Dear Margaret Cho,
You don't know me, but we're in love. We have to, but, you understand. I'm trying to prove myself reagardless of my race too. I know you're proud of everything you're doing, have done, and will do, just like I am, and will be. I like what you wrote about Yoko Ono, that she was the one that John Lennon couldn't have written all that music without. What you have to say about Richard Pryor, that was amazing. I know I'm not what you picture when you think of your ideal love: twenty-one years old, caucasian, middle-class, educated and dominant and proud. I thought you'd like to know though that if you were in love with all those strong people that strived to make a difference everyday then you should love me too. I feel oppressed by my skin too. I don't want smart people like you to see me like this anymore. I want to be a proud balck mama. a migrant mexican worder. and exchange asain student all awkward with my big brain and Coke glasses. I'd be easier for me to fight then. People could rally behind me and be proud, then. When we get married, can I take your last name? I like it lots.
-Garrett Williams
19 January 2009
Hey, little girl
He, little black girl, I'm your neighbor.
I can't help it, either.
White, male and middle class,
I'm here to apologize to you.
At one time, people who looked like me
took people from somewhere and they looked like you.
They taught them how to speak like me,
like your people today are teaching me.
You look pretty in your plaits, little one.
Just like my little sister.
I can't help it I was born this color,
the color of oppression and greed.
Those stealers weren't me, i would have said no.
I know you would have fought too.
We're not perfect kids, you or I,
but we're here together. today.
I have a mouth just like you, child.
My brain functions just the same.
Yet your people see me and think: hate.
Yet I see you and think: I'm sorry.
I can't help it, either.
White, male and middle class,
I'm here to apologize to you.
At one time, people who looked like me
took people from somewhere and they looked like you.
They taught them how to speak like me,
like your people today are teaching me.
You look pretty in your plaits, little one.
Just like my little sister.
I can't help it I was born this color,
the color of oppression and greed.
Those stealers weren't me, i would have said no.
I know you would have fought too.
We're not perfect kids, you or I,
but we're here together. today.
I have a mouth just like you, child.
My brain functions just the same.
Yet your people see me and think: hate.
Yet I see you and think: I'm sorry.
16 January 2009
And the Attrition Begins
I just taught my second class. All 26 students were there for the first day. Today, I had two no-shows and one rather late. That's to be expected. What bothered me more was that we were peer reviewing a 1-2 page draft today, and 5 of the remaining 21 students had no draft with them, and were hence unable to participate. One offered to read someone's and I had to shut that down. Letting someone read your piece, especially your raw, unedited draft is an act of courage. There's no courage involved in reviewing without being reviewed. I said this and got a slightly ashamed "Uh huh" in response.
That said, I ended up being a peer because there was an odd number of students, and the girl who reviewed my draft had the guts to make criticisms on mine. Hopefully this means that I am accessible. I'm trying to balance that and my authority. I'm getting observed by my department chair on my first class next week. I'm not even concerned with impressing her, I just want to make sure I don't disappoint.
That said, I ended up being a peer because there was an odd number of students, and the girl who reviewed my draft had the guts to make criticisms on mine. Hopefully this means that I am accessible. I'm trying to balance that and my authority. I'm getting observed by my department chair on my first class next week. I'm not even concerned with impressing her, I just want to make sure I don't disappoint.
09 January 2009
Dark-Haired Beauty
The trouble with coloring one's own hair is that you inevitably end up dying your head, ears, forehead and hands along with your hair. The upside is that it's all your fault.
Taking it back around something more interesting than my current hair colour: I like blaming myself for my actions. I like being able to pick apart an event and see my hand stained red from the blood. I watch the events fold themselves back up into seperate chapters and then replay the opening, reading and melding of them until the final conclusion in my life. It's pretty much imperative to my lifestyle that I do this constantly. Not just with me, either. Picking apart an event in someone else's life is a different sort of joy. It's not just the replaying, it's the guessing and (honestly) making-it-up game that help me get by. Because of my imparative restructuring/blaming, I can tell you how/why my parents REALLY got divorced (they're spies. it's a long story), I can tell you why my brother and I came out so radically different (womb size), how Kurt Vonnegut died (angry cigarette company agent induces heartattack because of his ranting about being promised cancer and not getting it) and a myriad of other wonderful tales. They're not especially long or really true, but they get me through the day.
-How Hugs Started
I like to put this one in Greek culture. Aside from the rampant homoerotic nature of their boys and hugs from behind they gave each other, there were an awful bunch of smart guys hanging out. They were in the Debate Club, hanging out feeding each other grapes and such, when one asked the question of how best to express your love. It was quickly agreed that sexual intercourse wasn't the way. Dying for love was contemptable in their eyes (as it was so irrational). The many sore men decided that to surrender the part of you which is most vunerable to the other person would show trust and honor and love for another person. They started touching heads to show each other how much they cared and loved each other. Right there in the Debate Club these old boys were rubbing their noggins' one each other. Then they struck upon the reciprocal part. It wasn't enough to just not smash their brains out when offered. It must be reciprocated. and so they touched their heads together. At that point the Asian guys in the corner scooted out (they were late for their tea ceremony). See bowing in Asian Culture. The debate continued though.
