Friday, July 2, 2010

New blog site

I've been thinking about switching to a new blog site for awhile now. Today, for some reason I actually did it.  I'll no longer be updating this blog.  Although I didn't think of this then, it's like a new beginning.  I started this blog shattered from the inside out.  I'm finishing this blog restored and happy.

I'm still undone.  I think that's the best way for me to live life: A skein unraveled for the world to see.  Each person taking a piece, telling a story and passing the rest along.  In the end, I'm connected through so many people.  I'm whole because of the people who hold me.

So please, continue to follow me on my journey, and persuade others to do the same.  It won't be the same without you.


With love,


me

Monday, June 28, 2010

Why do I do these things?

I have no desire to date the gentleman who just asked for my phone number. He's older than me by a lot and I'm not attracted to him. Then why did I give him my number? Why not? I don't have many friends. It's not like he proposed marriage... If he calls, we'll hangout. I'll let him take me out for a milkshake or ice cream. It's no big deal. I've got to start making friends somehow, right?

In the middle of the niigghht I go walking in my sle-eep.


I'm doing it again, and I have to stop.  I commit myself to the point of mania.  At my old job, in my old town, there were no other options. It was work or bust.   However, that mentality often left me scrambling for "me" time.  

Today, I volunteered to go into work and make some calls to students just to make sure they're coming.  If I don’t I'd just sit here on the floor of this apartment watching things on the internet. Or I'd go out into the world of Seattle and spend money that I shouldn't.  I figured getting exercise and connecting with people is a much better choice.

Saturday I drove out to the Olympic Peninsula in a school bus to drop off a trip.  We passed beautiful lakes, mountains, and hot springs.  It reminded me of the islands.  It was a 14-hour journey.  I wasn't told, but more likely than not, I forgot, that I was spending the night.  As a result, I spent the night alright -- shivering.  


Once every few hours I would create this odd porous cocoon of warmth.  I remember asking myself, "How did you sleep when you had away games in high school?"  Combining that eleven-year old knowledge with my WFR training I took off my shoes and put my feet in my waterproof Timbuk2. Whatever heat I created would bounce off the liner and warm my feet.  I then did the same with my legs by taking my Mountain Hardwear softshell zipping it around my thighs and calves and tied the sleeves in a knot so tight it might as well have been a tourniquet.  Then, my core the most important part to keep warm.  I zipped my Mountain Hardwear fleece to my chin, turned my North Face rain jacket around and zipped it backwards so my face was protected by the back of the hood.  I was comfortable, for the most part.  
As the moon rose, comfort sank. I hopped from the reclining driver's seat to one of the seats with, “the hump.”  I'd often roll over onto the hump, bump my head and startle myself awake.  At one point I went into the bathroom, and did jumping jacks to get my blood pumping.  Upon returning to the bus I realized I couldn't do it any more.  I had to start my 7-hour trip home.    
 Two hours in, I needed a nap. So, I pulled over in the infamous, and desolate Forks, WA for a snooze.  Not ignorant to the tales of vampires and werewolves I locked all doors said a prayer and kept my hand on the wooden stake I keep in my backpack.  The rest of journey was fine.  I was exhausted, but happy.  I’ve become an expert at crossing Lake Washington (?) on a ferry. 

I’m going to try and keep some of my time for myself during this week off.  I leave for my first trip out in the field in early July. Eight days backpacking on the Olympic Coast.
Yesterday I had a long conversation with a friend that made me laugh till I cried and that felt good.  I miss intimacy.  That cave where it usually sleeps might be my downfall.  I don’t want to create false bubbles of familiarity because it’s easy.  I don’t want to date someone just because they’re there. I can feel it happening. 


Friday, June 25, 2010

Sexless in Seattle

 
"Come, you spirits 
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, 
And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full 
Of direst cruelty."  -Lady Macbeth

I will never be cast as Lady Macbeth.  

Before I could utter a single word of my monologue the director and his minions would sniff out the  
biological alterations that occurred as a result of this day and say,  "thou aren't a woman... thou art a eunuch -- of sorts. Away you liar and never come again."

When Bob from B3 Bob's Bikes and Boards reassembled my bike  he did so  with the expertise that a novice such as myself, lacks. As a result,  the seat was lifted to it's rightful position: Really Freaking High.

I, and the more tender parts of me spent 11+ Seattle miles being assaulted by the cushionless Nishiki bike seat I inherited from the previous owners. Each bump, jolt, and near miss left my brain screaming, "MY  VAGINA!" but my lips played the role of prison guard and uttered nary a word. 

As soon as I left my apartment a light mist, which soon turned to a rapid drizzle greeted me on the morning of my virgin ride in this wonderful, yet incessantly moist, city. I set out toward the community center with a  enough trepidation to open up a fault line.  The ride was, well, interesting.  I'm not in shape enough to conquer this geography, but I will be. Well, I'm in ok shape, but not having the slightest clue where I was going didn't exactly help matters.  I rode for about 30 minutes arrived at what I thought was my destination, wiped the water from my glasses, and settled down to take a brief rest.  Then my boss said, "You know the training is at  XYZ facility, right?"  "Uh yeah, I just stopped to get directions." Dangit! Here's the thing when he said you have to do this to get there. I, apparently shut him out and imagined that he was sending me to the location with which I was most familiar. 

