Dear Margaret Cho: Something I Should Probably Be Sorry For

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

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.

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.

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.