I'm not going to give you a post now...

Tonight I had a long conversation with one of my mother's younger sisters. Up until this conversation, I thought I had nothing to say. The difference of one conversation.

My aunt has been actively campaigning for Obama. (We won't mention my other aunt. She thinks that Dubya walks on water. As such, she is a McCain supporter. From what I gather, abortion is a huge issue for her. Just as it was when she chose to have one. Before she was saved.) Many of our conversations center around politics. My aunt said that my mother might need to get a room ready for her in Mexico. Just in case.

We also talked about our individual relationships to my mom. My aunt laughed hysterically when I told her about the events on Sunday. Why? "It's not just me." We then spoke about the things I had thought that I had told her earlier -- the things that would prove it was not just her. We all fall under my mother's wrath. Until the day upon which my mother realizes that she too could benefit from therapy. But I'm not holding my breath for that realization.

And so yeah, I'm a little stressed out right now. My thoughts are jumbled. I switch from my aunt's death to my stepmother's impending death to the racist crap that some members of the Republican party are pulling. (I said "some members." That does not mean all Republicans.)

And I sit here broken-hearted in too many ways to count. I mourn for my family and my country. And at times, right now, I am ready to be done with both.

The kitchen is sort of closed

No new food here for some time. I need to work my way through the things I have accumulated in the freezer over the last couple of weeks.

I tried to put this off on Monday by heading to Poulet for the Basque chicken. Alas, they were closed due to the holiday. How dare they?


But this was the sight I caught on my way home so I guess the outing was worthwhile.

And now I'm going to go out on a limb. There is a post that I actually meant to publish today about privilege. But then I decided that I'd probably catch a lot of crap for it and I'm really not in the mood.* The thoughts started a couple of weeks ago when folks were reacting to the Tim Rice piece that was being circulated via email. I noticed that while many of the folks who wrote posts about the piece understood it, there were quite a few commenters out there who just didn't. And yeah, I got pissed off. So instead of that post, I ask you to click on the link. I ask you to re-read the section on "The Persistence of White Privilege." Notice what Zetzer says about achieving change? It's about open dialogue. Hmmm. I vaguely remember saying something about that in the past year or so.

Also pay special attention to the section about wealth. This Wikipedia explanation is pretty on-point, although I do question the deletion of the stuff on housing. OK. So it's clearly discriminatory behavior. And I guess the link would be that it is due to privilege that realtors feel comfortable in engaging in this kind of behavior. Also I highly suggest that you check out the References and Suggested Reading at the bottom of the page. Perhaps after reading this you can understand why slavery enters the conversation so often. If a group of people are denied ownership, then there is no way that they can acquire wealth. And guess what? Most standardized tests do not measure a student's knowledge of a subject but the wealth of their parents. Yep, there is a direct correlation between wealth of parents and how a child performs on a standardized test. Now apply that fact to what we know about wealth distribution in this country.

Read a good portion of this and then you can have a conversation with me about what privilege is. Because this is a topic upon which I feel like Heather does about politics. I have spent way too many academic hours engrossed in this topic and it used to be part of my professional life. As a result, I may know more than other folks because I have read a lot of the writings in the area. So all I ask of y'all is that if you're going to write about a topic such as this, do your research first. Don't just base it on the one thing that you have read. Do the research.

Hell. My mother sent me an anti-McCain email tonight. I don't believe I have ever said on this blog how I plan to vote but I think I have made my political leanings pretty clear. While the email was compelling, I felt the need to do some fact-checking. What I found was that the alleged source of the email denied ever writing it. And so I did not forward it. If I do not have supporting evidence that something is true, then I will not pass it along. I think it's called having principles. And then I emailed my mother the details of the questionable provenance.

Oh dear. I just realized that I have written that post after all so I may as just keep going. This was really supposed to be about telling you to check this post out. But whatever.

So how did I become such an uppity bitch? My father's paternal grandfather somehow got his hands on 500 acres in Alabama. We still haven't figured that one out. My grandfather bought out his siblings upon their father's death and expanded the farm to almost 1800 acres during my grandfather's lifetime. It gave him the ability to send all ten of his children to college, if they wanted to go. All this while year after year, he took the tests to prove his fitness to vote -- and passed them every time -- only to be told that he could not vote. (It is for this reason that I vote in every election.) So yes, my family has wealth but a lot of my folks don't.

I have a small retirement fund. I rent an apartment. These are not necessarily signs of wealth. Of course, when certain family members die, I will suddenly find myself quite wealthy. I'm just not now. And so I can feel for folks who aren't. The folks on my mother's side? Far from wealthy. Many of them are just getting by. And this is why I can understand.

I just think that if we can't have these conversations, then we are fucked as a society. And if that's the case, then I'm out of here. I've already told my mother to get my room ready at the house in Mexico (Much easier to enter than Canada if you are fleeing. Or so I've been told.) because I might just have to move there. And you know that things have to be pretty bad here if I would seriously consider living under the same roof with my mother once more.

So let your indignant comments fly. Because the rule on my blog is that everyone can be heard. Except the spammers. Those are the only comments I delete. Because if we're going to have a conversation, then we all need to be heard. But the spammers don't count because they are clearly not a part of the conversation. And they're a rarity around here. I think I've only had to delete two comments at most as a result of spammers. Just so y'all know what kind of principles I hold.

*Death Watch 2008. My stepmother is now completely bed-ridden. She no longer has the muscle control to sit up. She is bloated and when conscious, hallucinates a great deal. I keep trying to make plans but I also know that they need to be fluid. The end is around the corner. May I never again have to experience the slow deterioration of someone about whom I care.

One of those days

First of all, I must say that these days are becoming less frequent. But they're still here. What kind of days? The ones during which I miss my aunt. A lot.

I'm trying my best to put my thoughts into some sort of order in between the sobs. Because with order, maybe I can make the sobbing stop. And because I had plans for today that did not involve curling up in a ball in bed for the entire day.