He was not.  

About 20 minutes, muddy calves, soaked shoes, and a sopping wet back later, I arrived at the place I thought I was supposed to be. It was, in fact, the wrong location.  They gave me instructions, offered me bus fare, and sent me on my way.  When I said that I had no clue how to put my bike on the front of the bus they called an avid biker within the company and he helped.  I made my way down some crazy hill, carried my bike down to the tunnel and waited.  When the bus came all of the directions I'd been given took a little nap and I stood stupidly staring at the contraption.  A very nice lady with a baguette sticking out of her bag helped me and then the bus was on it's way.  45 minutes later I got off the bus and arrived where I was supposed to be.  The training had already left.  Laughing I waited patiently for the group to return.  

In the past six hours conquered a few things:

-Riding my bike in Seattle
- Being outside in the rain in Seattle
-Riding my bike outside in the rain in Seattle
-Driving in Seattle
-Driving a minibus 
-Driving a minibus in Seattle

How is this my life?  Just when you think you've grown enough, more lessons are thrown your way.  Hopefully, my womanhood will peek out from its hiding spot and I'll become a lady once more. Til then, I'm just gonna keep asking for help, laugh till my face hurts, and hope for the best.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Sick

My homesickness is similar to the flank pain of renal failure.  Throbbing… walking through my back and abdomen when I’ve lain still just a moment too long.  I wonder if I would’ve grown up here if I’d be on the east coast feeling the same thing.  I love it out here and want to stay as long as it will have me, but I wish those that I loved were here too.  I missed McCai being born and that hurt.  I miss Zander calling me Yee-Hee and giving me goodnight hugs, kisses, and expressing his wishes for me to read him a book.  I even miss him tiring of my storytelling, shutting it promptly and asking his mommy to take over. 

I miss sleeping on a friend’s couch.  Not only because she carefully made the bed with borrowed sheets and a loaned pillow. But because she is no more than a room away and raises alarm when she hears me blow my nose in my distinctly violent way.

I miss driving home around dinnertime and stopping by a neighbor’s house to pee and raid their fridge.  I miss glasses of wine dipped in the familiarity of years.  I’m exhausted with the thought of “putting myself out there” like the possession of some Hollywood madam.  I want to sit solidly in the presence of love and know that its kiss is only inches from placement on my skin.

I don’t miss Hershey, or Pennsylvania. I miss my people. 

I miss
… understanding the vocabulary of a toddler I’ve known since before his birth
… Middleswarth barbecue chips and all the unhealthy wonderment
… longboarding on familiar roads that didn’t, in the least bit, resemble the death trap hills of now
… remembered breakfasts at The Pantry with a friend who is more like a mother
… a grey haired beast of a puppy who is more needy than any child I’ve ever known
… the accessibility of love

I love
… being so close to the natural world that I love
… the proximity of possibility
…  the possibility of tomorrow with my people of now
…  the sudden simplicity of my wardrobe
…  the passion which bubbles the surface of this city
… the views
… how I feel
… the intellect of Seattleites
… the conversation with coworkers in the tiny moments
… the crisp Seattle air that bites when I breathe
… being here

I want
… nothing more than to acknowledge the juxtaposition of emotions that have graced me with their presence.  I wouldn’t change where I am, or how I feel for a world of gold.

Sometimes the only cure for this sickness is being grateful that you have something to miss.   

Saturday, June 19, 2010

A mistake

I'm tired.  Work was great.  I'm the only woman in a pool of men.  It's nice, but I can't figure out why.  We played frisbee for a bit in the park before we began, and frisbee is not my strength.  I was nervous and caught, but mostly dropped, the frisbee like a prissy 8th grade girl.  Finally, when we sat down and began a dialogue, my intelligence kicked in, and I was at home.   I was given room to speak from the heart and I'm usually good with words.  The longer we were together the more at ease I became.   

Today,  we're all going camping.  (How am I going to sleep in a tent with a bunch of dudes? ) I just hope my comfort from yesterday bleeds through today.  

It's just camping for one night.   Then I leave Monday for a 4 day skill building trip.  Friday to drive a group to the Olympic Coast in a minibus (I KNOW) and then return the same day.  I leave the next day for a 6 day backpacking trip.  

Somewhere in there I have to find the time to finish my Study plan for grad schoo, and prepare for the first semester.  Woo-Hoo Masters degree!

Seattle feels like I've made a mistake.  Like I've been living on the wrong coast for all these years and I've finally come home. 

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Birth

I have at least three friends who are set to give birth today, or in the near future. No matter how scared I am about Seattle, it's so much smaller when compared to expelling a human being from your womb.

