or neutral?" and really care about the answer? Does anybody still date for marriage, or is it just me and Chasidim and a few creepy Christians? Is it weird to be like "Hey, this is to see if we're soulmates who are destined to build a life together and attempt to fix the world, so let's talk about our views of G-d" on the second date? I have no idea. I think the answer to most of these is yes, but I'm not sure that means I should eschew them.
Maybe there's a bigger question: Who am I? Am I a person who dates only for marriage? A person who thinks a nice date involves spending time just sitting around with someone else talking about G-d? How do I integrate my spiritual self with my romantic self? How do I handle the abuse's effects in my life, and the issue of telling? I don't know.
I guess I'm about to find out, or at least try it out . . .
This title is an actual comment made to me by a (surprisingly sensible) classmate.
We've only been divorced for what, three months now? Four?
But there's a woman I know, and she's lovely, and she knows about linguistics and she laughs like rain and she smiles at me and her hair's pretty short and the general consensus from everyone I've asked is that I do have some kind of chance with her . . .
So how the hell does a person go about dating? It's never been an issue for me before-- I was religiously flipped out, then J asked me out, then we got engaged on maybe our seventh date, got married, and the rest is history. How do normal people ask each other out? What do you do on a date if you're not a closeted Jesus freak and an impoverished pregnant justice fighter? Maybe it's weird to just walk around campus and sit under trees holding hands and reading horoscopes and trying to feel the baby kick and singing.
How do you know when somebody's interested in you? What if they're not? How do you bring up real things, and when? Y'all are just hanging out a month into things, eating pizza, and all of a sudden "Hey, just so you know, I was sexually abused almost my whole life, birth to seventeen, until I left for college, and now I get flashbacks and nightmares and am diagnosed with the worst kind of PTSD there is and might actually never be able to get rid of them or even go to sleep in the same room as you without twitching endlessly and waking up in a cold sweat and wanting you and resenting you all at the same time"?
I don't remember, more generally, what a person talks about on a date-- I'm guessing the kid and ex-wife are not key topics, but what else do I know how to say? I don't remember (if I ever knew) about dating protocol surrounding physical contact. Is it dorky to ask someone "Hug: good, bad, or neutral?" and really care about the answer? Does anybody still date for marriage, or is it just me and Chasidim and a few creepy Christians? Is it weird to be like "Hey, this is to see if we're soulmates who are destined to build a life together and attempt to fix the world, so let's talk about our views of G-d" on the second date? I have no idea. I think the answer to most of these is yes, but I'm not sure that means I should eschew them.
Maybe there's a bigger question: Who am I? Am I a person who dates only for marriage? A person who thinks a nice date involves spending time just sitting around with someone else talking about G-d? How do I integrate my spiritual self with my romantic self? How do I handle the abuse's effects in my life, and the issue of telling? I don't know.
I guess I'm about to find out, or at least try it out . . .
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Seriously, dudes. Unpack it.
So I have recently been charged with writing an 8-page paper about English-only movements in the US. Not so bad, right? Could be some good research, some points to make, an opportunity to develop arguments for and against each side . . . but wait. What's this fine print?
I have to do it without talking about racism or classism.
What?
So here's the White-privilege article I wish I could make all my White classmates and my White professor read: http://seamonkey.ed.asu.edu/~mcisaac/emc598ge/Unpacking.html
Read the article. Unpack the knapsack. Remember Revelation 10:9, where there's the scroll and the guy eats it and it's sweet in his mouth and bitter in his belly, and then the angels are all "Yeah, now you gotta go prophesy more"? This is like that.
So I have recently been charged with writing an 8-page paper about English-only movements in the US. Not so bad, right? Could be some good research, some points to make, an opportunity to develop arguments for and against each side . . . but wait. What's this fine print?
I have to do it without talking about racism or classism.
What?
So here's the White-privilege article I wish I could make all my White classmates and my White professor read: http://seamonkey.ed.asu.edu/~mcisaac/emc598ge/Unpacking.html
Read the article. Unpack the knapsack. Remember Revelation 10:9, where there's the scroll and the guy eats it and it's sweet in his mouth and bitter in his belly, and then the angels are all "Yeah, now you gotta go prophesy more"? This is like that.