It probably all started a few days ago when I was talking to my dad. He started talking about his parents and my aunt. His big thing these days is about how he's so happy that I got to spend as much time as I did with his parents. He's just finally realized what a big impact that my grandparents had on my life. I think it was my aunt's death that made him realize this.

My father was devastated when his mother died. My stepmother had no clue what to do, what to say. At least that's what she told me. Then again, this is a woman who didn't even bother to attend my grandmother's funeral. So I helped my father deal with his grief and I dealt with mine alone for the most part.

If things were different, I would try to talk to my dad about all of this. His wife is dying, though, and he's dealing with his crazy ass in-laws. He has more than enough on his plate. He doesn't need my crap as well. So I lie to him when he asks how I am. I tell he doesn't need to be concerned when he says that he's worried about me.

Friday afternoon my former supervisor stopped by my office. He asked how I was doing and quickly took the question back. He knows. He's lost a lot of family members to cancer. How do I answer that question when asked? "Fine." "Coping." "Taking each day as it comes." What else is there to say?

We then talked about movies. He said that a few months after one of his relatives died, he made the mistake of seeing My Life. He ended up having a complete meltdown in a movie theater. I told him that I've been trying to stick to comedies and action flicks lately. I then mentioned that perhaps I should try to avoid Stepmom and I felt a tear slide down my cheek. Wouldn't you know that the movie was on some cable channel yesterday. I didn't watch it though. I did try to watch Soul Food though. That lasted for about 15 minutes and then I had to find something else. It just hurt too much.

I've tried to fill my days with classes and volunteering. Oh, and cooking. But cooking is another trigger. I don't really know how to cook in small quantities. There's only so much my freezer can hold as well. I often delivered the surplus to my aunt.

I started this practice when she was first diagnosed with cancer. At that time I worked about a ten minute drive away from her house so I would stop by after work. When I started working farther away, Sundays became the day that I would most likely stop by. I would call to make sure she would be in. When I mentioned a delivery, she would ask, "What's on the menu at the restaurant today?" I would drop off the containers of food and pick up the empty containers from previous weeks. And then we would sip tea and talk. That's what I miss. Our talks. I still find myself picking up the phone to call her at times. And then I remember.

This week I've really wanted to talk to her -- especially today. She spent most of her career teaching people how to empower themselves. She wanted there to be an even playing field -- for everyone regardless of ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation or any of the myriad ways in which we try to classify one another. She didn't like to watch the evening news because she said it was so filled with negativity. It doesn't mean that she wasn't aware of what was going on in the world. She just wanted to believe that we -- society in general -- could be better than those images she saw on the news.

In the past week there has been a great deal of discussion about privilege on the internet. As I read the first piece, I wanted to call my aunt. We had had this discussion for too many years to count. And finally it looked like everyone else was talking about it as well. My hope in people was renewed.

Then the discussion continued and I became frustrated and saddened. Now I really wanted to talk to my aunt. I wanted her to remind me that this is part of the discussion. Yes, the discussion is often phrased in terms of black and white. That's because that has the longest history in our country. Even if it is only put in these terms does not mean that it doesn't include all of us though. People will feel that they're under attack and become defensive. Some people will never really get it no matter how many ways you try to explain it to them. That's OK though. Those people usually end up being the minority. As long as I can believe that most of us can reach that point of consensus, then I can still have hope. Because I got to thinking that if you can't believe in the possibility of something difference, then what's the point of it all? Why try? Why do anything?

I had to remind myself that this is what living is though. Being a part of it all. Sounding like a broken record because maybe someday someone will finally pay attention. I thought about how it's just so overwhelming to try to change society as a whole. I can handle it one person at a time though.

Now I'm OK with the frustration. These problems didn't happen overnight. Nor will the solution.

And the sobbing has been replaced with the occasional quiet tear so maybe this has done it's job. Right now I don't miss my aunt as much. I just needed to remind myself that she's not really gone since she's so much of who I am.

Probably for the second time ever, I am turning off comments. Today I'm not much in the mood for dialogue, but tomorrow I probably will be. This was a hard decision because I figure that if I throw something out into the universe, then I should be willing to discuss it. This just isn't one of those days though.

With that, I'm off to do laundry and more cooking. The surplus? I'll probably take some to my mom. And maybe I'll bring some into work tomorrow.

Another section possibly filled in

The weekend before I started tutoring again, I went to brunch with the foster parents of the girl I tutor. (They also happen to be family friends and I had to pick up my mother from their house.) During brunch they voiced their surprise at my relationship with their foster daughter. I was too mentally fried at the time to explain to them that she shows deference and respect toward me and feels safe in telling me the truth about what is going on with her at school because these are the boundaries I have set for her.

If you know me, then you know that I spent a lot of time thinking about that post a couple of weeks ago.

The first part of the thought process was looking for local volunteer opportunities. I think I may have found my match in a volunteer program through the local YWCA. The program matches women with young women who are about to age out of the foster care system. My mother -- typical of her -- thinks it's a horrendous thought. Of course it is. It's probably a little too personal for her. Her idea of volunteering is to dish out food at the soup kitchen. Oh, and she has also signed up to volunteer two days a week at the Democrat campaign office. Her neighbor has also signed up there as well as the Obama campaign office.

In toying with this idea, I had an epiphany. Of course, I have been feeling off-balance. Volunteering has been a part of my life for many years.

It all started when I was twelve or so. I joined the Red Cross club at my junior high. We made stuffed animals for hospitalized kids. At age 13, I put in over 100 hours volunteering at a local daycare center. At 14, I put in 50+ hours at the V.A. in Tuskegee, Alabama. That was definitely an eye-opening experience. The next thing that sticks in my mind was when I volunteered in pediatrics at the university hospital my freshman year. I learned that sometimes babies get horrible diseases. My job was to help them forget all of that. When I worked at the Death Star, they asked for volunteers. I helped to paint the dining room at a transitional shelter for families in the Haight.

What I realized was that when I started teaching, I stopped the volunteering. And that was OK then. I did still volunteer. I would sign up for committees and whatnot. But I'm not teaching now. And I realize now that by not finding some other volunteer opportunity has left a void in my life.