In the grand scheme of things, moving to Seattle is ice cream and raindrops.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Terror

Sometimes I choose to do things that leave me with macabre sense of doom.  Moving 3,000+ miles away from familiarity to the unknown is one of those things.

I'm scared.

Today is Garvey's 5th birthday and it's that thought which finally pushes the tears from their eye side waiting room rolling down the surface of my cheek, and finally,soaking into my sweatshirt.  He has no idea that I'll be back. That I wouldn't abandon him for the world.  I know he's just a dog, but that knowledge doesn't make leaving him any easier.

Terror is an ant that crawls beneath your skin when you have no idea what's next.  It crawls from the dermis through the subcutaneous tissue, and settles in an organ or two.  Rooting around and kicking up dirt until it chooses to settle somewhere for the night.  The next morning the same ant, along with its holographic brethren, wakes up and the fear begins again.  Only this time it feels like there's an ant hill throwing a kegger in your digestive system.

No matter how often anyone tells me I'll be okay it won't mean anything until I feel it.  "The things we must learn before we do them, we learn by doing them."  I just want to be okay. I just want people to like me. I don't want to stand in front of the mirror criticizing every centimeter of myself.  I don't want to care about what people will think, but I do.

My dog likes me.  Having him would make this so much easier.  On an extra scary day I could come home and lay on the floor and fall willing victim to his loving assault.  I won't have that safety net.  That sucks. How can I remember to be enough of myself in the midst of all this terror and change?

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Really?! Really.

I loved yesterday -- until I went to leave work.  Two of my students, who always help me carry my stuff to my car, were performing our usual Monday evening ritual when I saw a post-it note stuck to the window of my car.  I walked up recognized the hand-writing and went, “ Are you serious?”

My life is intentional.  I prefer relationships and conversations I’ll remember instead of those that discuss the daily migration of the clouds and sun.   I’m more likely to ask my students “What sustains you on the inside when all else falls away,” than some random awkward time filler of a question. 

My jewelry is intentional.  I wear a silver necklace with a star chain.   It is the same one I gave one of my favorite (yes, we all have them) students.  My bracelets all have stories.  The silly bands are from my girls, I bought one in China, one in Thailand,  another at place in Chicago, another at the The African Art Museum at the Smithsonian, and yet another is from my trip to Jamaica.  My love for stories decorates my body like a Christmas tree.

Yesterday wasn’t difficult for me at all.   Well, I did tear up when I drove past the Reese’s plant and the smell of peanut butter and chocolate nestled into my sinus cavities. I almost cried again when a co-worker came in on his day off to give me gluten-free cookies and say goodbye.  But, for the most part yesterday was a blast.  My kids chased me with water balloons (some of which burst, a lot that didn’t), helped me create a playlist of their favorite songs so I can remember them, I skateboarded like a kid for three hours with shoes and even barefoot.  At devotions the girls shared their favorite memory with me. I was kinda surprised that 99% of them were violent i.e. “Ms. Whit remember when I stole your shoes, hid under a van and you drug me out screaming like a crazy woman and then we wrestled?!” When I see myself through the eyes of others I realize I’m a complete maniac.  The girls loved it when I was driving a van down Springboard drive, screamed at the top of my lungs, “ROADS ARE FOR PANSIES!” and drove off-road into a baby cornfield with my sweet little cherubs screaming like recently acquired kidnap victims.

That being said…

The past three years of work has been reallllly weird for me.  I dated a coworker (...yeah yeah I know don’t shit where you eat…whatever… lesson learned). I also became friends with another coworker.  During our relationship for reasons that are drizzled throughout this blog, their relationship became inappropriate.  I handled it well. We talked about it in therapy, discussed how he was just reliving the cycle of every other failed relationship, and then we tried to work through it. We broke up, got back together, broke up, got back together, broke up yada yada yada et al infinite.

They started dating 3 months after we broke up. That was hard, not gonna lie.  Something like four months later they got engaged. That was hard, not gonna lie. Granted, I did call it like 4 weeks into their relationship, and my coworkers were super sweet.  They called me at home so I wasn’t blindsided when I got to work the next day.  Even though I shook their hands and offered my congrats things were super weird …like really weird.  With the help of friends, my journal, and lots of conversations with myself in my car, I got through it.  I got to a really healthy place.  There are some things that stung. Like when I had to use a laptop at work, opened the lid and found a note that read, “You are loved,” in her handwriting. It was his computer, oops.  I remember leaving that same note and others like it throughout his things for him to find. I was lame. 

I’m a big believer in the “Woman code,” or the “Bro code.” Don’t get involved with a friend’s ex, sleep with their significant other, or use their underwear.  She violated that and it hurt for a really long time.  It hurt more than anything he’d ever said or did to me.  She and I sat down and talked about it and I asked her for the space and time to heal.  She consistently had a hard time honoring my requests.  She’d rub my back, or caress my arm at work.  She’d insert herself in my conversations.  She’d call me after work and say asinine things in an effort to rebuild our relationship.  She would talk to my coworkers about my relationship with him and tell them things he’d said to her.  It was weird she was weird. Because she didn’t give me the space to heal and be okay it took three times as long for me to get over it. 