Obviously not all people revered their heads as the most important part of their body such as the Debate Club did. The discussion leaned towards the other revered body of Greece, their troops. And as the troops covered their heads (ah ha! said one side), the most important thing to protect was their chest. Thusly, the two schools of how to show love to each other came about. Some will bow their heads to each other, and others will meet their breasts. Handshaking is just ridiculous.
Taking it back around something more interesting than my current hair colour: I like blaming myself for my actions. I like being able to pick apart an event and see my hand stained red from the blood. I watch the events fold themselves back up into seperate chapters and then replay the opening, reading and melding of them until the final conclusion in my life. It's pretty much imperative to my lifestyle that I do this constantly. Not just with me, either. Picking apart an event in someone else's life is a different sort of joy. It's not just the replaying, it's the guessing and (honestly) making-it-up game that help me get by. Because of my imparative restructuring/blaming, I can tell you how/why my parents REALLY got divorced (they're spies. it's a long story), I can tell you why my brother and I came out so radically different (womb size), how Kurt Vonnegut died (angry cigarette company agent induces heartattack because of his ranting about being promised cancer and not getting it) and a myriad of other wonderful tales. They're not especially long or really true, but they get me through the day.
-How Hugs Started
I like to put this one in Greek culture. Aside from the rampant homoerotic nature of their boys and hugs from behind they gave each other, there were an awful bunch of smart guys hanging out. They were in the Debate Club, hanging out feeding each other grapes and such, when one asked the question of how best to express your love. It was quickly agreed that sexual intercourse wasn't the way. Dying for love was contemptable in their eyes (as it was so irrational). The many sore men decided that to surrender the part of you which is most vunerable to the other person would show trust and honor and love for another person. They started touching heads to show each other how much they cared and loved each other. Right there in the Debate Club these old boys were rubbing their noggins' one each other. Then they struck upon the reciprocal part. It wasn't enough to just not smash their brains out when offered. It must be reciprocated. and so they touched their heads together. At that point the Asian guys in the corner scooted out (they were late for their tea ceremony). See bowing in Asian Culture. The debate continued though.
Obviously not all people revered their heads as the most important part of their body such as the Debate Club did. The discussion leaned towards the other revered body of Greece, their troops. And as the troops covered their heads (ah ha! said one side), the most important thing to protect was their chest. Thusly, the two schools of how to show love to each other came about. Some will bow their heads to each other, and others will meet their breasts. Handshaking is just ridiculous.
28 December 2008
Short Short
Technology is taking over everything and pushing itself further into my daily routine. Turning my cell phone off is recognized as the penultimate kiss-off to the world. It's widely recognized between the group of friends and literati I associate with that this is the symbol of a day off. I like that I have an off switch for the world. I want to be insular. It's not selfish, I promise.
08 December 2008
Prompt: The Sky Opens Up...
The sky opens up and leaves the faucet running. Obviously unconcerned about the water bill, Mother Nature. She let the world get a good hour long soaking before remembering the water was running. She hummed the thunder while making herself tea in the Indian Ocean. Her laughter literally cackled as lighting pealed from her omnipresent mouth, her mirth generated by a dirty joke about two rabbi's and an orange the Loki had told her during the last big social event. She'd been standing very prettily, in her favorite lavender dress, by the door waiting for an opportunity to leave the reception for Zues' latest mortal nuptuals. She was fresh and smelled a little like good, moist dirt mixed with a flower that smelled a lot like cotten candy and sweet sex (it only grew in one place, which she hid well from the mortals). She looked so young and fresh because is was Spring and she was ready to help the world rise again from her dowdy winter clothes. Loki had siddled up to her and started right away with the joke, ignoring formality. She had to ignore him, she knew. The last time they tango-ed a bird known as the platypus came about in the mortal world. She was conflicted recently, about helping the humans. It seemed like the people just never helped themselves. She was, I believe, a bit bored.
Times HAD been exciting since the human s came around. Humans filled a void that would never be done quite right by flora a fauna. They had ingeneous methods of making her very long life very interesting. It seemed as if they were created, at times, soley to make her work harder. Granted, she knew this wasn't true. But the gods are always wont to make hyperbole. And, honestly, we all have those people we are certain of this behavior. Mother Earth had ALL the people. Ever.