I worked for a non-profit briefly. I recognize the power in people giving dollars. But there is so much more in giving of one's time. Or at least that's what I think. For me, it started at a point of not having much money but wanting to help. Now I could write a check but that somehow feels lacking in my mind. Ten seconds to write a check? Is that really doing something? Yeah, maybe it does but I want to know firsthand that whatever I have done has changed the world in some way. And the best way to do this is to do things, interact with people. I was about to say that I am an introvert but then I thought that I should take a Myers-Briggs again. (I'm a ENTJ if you're wondering. Might explain my incessant list-making.) Apparently I am a "slightly expressed extrovert."

Hmmm. I really am an extrovert at heart? Might explain a great deal about my feeling of disconnect as of late. And why volunteering that allows me interact with others is so important to me.

And so today, I submitted my application to be a mentor. One more thing done. But I'm still not done reclaiming the old me yet...

Afterthought: If none of y'all hear from me tomorrow, please call the cops. I am afraid that Natasha is going to kill me in my sleep tonight. I went to Berkeley Bowl to pick up her favorite canned food. They were sold out because the friggin' stuff was on sale. So I tried out some other stuff since I refuse to go to Astronomico's or Whole Foods -- the only other stores that carry the stuff. I know that Astronomico's charges at least fifty cents more a can than Berkeley Bowl does for the stuff. Then again, maybe I should have spent it. My life is definitely worth more than that.

Small roads

I suddenly realized something this past weekend. I've missed out on a great deal of the beauty of California because of my mom's fears. Specifically my mother has a fear of bridges and two lane roads.

When I first started going to Pt. Reyes Station, I mentioned it to my mom. She asked about the roads. I told her the truth. She said, "No."

But I love two lane roads. I love drawbridges. And so it was perfect that Saturday afternoon/evening found me driving through the Delta. (Even if I had "Walking in Memphis" stuck in an endless loop in my mind.) I thought of y'all while I was driving. Like, "I should pull over to take some photos," but the sun was setting and I try not to do those kinds of roads after dark if I've never driven them several times. So I'll be heading back.

I previously said that Sunday was my "me" day but Saturday evening was as well. Getting behind the wheel of my car on open, or fairly open, road is very relaxing. By the time I got home Saturday night I had clocked around 260 miles of driving from the time that I left home for work on Friday morning. Looking at the number, I think that it really isn't that much but then I think about the reality of it all.

Friday morning I drove to work in San Francisco. At the end of the day, I drove home through Friday night commute traffic. It was road rage worthy. After eating dinner, I gathered my stuff and then drove to Sacramento. After doing three and a half hours of work in my dad's office on Saturday, I drove to Tobie's housewarming. And then home.


On the road between Sacramento and Lodi.


Brannan Island Levee Road in the Delta.

It was the drive to Tobie's and then the drive home that took me through the Delta. I haven't spent much time back in that area. Might have something to do with the great number of folks who some may classify as being "rednecks" around those parts. Always made me a bit uneasy.


Berkeley Plantation, Virginia.


James River.

Just like how I will do ten hour drives by myself through the Deep South but I don't stray onto those small roads unless I really know them. Because solo driving in the U.S. means that I look at things not only through the lens of gender but through that of race as well. When I lived in Virginia, my downstairs neighbor, the self-proclaimed "redneck," told me the places that I should avoid. Oh, and I should explain. Her calling herself a "redneck" had nothing to do with her political beliefs. Nah. She just didn't have a college degree, liked country line dancing, and Jack Daniels. It was more an acknowledgment that white folks with more money than what she had looked down their noses at her. A lot of her kind of folks were my friends when I lived in Virginia. Maybe there was a shared experience that the dominant society would never think that you were good enough for them.


Yorktown.


Williamsburg.


Jamestown.

I digress. Bottom line is that I need to do here what I did in Virginia. It was much easier there because of the French Bitch, the Peugeot I drove back then. My car had phantom problems in the electrical system. This meant that I called the towing company -- in a town of about 10,000 people -- at least once a month. Since I apparently have a distinctive voice, they got to know me at "hello." Now I don't know how much experience you have with getting a jump start but the deal is that you should ideally drive the car for at least 30 minutes after getting the jump. It gets boring driving the same streets and ideally you should take the car on the highway. So while I was waiting for the tow guy, I would pull out my map and look for unfamiliar lines. I quickly learned that I could drive to Jamestown and back if I was in a rush. Have a little more time? Head to Yorktown. Or just explore the other nearby towns. And then there were the days that I would just head out with my camera riding shotgun.

I have been trying to find balance in my life. Over the past weekend I have noticed quite a number of things that were lacking. Hopping in my car and driving down some unfamiliar road is one of them. So now I'm going to figure out how to include these explorations into my life. Because they are me. And I just need to reclaim the pieces of me that have gotten lost along the way.

Note: Photos added from Google the afternoon of 20 August 2008 at the request of
Fluffycat. One day soon I'll go through my old photos and post some of the stuff that I actually took while I lived in Virginia.

Finding balance in the PRB*

I suddenly have a lot of posts bouncing around in my head -- perhaps because my weekend was so full. I thought I'd start with the easy one first.

Today was "me" day. The family members who I know really care are totally respectful of this idea. The idea that at least one day a week has to be completely mine. If I have that, then I can deal with all of the rest of the stuff.

I awoke at 8:00 a.m. with all these thoughts of what needed to be done. By noon after much thought, I realized that they didn't need to be done today. Well, especially those things that involve driving. Those can wait until tomorrow evening when I will be in my car because I have to drive to work. So I caught up on TV viewing and took a nap.

Around 4:00 I headed out to the library. I finally managed to finish two of the Stephanie Plum books I had checked out weeks ago. Only four more to go and I will be caught up on the series. Of course, returning the books could have waited until tomorrow as well as I pass the library on my way to work every morning. But I had items on hold. This would be a result of the Netflix meltdown during this past week. It dawned on me that some of the older titles on my list might just be available at the public library. They were -- and were already checked out so I put in hold requests. But this is just the why of the walk. The walk itself was the more important part to me.