So yesterday when I saw this note on my car window I was like Seriously?!  I read it and the words were nice, but really? Stop trying to hijack my day.

So I went over to the mailboxes, and wrote a reply that read exactly like this:

*insert her name here*

You don’t get it.

You’ll never get it.

Jéhan

Then I placed her printed oddity into an envelope along with mine and put it in her mailbox.  The end.

Seriously?  Get out of my life.  You’re like the gnat that flies in my face that I can’t swat because PETA will come after me with bloody paintbrushes.  When I’m not at work or on campus I don’t think about either of you.  When I’m there, your presence permeates my skin like an acidic lotion because you continue to spew yourself down my throat.  I’ve been mature. I’ve ignored the angry part of me that wanted to cuss you out, slash your tires, and put sugar in your gas tank.  I’ve reminded myself that you’re just naïve and I can’t hold it against you. I’ve remembered that we have to work together and I have to humor your stupidity for the kid’s sake.  I’ve kept the lioness behind the electric fence. But I’m not on payroll anymore.  Knock it off.  If you cross the line again like say I dunno show up at my door in Seattle, send me text messages, or even email me. I will weather the sting of that electric fence.  You will see me for who I’m completely capable of being.  You will understand boundaries.  All bets are off.  No holds barred.






Monday, June 14, 2010

Crocodile Tears

Today is my last day of work, weird.

I saw my girls yesterday and they presented me with a poster of pictures from this year by the dumpster where I was throwing something away.  How sentimental.  :)  They gave it to me and asked me if I was going to cry when I left. I went, "Uhh, probably not? I don't know. Why? That's weird, why do you want me to cry?" Their response, " I dunno...we cried making this."

They want me to cry so they can see how much I care about them.   I don't know if I'll cry. I'm not a crier, at least not in that sense.  There will probably be a salty oil spill on the plane on the way to Seattle that will terrify those around me.  I'll think of them and their poster and my dog and my friends and Middleswarth Barbecue chips and I'll be sure I'm making a big mistake.  While dating what's his face we would go to these pre-marriage therapy sessions (seriously, thank God for those) and he would talk about want to see me more vulnerable.  How he, in so many words, wanted me to cry more.  I remember being totally baffled like, wait, you actually want to see me cry.  Both he and the therapist tried to explain that it wasn't about the tears, it was about me needing him.  He wanted to feel needed.  That never sat right with me.

My goal for today is to write something so the girls will know just how much I care about them.  I'll urge them to measure my love, not by the tears on the last day, but through every interaction we've had over the past year.  I will miss them. In fact, I already do. I just wish they could understand that this is for me. Me leaving my alma mater to move across the country to a city I've never been is a decision I'm making for myself.  I want them to make similar decisions throughout their lives.  They should be loving, kind, benevolent, and philanthropic, but at the end of the day they need to make decisions that will benefit them so they can benefit others.

Hopefully, someday, they'll forget about measuring love by crocodile tears. They will, instead, recognize it in the words and actions of those around them.

 

Sunday, June 13, 2010

"Going to the chapel...

...with no intentions of getting married"

I'm totally at that point in my life where an impressive percentage of my friends are floating into wedded bliss, promising to float into wedded bliss together, or entering into long-term relationships with the hopes of, yup, floating into wedded bliss.  To be honest, it's freaking me out. I've gone to two weddings in the past few weeks and they've been good to me. Watching my friends say their vows has been wonderful. Their stories are often stories detailed in comic books and fairy tales.

The thought of getting married literally sends me a bubble guts care package.  My stomach urinates acid into my throat, the moisture in my mouth evaporates, and my jaw clenches like a pitbull with a meaty snack.  It could have something to do with only recently learning how develop relationships with men that aren't painted with childhood issues stemming from my horrible relationships with my brother and dad.  Or maybe it's the fact that my first hardcore relationship showed me that there are men who are completely unrelated to me who are just as, if not more, toxic. But I'll leave that to the experts to figure out.

It's not that I don't want to get married. I do.  I think. Just not now.

I can't help but wonder how people got it so right.  How they're at a point in their lives where they can say,  "I want to be with you and no one else foreva' and eva' Amen." Whaaat?! My grandparents have been married for 56 years.  Yahoo! But, there are like three or so illegitimate children sprinkled into the pudding. What? Why?  Seriously is it that hard to say, "I promise to love and uphold and yada yada yada insert wedding vows here," and mean it?  You married that person. Why would you cheat on them? If something is pissing you off, tell them.  If your needs aren't being met emotionally, sexually, board game style or whatever TELL THEM.  Don't cheat. That's not fair, it's not nice.  I'm not sure I can forgive cheating.  It's like unforgivable.  You might say, "Well Jéhan, then you're not ready to get married, love is unconditional." Yeah okay. Then you're right.  I'm not because, hello, cheating can't be filed under the same unconditional love category.