Usually she found herself pleasantly exhausted by the strain humans put on her. Almost a bit smug. For though she loved and lathed Them, she helped them by showing them how feeble they would always be in comparison to the gods. 'Maybe,' she would muse, 'they'll see how little impact they're having and stop bothering so much.' She snorted derisively at her own preposterousness. "Ha! and I'm the bleedin' wife of Santa Claus!" Which, of course, she wasn't. Mrs. Claus, first of all, has always been old, pale-skinned and cheerful. Whereas Mother Nature changed how her appearance looked every third month or so, looked a bit Native American and sometimes was a downright bitch. Especially at new moon. This rainy day was such a day. She was trying to forget about it by throwing herself at work. It takes more than work to content a diety. After about the first seven seconds of existance the gods had figured out that one.
So the gods tried to figure out things that weren't work. The held meetings with subcommities and secretaries and minute-takers. Which was a lot like work, but they're not always the brightest bunch to grace our Universe. The problem of being all knowing is that it amounts to very little to know when there is Nothing all around the magnificent All-Powerful You. Out of the commities came the humans. After about 30 seconds after the first one limped himself out of the muck and started to mess with the other things the gods had made they decided it was a bad idea and decided to take them back out of the equations. It went through some deliberation though. More meetings. More subcommities. More minute-takers. In the end about a third of the gods dissented against it. They became known as The Splinter; forever shunned, and blamed. The Splinter didn't want the humans to go away: they were having a blast with the humans.
It was then put to a final vote amongst the gods. The end result of several thousand ideas was this solution: if the gods in favor of destruction of all the humans could get all the humans on their side The Splinter would relent and consent to the human's demise. Becuase the language gods speak to each other sounds a lot (to us) like swiftly tilting planets wizzing by each other about 27 million miles apart, it is very hard to quote the exact terms of The Battle. It was decided, somewhere along the way, that this was very fun (although it was a bit like work for some). The Wood, as the larger, in-favor-of-destruction group was known, started very early by saying things to the humans to get them on their side. The would come out of the sky and boom in loud voices, they would arrange tea leaves, strike bushes asunder in pivotal moments, anything to win over the humans. Many of the messages warned against The Splinter group. To make it a more sporting chance, and because (honestly) they were tricked into it by The Splinters, a rule came to be that they weren't allowed to do that anymore. The humans had to work it out for themselves from then on and there was only allowed to be influence, not action. Which did not mean any less of the humans stopped c laiming they were being conacted, of course. That was a while ago. Mother Earth handn't taken part of all that. She was an artist and therefore cast her "yes or no" ballot as a write in: Pete Best. It was a throwaway vote and she knew it. It wouldn't matter, her vote didn't count, really. All the big decisions were made in subcommitties behind closed doors and they all knew it. The reason they didn't particularly care was because of an Idea put into practice just moments after humans had come up out of the aether. The idea was a Word of Power. It was envoked to control masses of people from independant lives into a story arc that would coincide with other arcs and so on, causing an unending flux in what was consdered proper in many contexts. It multiplied the more often it was said and exponentially expanded by each new entity using it. The word Mother Nature loved so much it made her peel of another series of cackling firebolts to nowhere just thinking of it: Party. Humans used it. Gods used it. Sometimes gods would use it with humans! It was this reason that there was The Battle. If it weren't for parties, humans would be decimated.
Times HAD been exciting since the human s came around. Humans filled a void that would never be done quite right by flora a fauna. They had ingeneous methods of making her very long life very interesting. It seemed as if they were created, at times, soley to make her work harder. Granted, she knew this wasn't true. But the gods are always wont to make hyperbole. And, honestly, we all have those people we are certain of this behavior. Mother Earth had ALL the people. Ever.
Usually she found herself pleasantly exhausted by the strain humans put on her. Almost a bit smug. For though she loved and lathed Them, she helped them by showing them how feeble they would always be in comparison to the gods. 'Maybe,' she would muse, 'they'll see how little impact they're having and stop bothering so much.' She snorted derisively at her own preposterousness. "Ha! and I'm the bleedin' wife of Santa Claus!" Which, of course, she wasn't. Mrs. Claus, first of all, has always been old, pale-skinned and cheerful. Whereas Mother Nature changed how her appearance looked every third month or so, looked a bit Native American and sometimes was a downright bitch. Especially at new moon. This rainy day was such a day. She was trying to forget about it by throwing herself at work. It takes more than work to content a diety. After about the first seven seconds of existance the gods had figured out that one.
So the gods tried to figure out things that weren't work. The held meetings with subcommities and secretaries and minute-takers. Which was a lot like work, but they're not always the brightest bunch to grace our Universe. The problem of being all knowing is that it amounts to very little to know when there is Nothing all around the magnificent All-Powerful You. Out of the commities came the humans. After about 30 seconds after the first one limped himself out of the muck and started to mess with the other things the gods had made they decided it was a bad idea and decided to take them back out of the equations. It went through some deliberation though. More meetings. More subcommities. More minute-takers. In the end about a third of the gods dissented against it. They became known as The Splinter; forever shunned, and blamed. The Splinter didn't want the humans to go away: they were having a blast with the humans.