As I neared the BART station, I could hear the sounds of music over a P.A. system. The "Free Tibet" group was set up there once more. Apparently this is the new hot protesting thing in Berkeley. There haven't been protests in front of the Marines recruiting center for months. And somehow magically around the same time that those ended, the "Free Tibet" marches started. The one I saw on Friday night as I was leaving for Sacramento was at least two blocks long. Anywho. I gladly took a flyer from one of the adorable children handing them out. Actually it was more of a race as two of the kids made a beeline for me, rushing to see who could get to me first. It made me smile. Enough that the homeless guy I passed had to comment. Something along the lines of, "Keep on smiling. Yeah. I'm talking to you."

The return was all about food. I needed gelato. Really. But Naia is still down to two cases instead of the three they used to have and there was no cardamom. *sigh* So I trudged on.

There was a quick stop at Astronomico's (This is Marin's name for the place and I kind of like it.) to pick up canned food. I just didn't have the energy to walk to Berkeley Bowl to save fifty cents a can. Besides I just needed a few to tie me over until I could stop at Berkeley Bowl on my way home from work this week. But I thought of Zombie Mom while in the store as I saw a woman pulling a child in a red wagon down an aisle.

And I remembered how I didn't get the tuna the last time I hit my fave takeout spot. But I still needed gelato -- and maybe sorbet -- so I headed over to Ciao Bella. And I guess it was a good thing that Naia didn't have the flavor I wanted because I suddenly remembered that if I used my debit card at Ciao Bella, I could earn airline miles. By the way, I ended up with blood orange sorbet and rose petal gelato, if you're interested.

On my way home with all of my goodies (Tucked away into one of the many tote bags I received while teaching. I felt so "Berkeley."), I saw what was probably the most interesting site. A woman was power-washing the sidewalk in front of her house. I found myself thinking, "Aren't we supposed to be conserving water? How did she get into Berkeley? I mean at Marin's house they have a bucket in the tub to catch some of the runoff water from the shower to use for watering." OK. I mostly thought this because I was forced to walk in the street. Her back was to me and she could not hear me approaching because of the noise of the washer. So while walking in the street to avoid getting wet, I thought of the other stuff.

Ahhh. But how to conclude this all? As I feasted on the tuna, eggplant and potato puffs, I got sucked into "Confessions of a Go-Go Girl" on Lifetime. By the end I had a few questions. Because even a cheesy Lifetime movie leaves me asking questions.

Are all women who take their clothes off for a living unhappy? Why do people say it's degrading? Aren't you "selling yourself" at just about any job? But then I got to thinking about how women our often objectified in our society. It all gets back to that double standard. Women are being told that men like them to act in a certain way and then are punished for doing exactly that. Oh, and please do not mention religious morality to me. Those books were written by men. And no, I am not trashing religion. It's just that I have issues with a man writing about how a woman should behave and then masking it all in religious beliefs. Or those men who choose to interpret passages in this manner.

So this is the stuff I will be pondering while I write my next couple of posts. Until then.

* Whenever I use the acronym "PRB," I always mean "The People's Republic of Berkeley." It's from my childhood. No matter for what others may now use the acronym, it will always mean this to me. Maybe one day I'll get around to adding a glossary to the sidebar.

Acts of kindness

My father has always been a generous person -- at least with those whom he knows. He figures that if you need something and he can afford to help you, then he should. If you are having a fundraiser for a non-profit and he likes your program, he'll write a check.

My mother can seem a bit stingy at times. But she always has had time to volunteer for non-profits. And then there was that time when I was in high school.

One night on her way home from work, she noticed a disabled car on the side of the road. Stranded were a woman and her small child. My mother was concerned about the safety of the child. And so since they were near the exit to go to her house, she pulled over and picked them up. As the three walked in the house, my mother explained about the mother and child. She drove them to the house so that they could use the phones -- no cellphones back then -- to call for road service.

Later in high school, I found out that one of my friend's had a highly abusive dad. I shared the story with my mother. My mother, who grew up with an abusive dad, told me to go to school the next day and to tell my friend that she always had a place to stay if she ever needed to get away.

My mother's supervisor lost her house in the Oakland hills firestorm back in the early 90s. She thought about how it must feel to lose everything. And then we went to the kitchen. For years my mother had been "collecting" dishes. (This would be in her extreme shopaholic phase.) Together we selected a set of dishes to give to her friend.

In college, I had a roommate from Malibu. She told me the tale of seeing Martin Sheen in the grocery store one day. In line in front of him were some migrant workers. He told them that he would pay for their food -- but not the alcohol or tobacco.

This roommate had a friend whose mother had come to California in the 60s to find herself. Her mother ended up in Berkeley. Every day, back then, her mother would cook up huge pots of rice and beans and head to the streets to feed whoever was hungry.

I guess to me these things seem like perfectly natural things to do. And so sometimes I do things, like paying for a guy's food at Safeway, without even thinking about it. It's just the kind of person my parents taught me to be. (And yeah, I know that sometimes it is completely irrational to hold others to the same standards that I try to which I try to hold myself and then to get mad when they don't meet my expectations.)

Before going into teaching, I worked for a non-profit in the Union Square area of San Francisco. The panhandlers at the Powell Street BART station? I knew all of the regulars by name. I have never been one for giving out money to panhandlers. But I will give them a smile. And sit and talk to them. And if they tell me what things they need, I will get the items for them.

Only one of the regulars was a woman. One cold winter morning (The nights had been running in the 30s.), I noticed that she kept putting her hands in her armpits to keep them warm. I asked her about gloves. She had had some but someone had stolen them. I explained to her that I frequently received gloves as Christmas gifts and had tons of new ones at home. She almost had tears in her eyes the next morning when I showed up with a new pair of mittens.