Maybe that's the crux. I'm not ready to say the things I need to say to have the marriage I want.  I'm just not ready.  I'll take that over the constant knocking thought that maybe I'm just not the marrying kind.

Friday, June 11, 2010

I wanna go home

A friend recently wrote on my fb wall, "you have 650 friends...how loved you must be!!" Sidebar: The fact that I deleted 200 “friends" recently and I'm at 650 is a little weird.  Nonetheless, I am indeed loved by many.  J

The past two and a half weeks have been bananas, in a good way.  I've been traveling all over the place to visit friends and family.  I'm exhausted.  The kind of exhausted that greets you with morning with a vertigo handshake.

I drove to State College to visit an old friend...perhaps one of the oldest and most intimate.  She was in my student home when I was in middle school and I chose to go to my high school student home because she was there.  She was who I wanted to be when I grew up. She listened to the Doors, and Grateful Dead, and I'm pretty sure she's the reason I developed a crush on Kurt Cobain.  Somehow she got our houseparents to allow her to get a bird and keep it in our room.  I love(d) her dearly.  It's funny how some people just feel like home.  I like that.  People who feel like warm chocolate chip cookies and milk.  

I'm staying with a family who I met through work. She was my co-worker, then my friend, then my boss, then my co-worker, then just my friend.  She's pregnant with her 2nd child (I hope labor happens soon because she might just go nuts).  She and her husband have introduced me to what it's like to be amazing people and raise a child.  Their son is one of my favorite beings on this planet. Here's to hoping that baby number two graces us with his presence before I head out to the Pacific Northwest.  

On June 5th two of my friends from college got married.  The bride is one of my best friends.  I think it's because we both have a similar grasp on the frailty of human relationships. We expect the same kindness from the world that we give, and tend to take it personally when it's a bit stingy giving it back.  The wedding was comfortable.  It was gorgeous. It was them.  Friends and family were in attendance.  The music was straight from a playlist on one of their iPods if either of the had one. I met and got to know some of their L.A. friends and it was cool to put names to faces and spend time with the other bridesmaids.  It’s the people like that that make me want to live in L.A. But then I remember that the soul of L.A. is cracked and burned and would eat me alive if I spent too much time there.     

The wedding in Jamaica was quite an experience as well.  I stayed with family and went to the resort in the evenings for the festivities.  Capitalism is such an odd experiment.  It’s allowed the people of Jamaica to live in poverty while the foreigners with wealth benefit from the countries natural resources and tourism.  It’s hard to see.  I’m planning on spending a lot more time in Jamaica over the next few years.  I have to do something to benefit my country. I’d also like to help reconnect other Afro-Caribbeans in the States to their roots.  You’ll have to check out www.19more.org for updates.



I write this to say that even though I’ve been homeless, literally, since May 25, 2010, I haven’t felt that way.  Yes, it’s been a little hard to iron my clothes on a friend’s bathroom counter, pack for a three day camping trip from my car, and leave my dog with pretty much everyone I know in Central PA, but I’m still okay.  I’ve moved around more often than *insert famous musician here* on a farewell tour.  I used to feel lost and empty.  But in adulthood I’ve made friends with my lifestyle and have realized that the people who are supposed to be in your life will be in your life regardless of distance.  My definition of home transcends the Reaganomics era building surrounded by a white picket fence.  Home, for me, is a feeling not a place.  For once in my life I get that.  

Friday, May 28, 2010

Tell me how long the train's been gone

It rained yesterday. Unlike any storm I’ve seen of late. The water assaulted our itineraries and sent everyone, but the crabs, inside. You see, there are crabs in my yard. No, that’s not some ill-phrased innuendo. There are literally crabs in my yard where squirrels should be. They dig holes in the ground for cover and bite chunks out of the mangoes that fall from trees.


The house is exactly as I remember it except smaller. Isn’t that how it always is? Our childhood enlarges its memories and our adulthood stomps them down. My uncles showed me how to pick fruit from our mango tree, and how to pick out the ackee when it burst open; if you pick it before it’s ripe it can kill you. Uncle Balla picked me sour cherries from the tree and I spat my seeds into a crab hole. I identified the breadfruit on the ground before they could teach me as a way to show them that my Yankee pickney blood hadn’t completely overtaken the islander in me.

The projects in the states scare me because those housed within know, just as much as I do, that I don’t belong. They can smell me approaching as an anteater sniffs out its prey. It is at their edges that I transform into an innocent island girl. One who is ignorant of their mores, seeking only to observe. Here, I’m tentative for different reasons. I used to belong but that was long ago. My patois flowed effortlessly from my lips and I could cuss you if the need arose. Now, my years have made me hesitate. I can feel home creeping back to my lips. My jaw relaxes and my tendency to smile is even faster. My granma fell and broke her hip and now she is afraid to walk. When I came back to the states I had to fix my words and now I’m afraid to talk. My accent is an awkward half-breed. Some words come out patois, some in broken English and even more are pimp-slapped by the judgment of my lips and they fall short of inquiring ears. After an “Eh?” encouraging me to repeat they fair better, but the nervousness doesn’t disappear.