It was then put to a final vote amongst the gods. The end result of several thousand ideas was this solution: if the gods in favor of destruction of all the humans could get all the humans on their side The Splinter would relent and consent to the human's demise. Becuase the language gods speak to each other sounds a lot (to us) like swiftly tilting planets wizzing by each other about 27 million miles apart, it is very hard to quote the exact terms of The Battle. It was decided, somewhere along the way, that this was very fun (although it was a bit like work for some). The Wood, as the larger, in-favor-of-destruction group was known, started very early by saying things to the humans to get them on their side. The would come out of the sky and boom in loud voices, they would arrange tea leaves, strike bushes asunder in pivotal moments, anything to win over the humans. Many of the messages warned against The Splinter group. To make it a more sporting chance, and because (honestly) they were tricked into it by The Splinters, a rule came to be that they weren't allowed to do that anymore. The humans had to work it out for themselves from then on and there was only allowed to be influence, not action. Which did not mean any less of the humans stopped c laiming they were being conacted, of course. That was a while ago. Mother Earth handn't taken part of all that. She was an artist and therefore cast her "yes or no" ballot as a write in: Pete Best. It was a throwaway vote and she knew it. It wouldn't matter, her vote didn't count, really. All the big decisions were made in subcommitties behind closed doors and they all knew it. The reason they didn't particularly care was because of an Idea put into practice just moments after humans had come up out of the aether. The idea was a Word of Power. It was envoked to control masses of people from independant lives into a story arc that would coincide with other arcs and so on, causing an unending flux in what was consdered proper in many contexts. It multiplied the more often it was said and exponentially expanded by each new entity using it. The word Mother Nature loved so much it made her peel of another series of cackling firebolts to nowhere just thinking of it: Party. Humans used it. Gods used it. Sometimes gods would use it with humans! It was this reason that there was The Battle. If it weren't for parties, humans would be decimated.
29 November 2008
Anxiety, not Angst
I'm gonna do it again. I set up a deadline for myself, a reasonable one. I was going to hammer down, gear up, focus, get moving, I don't even know what to call it anymore. But I was gonna do it. I'd have either the DIABLO II chapter or the HELLBLAZER chapter ready for review by the weekend after Thanksgiving. That was November 4th.
It is now November 29th (as if you hadn't read the timestamp on the post). In the intervening time I was involved in what my boss refers to as "Three weeks of Hell." Before anyone gets some smartass reference to my thesis topic in mind, I already though of that, and no, I can't figure out a plausible way to explain it as 'field research.' Anyway, the Gods of Petroleum came to central Pennsylvania, and any life outside of Oilwork was pushed into Limbo. I have somehow kept up in my Literacy Studies course, had my interview for that internship, and not quite lost my mind to stress in the intervening 24 days.
I have even produced 7 pages on one chapter and 6 on another, but there's isn't an orthodox priest's chance at a Boy Scout Camp that I'll have anything worth the Advisor's examination by tonight. Maybe by Monday. Maybe. I'm hitting the page pretty hard, soon after sending this into the AetherWeb, but if last nights blockage is any indicator I'd have better luck lighting myself on fire and calling it a "Creative Production."
I think I'll wait till tomorrow before I compose the second installment of "I'm not slacking, I'm just not getting anything done" and send it to a disappointed academic parent. I wish I had Adderol--Caffeine ain't gonna touch this. Maybe I'll just send her the link to this page.
It is now November 29th (as if you hadn't read the timestamp on the post). In the intervening time I was involved in what my boss refers to as "Three weeks of Hell." Before anyone gets some smartass reference to my thesis topic in mind, I already though of that, and no, I can't figure out a plausible way to explain it as 'field research.' Anyway, the Gods of Petroleum came to central Pennsylvania, and any life outside of Oilwork was pushed into Limbo. I have somehow kept up in my Literacy Studies course, had my interview for that internship, and not quite lost my mind to stress in the intervening 24 days.
I have even produced 7 pages on one chapter and 6 on another, but there's isn't an orthodox priest's chance at a Boy Scout Camp that I'll have anything worth the Advisor's examination by tonight. Maybe by Monday. Maybe. I'm hitting the page pretty hard, soon after sending this into the AetherWeb, but if last nights blockage is any indicator I'd have better luck lighting myself on fire and calling it a "Creative Production."
I think I'll wait till tomorrow before I compose the second installment of "I'm not slacking, I'm just not getting anything done" and send it to a disappointed academic parent. I wish I had Adderol--Caffeine ain't gonna touch this. Maybe I'll just send her the link to this page.
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