Another panhandler had a wife who worked. But they were in San Francisco with only one income. So they lived in an SRO. With their newborn daughter. Their cooking facilities consisted of an "illegal" microwave. Some evenings I would be at the station late enough to see the wife coming home from work. (I still have the photo she gave me of their daughter on one of those evenings.) We talked about AFDC. Apparently one can get WIC coupons for milk and juice but not for diapers. And diapers are damn expensive. So she would tell me what size they needed and on the days I actually drove into San Francisco, I would bring them diapers that I had picked up at Target. For much less than the corner store had been charging them.

When I left the non-profit to go into teaching, I let my peeps at the BART station know that they wouldn't be seeing me around. They wanted to take me out for a farewell dinner. I told them that I appreciated the thought but I couldn't let them spend their money on me.

The school at which I worked my first year teaching had a food drive for Thanksgiving. One of my students said that her father had told her that homeless people were bums. I told my students -- sixth-graders -- about the people I had gotten to know at the BART station. I explained how many had told me tales of being laid off. I then told my students that many people in the United States are only two to three paychecks away from being homeless.

I moved to Berkeley three years ago because it has always felt like home to me. Well, it really was. When I was born, my family did live in Berkeley. We only left when I was two because of my dad's job. My mother said that I have always been the kind of person who fits in perfectly in Berkeley. I can't disagree.

I have walked out of restaurants with my doggie bag to be confronted by a hungry homeless person. At those times, I was full so I found no problem in handing over the doggie bag.

Years before the Safeway incident, a homeless person asked me for money one evening while I was leaving my fave bar. I asked if he was hungry. When he said "yes," I explained that I would not give him money but that I would walk with him to somewhere to get food. He could pick out whatever he wanted and I would pay for it. He took me up on my offer. Of course, the boy I had met in the bar insisted upon tagging along. I think he felt a need to protect me. Because sometimes I'm just fearless. So the boy and I stood around in the quickie mart/deli that is around the corner from the deli while the guy picked out food. And when I pulled out money to pay for the guy's stuff, the boy insisted that I put my money away. The boy paid for the guy's stuff instead. Maybe he was trying to impress me. Who knows.

And so yes, I am perfectly serious when I say that if you find yourself in the neighborhood and in need of a meal, just drop by. My mother, the Southerner, has told me numerous times that you must always have food and drink on hand. Because you never know who is going to drop by. And it would be just rude not to offer them something to eat or to drink.

Various stuff on a Friday evening

After a hard week at work, I headed out to get my 'do done. I have found that Fridays after work are the best time. Less disruptive to my schedule. In the past I went in on Saturdays. But that doesn't leave me free to go to Sacramento for the weekend, if necessary. And yeah, next weekend I'm heading up there. Hopefully to hit the nail salon with my stepmother. Because she's blind now -- I mean really blind according to the doctors at the UC Davis Medical Center where she went earlier this week for a full day of testing on her eyes -- and keeps fucking up her nails when she runs into stuff. Yet she keeps telling my dad that she doesn't need someone at the house with her 24/7. And she's telling her friends that my dad is spending too much money. This coming from the woman who loves shopping at the dollar store. Oh, and when she first married my dad, she was still buying Velveeta. EWWWWW! Bottom line is that she has always been rather cheap. But yeah, she's blind and has lost at least 40% of her hearing and people are supposed to leave her at home alone during the day while my dad is at work. Sure.

But back to me. I headed into San Leandro after work. And while I was at the shop, my hairdresser was also doing her niece's hair. They shared some dark news with me. Apparently, Neldam's Danish Bakery will be closing this year. NOOOO! Growing up, all of my birthday cakes (Strawberry Rum Cake, in case you wanted to know.) came from this place. As did my cousin's wedding cake. They are the bar to achieve in baking, as far as I am concerned. And they have been around so long that you start to take the place for granted. I know that I will start going there frequently in the coming months. Hell. I love the place so much, I might just have to stage a protest.

And then I had to give the niece a ride home from her aunt's shop as the niece too lives in Berkeley. She's in her senior year at Berkeley High. I felt obliged to chat with her during the drive. And talking to her, I was reminded of why I used to love teaching so much. She wants to go into cosmetology, like her aunt. And she wants to one day own a chain of shops that are multi-ethnic/multi-cultural. She pointed out how most salons are still so segregated and that there must be an end to this. We discussed racism in our society. And then I dropped her off near the Whole Foods -- which she swore was her favorite place of all.

And then I continued along Shattuck. And my heart skipped a beat. The old Eddie Bauer store had lights blazing. Since Eddie Bauer left, the only activity in that spot has been in October when the place has become a Halloween store. So I slowed down to take a peek. It's now a new branch of Cody's Books. I wanted to scream -- in delight. I have been heartbroken since the original location on Telegraph closed almost two years ago. And now to have it within walking distance? Be still my heart.

Except for the family health issues, I am starting to think that 2008 is going to be a very good year.

Happy Ostara

That's right. I'm coming out of the broom closet. As if some of you hadn't figured it out previously. And those who have know that I like to rant occasionally but I would never act on those rants. I just don't want the karmic fallout. And today I have been thinking about the fallout of some of my rants. I do not regret any of the things I have said here in the past. They were carefully deliberated thoughts. (Remember? If I am feeling angry, I let the post marinate at least 24 hours before posting.) And over this last week I have been reading the commentary about Obama's speech on racism. And at times I got angry once more.

Although my mother has tried to tell me to let go of this anger. And when she says this, I want to let go. Because my mother, just like my father, grew up under Jim Crow. And every now and then they say things that shock me. Kind of like Reverend Wright. And I forgive them because I know where they have been. Because that's what we do in Black America -- we forgive. Why? Because I know that if I had lived through Jim Crow, Reverend Wright might just sound like a conservative compared to me. As I said back in December, I am tired of people of privilege defining who I should be. And along with this, comes the feeling that these same people should not have the audacity to tell me what is and is not racism.

Now add onto all of this that I took Jill's suggestion to read The Parable of the Sower -- the coolest book I have read in some time. But in reading this book, I couldn't help but think that we weren't that far away from that world. It was the same feeling I got from reading A Handmaid's Tale years ago.