My cousins Danae, Safiyah (say-fee-ah), and Qadera (Kah-deer-ah) are all gentle with me. After spending a few short hours with them Qadera told me she loved me when we dropped her off and Safiyah clung to my neck and told me she wanted to stay. Is that what it’s like to have blood family? An immediate acceptance? Once they heard the word “cousin” their allegiance was mine, and mine theirs. I wanted to talk to them about the things I hint at with my students. I wanted to make sure they knew how beautiful they were, that being intelligent is wonderful and they should never hide it. I don’t know if it was because of my newly established familial moniker, or because of the internal clock that has begun ticking. Either way, I enjoyed its presence in my system.


I’m tempted to stay here, not because of the beauty sold in magazines and airline commercials. Rather because I feel myself filling up. My cousin listens to me when I say she “muss bade” before we can watch tv. I am introduced as “yay-ahn.” Eric’s daughta legitimizes my existence. I belong. I don’t feel the need to justify my presence as I do in the States. I just exist. My auntie Herma (erma) cooks me breakfast and I am satisfied. My tongue has long craved the bitterness of ackee, sal’fish, green banana, dumplin, and hot tea. The sweetness of sweetened condensed milk satiates my desire for food. I don’t snack. My skin is smooth and soft from its saltwater bath and sandflea exfoliant. I see what is happening in my country and I am hard-pressed to find a solution. That may be why I am enamored with Marcus Garvey.

I am indeed torn between many worlds, which seem better off without my presence. “No man is an island,” or so they say. I was born in the States, raised in Jamaica, brought back to the States, my parents divorced, my mother moved, I went away to school when I was eleven, and have yet to settle down. I don’t know where I belong. Everywhere I go seems right when I am there. Perhaps it’s time to hibernate. I’ll embrace myself in a cocoon of safety where my intellect can rest, my heart can restore and my body will find its place. I am the blank tile in Scrabble that works with any word, but has little value. I don’t understand myself. Not yet, perhaps, not ever.

I think the struggle will be helping others, and myself, find peace with that.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Jamaica Day 1

Yesterday was tough. I went to bed at 12:00 am and awoke at 4:00 am to leave my apartment for the final time. My bones wore weariness like an invisibility cloak, heavy despite its transparency. Around 4:45 am I left to walk to the airport. It was a nice walk, but I was nervous about catching my plane on time. I got to the long-term parking airport and was able to catch a shuttle. The trip to Atlanta was impressively uneventful. My trip to Mo-Bay was equally so.




When my uncle and I spoke on the phone last he asked me what I would be wearing since he hadn’t seen me in about 20 years. I told him I’d be carrying a pink bag and I look just like my father. I struggled to get through customs because I didn’t know the address. It turns out that the people behind the desk not only knew my uncle, my grandparents, and my aunts, but one of them lived down the street from our house.



Humid air similar to the suffocating thickness of Japan greeted me like an old friend. I drank in the condensation and felt at home. Nervously I looked around for the uncle that I’d practically never seen. A driver asked me if I was Nancy, I told him no and continued to browse the drivers. Finally, a man with eyes like my Uncle José walked up to me. Before I could speak he said, “Yayan?” (That’s how they pronounce my name… I smile every time I hear it). Then he grabbed my hand and pulled me close and said “You look just like ya fadda. “ To spite the heat our embrace was long. To spite us, that embrace left us drenched in sweat. He told me to stand at the corner and wait while he went to get the car. I watched my uncle walk away, and smiled because I knew this Jamaica. The one they were selling on the plane and in airports, the one that greeted the dozens of married or engaged couples as the worked their way through customs was built. This one, the one I remembered was grown. It grew out of the hearts of its people.



We drove, talked, laughed, and it was ordinary. He filled me in on the civil unrest and we talked politics. I found that I cared more about the politics here than in the states, perhaps because this was paralyzing dysfunction, whereas the governmental inadequacy in the States is slightly crippling for some and functional for others. At one point silence settled comfortably.



The closer we got to my parish the land became familiar. Not socially constructed familiar where you pretend you recognize things to be polite. Rather raw familiarity. I recognized a road where I walked barefoot as a toddler. My street brought back memories and I knew the house as we approached. My Uncle Jo sat on the porch and I jumped out to greet him. He’s always full of jokes and smiles. He’s no exception to the adage that the funniest people are often sad inside. The more I’m around him I see it in his actions. He’s an attractive man with a quick wit that got his doctorate in something having to do with Math and Science when he was 26. I grew up with him so he will always be familiar.



I don’t want to spend my whole trip living in words. It’s easiest for me, but I think what’d be best is if I just shut this puppy down, sit on the porch, drink hot tea, read a book, listen to the reggae blasting from someone’s house, and wait for my uncle to pick me up. At some point today, I’m going to plait my hair. It’s nice to look around and see women with their hair in plaits. In the states I always feel so strange doing it, but here? No problem, man!

Here is a picture of my cousin Danae (sp?) she's in grade 1. I think I'm creating another Apple lover.:)

Monday, May 24, 2010

The best day ever

IF YOU HAD THE BEST DAY EVER IT WOULD END WITH NOT BEING ABLE TO TAKE THE CAPSLO K OFF OF YOUR IPHONE.   IT WOULD START WITHAN UNINTENTIONAL 5AM WAKEUP, MOVE ON TO MOVING A COUCH YOU BOUGHT WITH YOUR EX ON YOUR OWN, GRADUATE ROTO CRYING IN THE BASEMENT OF YOUR APARTMENT BUILDING , AND SOMEWHERE IN BETWEEN YOU WOULD LEAVE YOUR KEYS IN YOUR CAR FOR 4.5 HOURS AND LEAVE WORK AT 10PM TO FIND YOUR BATTERY IS COMPLETELY DEd.    YEAH, IT WOULD GO SOMETHING LIKE THAT.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Moving

So tired.  I feel like the moving will never be done.  This monumental task is overwhelming because I'm packing for four places, Jamaica, Pittsburgh, Seattle, and right now.

Some things go into storage, some things are going with me in the car, some are being mailed.  I remember when I lived in Pittsburgh and just drove to different places and threw my stuff out at dumpsters.  I kinda wanna do that now.   Yeesh.

Friday, May 21, 2010

Again

My mother is INFURIATING.  Out of nowhere, and I literally mean nowhere, I receive an email from her that says,

"Hello!

(Insert her first name here, yes, her first name, not  'mom'."

So I respond with,

"Hi..."

It's been about two years, give or take a month, since our last interaction.  We'd made plans to come together for lunch. I called to confirm and she forgot.  Now,  being forgetful is understandable. However, this is the same woman who forgot to show up to my childhood. I would spend entire performances looking for her in the crowd. At one show in particular I even waved to someone in the balcony because I thought it was her.  I almost missed the bus back to campus because I looked around for her.  I was finally forced on the bus.  When I returned to my student home I called her and apologized for not seeing her after the show, we'd had to leave.  She told me that she'd forgotten about the show and never showed up.

This is also the woman who, when I was 19, sent me an email saying, "...you're 19 years old I'm sick of walking on eggshells to pacify your attitude....have a good life."  That bitch has written me off more times than I can count.

Our last attempt at a relationship ended on my terms. She forgot me, like she had so many times before, and I told her how it made me feel.  She interjected some defensive statement of, "I will not be spoken to in this way... blah blah blah."  I hung up. Sent her a text message that read, "Fuck you," and that was it.

And now I'm trying so hard to be healthy. Scratch that. I AM healthy.  My relationship with what's his face is over and done, I've dated here and there, I have great friends, I don't run and hide when someone makes me angry. I've grown-up, without her.  And yet, here she is again.

My mother is the only person that can bring tears to my eyes without being present.  It's like there's a switch embedded in my already disgustingly putrid polluted DNA ( my ADPKD was a gift from her).  It's like she can flip that switch and make me shrink into a ball whenever she wants. She can cripple 27 years of strengh, and make me fall to my knees like Samson.

 I'm sitting here like a fool with tears running down my face because of an email.

The rest of the conversation went like this:

Her- Leaving work. Is it presumptuous or is it ok to say hello sometimes?


Me- That depends on what you're presupposing. 


HerI am seeking permission to say “hello” from time to time.


Me - Why?


HerWell, now that you have opened a pathway for others to contact you, maybe you will allow me to say “Hello” and by doing so I will know that you are alive. Instead of getting that information from second hand sources.


Me - I didn't open a pathway. You found, or somehow obtained my email address. I've never been in hiding, nor will I ever be. I have a website for crying out loud, anyone can Google me, and as a result, contact me. I'm not some Luddite who spends their life hiding from anyone.



As far as knowing that I'm alive, why do you need to find that out from me? Why aren't your previously sufficient second-hand informants adequate? 

I'm perplexed by your initial motivation to reach out. If you merely wanted confirmation that I was alive, my response of "Hi..." would have been enough and this discourse would not exist.

And so I ask again, "Why do you want to say hello from time to time?" 


I've kept her out of my life because she breaks my heart.  When she's in contact with me I can't help but think about the relationship I've always wanted, but can never have.  My thoughts linger on her Freudian obsession with my brother and equally Freudian dismissal of me.  

When she's in my life I want to sit in a corner and mope. I weep until my body shakes.  A long time ago I made the choice to live a different life.  Yet, time and time again she returns.  I don't know that I'm strong enough to have her in my life, and live it the way I want.

If this is some sort of test, or game, I don't want to play.  

:


Sunday, May 16, 2010

The Dream


I remember it now.