The world has been heading toward a scary place for many years. And finally I started to think that we might get off that track. Before the latest crap. And I start to think about how change is so upsetting to many people. They'd rather maintain the status quo even if the status quo is crap. Or maybe they don't realize that it's all crap because they're benefiting from the status quo.

But today is Ostara -- the day of new life. And for the first time in years, I believe that this is truly the case. Oh. And when they told me that I could leave work early today for Good Friday, I didn't bat an eye. I wonder if they felt the gust as I headed out.

Here we go again

Yep. Back up on the soapbox again. Because I'm a bit peeved. Imagine that. And this time I don't have to write the post and let it marinate. Nope. This post is the result of two posts I have read in the last week. I wrote most of it in my head last night on my way home. After the first post, I was ready to let it go but when I saw the same thing in a second post yesterday? Well, the gloves are off. And the earrings as well.

What's the topic this time? Talking in movie theaters. I have one simple rule. If it's about the movie, then it's perfectly OK. Why? Because it's a part of my culture. And I was a little worried after my reaction to the first post, so I called several friends and family members. And I had an email exchange with another blogger on the topic.

My discussion with the other blogger centered around film as an art form. My argument is that if one were to go to a museum with a friend, one would discuss the art while standing in front of it. The blogger then countered that going to a movie was like going to hear a public speaker. Well, at least two of the people to whom I spoke on the topic confirmed that it is also culturally OK to speak when going to hear a speaker. One of these folks, my aunt, mentioned "call and response." Because how is hearing a speaker any different from hearing the preacher at the church?

And what pisses me off is not that people do not like this behavior. Instead, it's that their statements imply that their way is the "right" way. And even more so, what really pissed me off is that they do not appear to care why people would do this. And that shows a complete lack of cultural sensitivity on their part, in my opinion.

One of the folks to whom I spoke was Kate, my college roomie who got married back in June. She pointed out that when movie theaters were first created, going to the movies was a social event -- and of course, one would speak to others at a social event. She also pointed out that she enjoys the comments from others in the theater because it gives her new perspectives. Isn't that what art is about? Interpreting what the artist has presented given your own experiences? But your experiences may not be the same as another person's and so they can open a door to a world that you may not have seen otherwise.

And then we discussed our college experience. My post-high school educational experiences were in environments in which understanding of others was highly important. I served on numerous committees that made this the focus. People were encouraged to ask questions so that they could better understand one another. I guess that is the heart of the matter for me. When I read certain posts in the PRB and the subsequent comments, I find myself wondering if people are questioning their prejudices. Because we all have prejudices. If you say you don't, you're lying to yourself. It's what we do about these prejudices that makes the difference.

Finally, let's get to my reaction to this all. What I hear when someone makes a statement about how people shouldn't talk in movie theaters is that, once more, I am being asked to assimilate. (And if you have been in a theater in which the people of color are not speaking up? Yeah, they've assimilated. Because when I go to theaters in Berkeley, the audience is often mighty pale and I sit there silently. Because when in Rome... Because how we act when we are in the presence of the paler nation is not necessarily how we are at all times.) Guess what? I'm tired of assimilating. I'm tired of feeling like I have to give up everything that is me to fit in. (If my mother read this, this would be the point at which I would say, "Yes, the older I get, the more radical my thoughts become.") And damned if I haven't assimilated quite a bit. I regularly hear from older relatives how I am the "whitest black person they know." And so I am not going to let others erase the last vestiges of my culture that I hold at this point.

So the next time you hear someone talking in a movie theater, just think to yourself, "There goes the Empress again with her, 'Fuck you and your assimilation! I'm done with changing just because you seem to think that I need to.'" And also know that 2008 is officially the year in which I let people know in what ways they have pissed me off.

Summer reading

Most of my reading this summer has been young adult fiction. I started off with some fluffier stuff but over this weekend turned to books that were more thought-provoking -- the kind of books I like to teach in the classroom.

The first book of this type was Messenger. I had been meaning to pick this one up for some time but just kept forgetting to. I first read (and taught) The Giver my first year of teaching. It's one of those books that gets even the most reluctant reader completely involved. Because they just have to know how at all ends. The next year I was discovered to read that Lois Lowry had written a companion book, Gathering Blue. I thought it was all going to end there and then I discovered Messenger. The Giver is about a society in which people do not feel any of the unpleasantness of life. Well, everyone except for one person -- the Giver. It is this person's job to be the receptacle of all emotions for the society. Gathering Blue is about a society in which those who are seen as being weak are cast away. We see a bit of the society in Messenger in Gathering Blue. The world of Messenger is one of acceptance and knowledge. But something has happened and now the townsfolk want to close their borders to outsiders.

These three books always make me think of that need to conform. Who defines what is the norm? What happens to those who fall outside of the norm? What makes us decide who should be allowed and who shouldn't?

So I had all of this kind of stuff swimming around in my head when I started to read Uglies. Obviously I was in one kind of mood when I was shopping. So now I have new questions added to the previous. What makes someone pretty? While we strive for conformity, do we really want a world in which everyone is more or less exactly the same? There were some other questions but that would give away some of the surprises in the books. Needless to say, I enjoyed this book so much that yesterday I went to the bookstore to pick up the rest of the trilogy.

And next maybe I'll get around to some "grown-up" reading. That is after I read the final Harry Potter this weekend.

Who the hell am I anyway?

I was just doing some research online about folks I grew up around. I know that I was fortunate to be middle class. I came across an an interview with a woman I knew as a child. Her father was one of my dad's best friends. He was also the first person who made me feel short when I was 5'8" at age 12. He is also one of the people to whom I alluded in a recent post. That one in which I said my dad and his friends said that I was better at assimilating than they were. Actually when I wrote that line, I was thinking of what he told me shortly before his death while driving to Sacramento for a fish fry at my dad's house. He said, "You and and my daughter will achieve much more than we ever will because you know how to speak how white people want you to. But you can still talk to us as well. We can't go back and forth between the two worlds as easily as you do." OK. I put quotation marks around the statements but these weren't his exact words. Perhaps this is why the owner of of my former home away from home in North Beach calls me the Valley girl from Richmond. And at the same time, I had classmates, because I went to public school, who were not as privileged as I was. A lot like my mother's family. Because no matter how much privilege I may achieve, I still have relatives who will never be able to equal me in social status as determined by the mainstream. And this is what keeps me grounded. Because these folks? Many of them are my favorite relatives. Because they lack pretension.

Recently I have had my students ask about my family background -- because they, like the people I encountered in Virginia, considered me to be on the fairer end of the spectrum. (And this is what I meant when I said that Black folks have to deal with their own demons that are a result of slavery/apartheid. You know. That self-hate.) I told my students that if you go back into my family tree, you will find folks who were not African.

The closest of these folks would be my mother's paternal grandfather. He was Native American and White. I have always joked about my father being from below the gnat line (that would be southern Georgia) always searched for a woman fairer than he. Me? I ended up somewhere between my parents complexion-wise. And although I basically look like my father, my features have been more Eurotized (Yep. I'm trying to make up my own words now. Hell. If Bush can, then so can I.)in some ways due to my mother's side. Because my mother? She explained to me while I was in high school that she wears lipstick because she has a very small upper lip. In the 70s I hated the fact that I had full lips. Then in the 80s, I was doing a fashion show and the makeup artist told me that one of my best features was my lips. That's when I started venturing out and wearing non-neutral colors because suddenly I was not ashamed about who I was.) And why the joke? Because my stepmother is from Louisiana, pure Creole. I remember going through my dad's mother's photo albums after her death and being asked who the White woman standing next to my dad was. Ummmm. That would be my stepmother. And she's not White. Now these same folks have decided that I am truly Redbone, like my mother's family. Sometimes I question my quest for finding genealogical information on the family. I mean, if I could prove my great grandfather's heritage, that would make me 1/16 Native American. (I started researching this information long before the insurgence of Indian casinos.) And somehow although the Native Americans have not had the best of fates in this country, some days being that is better than being African American. Because that is what this country has taught me. How to hate all that I should be celebrating in myself. And then I think that I grew up pretty damned privileged so how does the other half of my people feel? Well, if my cousins are any evidence, they are damn pissed. And I really don't blame them.

Now I'm remembering how about a year ago I ended a ten-year friendship. It seems that we could not see eye-to-eye about food. And yeah, she'll tell you that she is a person of color but technically she is Caucasian as most Mediterranean people are. I will not argue that she is not strongly ethnic though.

Oh. And this whole race thing? Totally manmade. Or at least that's what one of my professors in my teaching credential program told us. He's a cultural anthropologist. He said, that as far as anthropologists are concerned, there is only one race -- human. But somehow we feel the need to split ourselves into groups by some random definitions.

That's what I was trying to get to before. What is African American has always been defined by the dominant (White) society. My anger came from White liberals then trying to tell me from what equality should look like. To me this just sounds like more like noblesse oblige. And that would be like "more of the same" to me, at least. The only reason why I can think that the dominant group would do this is to maintain the status quo. If the liberals and progressives really wanted to make some headway, then they would let groups self-define. And not within the narrow constraints that we currently see.

Hmmm. Just made me think. Perhaps I should have not received such a good evaluation. Because before I entered the field of education, I questioned things but never to this extent. Or maybe it's just an age thing. But the one thing upon which I agree with my students is Gnarls Barkley.

My heroes had the heart to lose their lives out on a limb,
And all I remember is thinkin' I wanna be like them. hmhmhm

Ever since I was little, ever since I was little it looked like fun,
And it's no coincidence I've come, mmm
And I can die when I'm done.

But maybe I'm crazy?
Maybe you're crazy?
Maybe we're crazy?
Probably

Every time I hear these lyrics, I think about how much my parents and folks before them sacrificed so that I could assimilate so well. And then I want to cry. Because I feel their pain and anxiety. Letting their only daughter loose in a world that, as far as they know, would never be willing to truly accept her.

Eh. Enough of this stuff. Happy Friday. I plan to have some cocktails tonight. At the usual place. Because yesterday after school, I spent time hanging out with some veteran teachers. It seems that everyone agrees that one of the key factors in surviving teaching upper grades is alcohol. Because we love the kids but sometimes they can drive you nuts. And you've just got to kick your heels up and let go of all the craziness.

A well-needed break

My dad and his friends like to make fun of me at times. Because that's how we show love -- picking on each other. But they're serious when they say that I assimilate much better than they do. And I do. (By the way, why am I the one who has to assimilate? Oh yeah. I forgot. I'm not a member of the dominant society.) There's just one thing. The assimilation crap gets tiring and so one needs to take a break. Because there's only so long that you can hide yourself without feeling like you're about to have a breakdown. Because there are times that you start questioning your place in the world. Because you know that you don't completely fit into the dominant society and when you try to go back to your own people, you discover that you don't quite fit in there anymore. (This doesn't hurt as much as it did when I was in high school, but every now and then, I still feel the pain. This is what I meant when I wanted to show my students how to succeed without losing themselves. Because if you lose yourself, what else is left?) And because there's only so many times that one can hear the same things over and over.

My favorite gems? "I have friends who are fill in whatever description." That's nice but here's a thought. You wouldn't need to say it if it was obvious. "How dare you say I don't understand because... You don't know everything about me." Here's a hint. Whenever I've told someone that they just don't understand, it's because every statement they have made previous to this has indicated that they don't have a clue. Oh and my all-time favorite -- "I'm not trying to be offensive but ..." Biotch. You knew the shit was offensive before it even crossed your lips so why the hell did you even say it? And probably what gets me going the most with the melanin-challenged is that for them discussions on our society come off as sounding like some new thing they have just discovered. (I know this is usually not the case.) Why does it feel this way? Because these are things that are discussed amongst my family and friends on a regular basis. When I was growing up, these were daily discussions. Now that I'm an adult, these are discussions that for the most part only arise anytime I am around family. These are things I think about every single day. I don't have the luxury of putting them aside only to pull them out when I feel like it. And I won't even get into how it's all compounded by the fact that I'm a woman.

So that was my plan for the weekend. A break from the melanin-challenged. I could go into the conversations that I've had with my mom over the last few days but then folks would really get all worked up. But then again, maybe it wouldn't because my mom thinks that I'm the one who's all militant and stuff. My parents still believe in Martin's dream. Some days I have doubts. She blames it on my career change to teaching and says that I was never this way before. But I was. I like to point out to her that she should not be surprised. Who was my first babysitter? An uncle who was down with the Panthers -- who, by the way, did a lot of positive things for the community. Like free breakfast. Did you know that the free breakfast program that is now in place in schools is modeled on the program the Panthers started? Yeah, the government doesn't like to point that out. Bastards.

Y'all still with me? Didn't get your panties in a wad and all? Cool. The cats were recommending lots of sleep. This would have been fine but my wallet was empty (Damn those Friday treats. Actually damn that new car battery. No, damn them both. Oh, and I forgot to take pix of the Friday treats as well.) and my dad needed me to do some work. He suggested putting it off until another day since I'm off work this week. But my wallet was empty.

So I drove up to Sack of Tomatoes Saturday afternoon. I did some work and got some money. (And let's just say that it's enough to keep me partying quite well for my week off. Because I'm royal and all. Daddy's princess. Yeah, I'm a BAP. Just waiting for the rest of the world to catch on. Although those I have met in bars never doubt my royal standing.) Oh, and I got some wine also. Because there's always a case or two stashed in the warehouse of my dad's office. I just wish that it had been the Pinot Noir but Mac has a hard time keeping that stuff around. Then again, it's not like I had to pay for it so who am I to gripe?

Then it was over to my dad's house. Because there was BBQ waiting there from his friend's restaurant. Ribs, links, greens, and macaroni & cheese. I passed on the sweet potato pie. Have I mentioned how much I love my dad's friends? If Sack of Tomatoes was urban, I'd probably move there in a heartbeat. Because I could so rule the place given my dad's connections. Because his friends? They love me. Well, at least the male ones do. That's not problematic, is it? But I like staying in the Bay where I can try to do things on my own. Because I got most of my jobs on my own. Except for the job I had at the non-profit and my first teaching job. Those were the result of recommendations of family friends. But then again, those were just recommendations. I still impressed them in the interviews. The hardest part is getting in the door for the first interview. That's what my family has learned about me. I interview exceedingly well. Kind of like the fact that I am an anomaly -- a person of color who does very well on standardized tests. (Didn't I tell you that I can assimilate well when I decide that it is beneficial to me?) Thankfully I have a totally Anglo sounding name. And I learned years ago to remove race specific stuff from my resume. You should see the the shock on interviewers' faces when I walk in the door. Not as bad as what Jade gets. Because her husband is Italian. And her paternal grandfather is Filipino. Even when she used her maiden name, they were surprised to see her.

My dad gave me a copy of a local Black magazine because he had been interviewed in the magazine. I have quite a collection of these things because whenever they want to interview Black business owners in Sack of Tomatoes, my dad always seems to end up on the list. I was reminded once more why my stepmother is married to him. She didn't think that anyone else's interviews were as good as my father's. My mother and I have never been able to worship him in quite the same way. We figure it's just as well that he found her.

And then we watched the NBA Slam Dunk. Because even though my dad has satellite with all the premium channels, the TV only seems to actually receive sports and news programs. This is the real reason why I don't spend much time there. After about the first half hour or so, my eyes start to glaze over. You would think that they would have noticed this but no. My stepmother stated, "I bet 90% of the TVs are tuned to the All Star game. Don't you think?" Ummmm. No. And yes, I did actually say this. As of this past week, they have been married for 21 years. She should be used to me by now. Finally, I fled because I had a little over an hour on the road and wine that was begging to be opened.

My original plan for Sunday was to go to the semi-finals of the Bay Area Black Comedy Competition. Jade was down for it but then she decided to invite this other friend of hers -- this kind of pretentious woman who I think has a stick or something lodged up her ass. This woman did not want to go. So we made changes in our plans. And then she decided that she didn't want to go out after all. Which was fine by me. At least Jade doesn't cringe when I start cursing like a sailor.

Really. I do. Once I was hanging in the Castro and these guys told me, "Honey, you seemed all nice and sweet at first but then this stuff started coming out of your mouth..." But that was because I had had a few cocktails and we were playing Spades. And I do a lot of trash talking when I play Spades. And that nice and sweet thing? Just a disguise. Kind of like how Diana Prince is Wonder Woman's disguise. Actually y'all have never seen me at my most evil. Many in my family live in fear of what could come out of my mouth. Because remember how I said I am pretty perceptive about people? Well, I also usually know just what to say to cause the most injury. Fortunately for most folks, that little bit of nice in me stops me from saying these things most of the time. That's what was fun about hanging out with Grasshopper. I could lean over and whisper the thoughts to her. And then we'd laugh. Now you know the truth. I am a mean girl. And who gives a flying fuck if you like me.

But back to Sunday. By Sunday morning, it was just going to be Jade and me. And I knew what that would mean. Jade rarely goes out in the evening if it is not a group. By Sunday evening, she called to say that she thought she was coming down with something. I thought about heading out alone but every place I could think of nearby would be filled with the melanin-challenged. And I hadn't quite gotten over my foul mood yet. So Natasha and I curled up in bed and watched some TV.

And tomorrow it's back to Sack of Tomatoes so that I can finish my work. And it looks like I may actually have to get up in the morning. Because I forgot that I have a doctor's appointment in the afternoon. Yep. During my various appointments with the doctor over the last couple of weeks, they finally realized that I have not had a mammogram. And let me tell you that I am totally thrilled by that idea. Not. But that's OK because later in the week I hope to hit Cowgirl Creamery because I need more jam and I've been told that I can find what I want in the Tomales Bay spot.