I was in a car with some guy. He looked a lot like the actor who played a shut-in on October Road.  I knew he was going to kill me.  For some reason I was in love with him… I think he was in love with me too -- I’m almost sure of it.  But, he didn’t believe me… he didn’t think that anyone was capable of loving him. So he drove and talked about everything but the murder.  He would look at me with the sweetest eyes, but told me I had to die anyway. We arrived at his house and he had a circular saw and was about to saw into my left arm.  Coincidentally, that’s where my tattoo is…the one I won’t interpret to anyone.

Then a couple came from nowhere and we were able to fight him off.  I was so terrified about him coming after me again I kept saying that we needed to make sure he was dead. So we fought him and I beat him in the face, multiple times, with a rock. Then we ran, and I was in L.A., running down a street.  I found a building, ran inside tried to find the elevator but was stuck inside the boys bathroom stall. I remember trying to pee with roller skates on.   All-of-the-sudden, I was inside the green room of SNL and actors with wigs were rehearsing their lines and I hid behind a door watching them, but never getting caught. I knew he was coming after me though.  It was only a matter of time.

Really?

I keep having dreams that someone is trying to kill me.  I can't even see the person, but I spend the entire night running for my life.


 Great.

Friday, May 14, 2010

--

To complain about an abundance is like spitting in the face of God.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Living

I’ve always loved the Tim McGraw song, “Live Like You’re Dying.”


When I was kid I desperately wanted a skateboard. My mother never bought me one. I did, however find an old broken one in the woods across from my house. I would roll down the sidewalk on the one half I could find completely oblivious to the lurking dangers of tetanus and its BFFLs.

A few weeks ago I bought a longboard. I’ve been skating on campus sometimes with kids, sometimes without. One of my students skates with me every time I go out. We’ve since developed a following. There are now a total of about 9 girls that have asked to skateboard with me. They’re learning slowly. It’s cute. I’m glad that I can teach them something that I wanted to learn to do.

The undercurrents of adult delivered criticism are good intentions and humor, but it’s amazing just how many people tell me I’m too old to skateboard. Is that it? Am I too old? Is it because I’m a woman? Is it because I’m a woman of color? Either way, that mentality sucks. I don’t ever want to stop myself from doing something I want to do because of age gender, or race.

I saw my mother deteriorate sitting in the lap of her dialysis machine. I don’t want that to be me. I don’t have a choice. A day will come where I have to have my blood slurped from within, cleansed and redeposited. It scares me a bit. It makes angry. But most of all, it makes me sad. I don’t want to acknowledge my impending imprisonment. I want to accomplish things in life slowly, and methodically. I don’t want to be ruled by a genetically imposed timeline. It’s not up to me though.

Mary Catherine’s death floored me. When I think about it, I just want to sit in the corner of my couch and cry. She meant a lot to me. I missed her last time I was in Pittsburgh. I intended to see her on my way to Seattle. I can’t. She died. So much has happened in the last few weeks and it’s overwhelming. Relying on God is overwhelming. Not having a plan for August is scary. What will happen when B.O.L.D is over? I’m trusting God… I’m trying to trust God. It’s hard.

I can’t help but feel alone. Again. As usual.

My 27th birthday was yesterday. It was a good day. The girls at work were sweet. They screamed happy birthday at the top of their lungs. They were kind, wonderful, everything I could’ve wanted for birthday companions. A friend bought me a cake and a card. It was nice. No regrets.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Progress

Facebook's blocking feature is a miraculous creation.  When I broke up with "what's his face" I was assaulted with his regular postings and responses on our mutual friends' pages.  As things became more strained at work with both she and he I blocked them both. It hurt too badly to see their profile pictures of projected happiness.  It felt like they were taunting me.

So, I blocked them.

The other day I unblocked everyone.  I just received an email that he had responded after a comment of mine.  When I went to Facebook to see what it was...

I felt nothing.

IT WAS AWESOME.

I'm good. It feels good to be good.  :)

Thursday, April 8, 2010

The internet's prostitute

I want so many contradictory things. To change education while remaining a hermit who lives in a yurt.  A business that flourishes without pimping myself out to the electronic masses.

I just created a website for my business and I'm exhausted.  The minute I thought I could possibly be finished I saw a picture that was out of line, inconsistent text, or wanted to add a new quote.  I'm not even using HTML and my brain is fried.

The computer has been my only vision for so long I think my retina is singed.  I want this to work, but I don't want it to overwork me.   I don't know what I'm doing in the grand scheme of things. I don't have a business degree, and I'm not planning on getting one. I only know my vision and I can work towards that.  Step number one? Secure funding.  If I thought 19more was time consuming now? What am I going to think when I'm in grad school full-time, writing grant proposals, working full-time, trying to get to know a new city, and launching a business.  I have a blog for me -- this is it, a blog for my website, and a blog for 19more.  Will I ever run out of things to say? Yes.  Has it happened?  Maybe, but I don't think so. My inspiration is born of my interactions with others. I haven't truly interacted with others in days. I go back to work tomorrow and I NEED to submit this application for a job today.  It has to happen. TODAY.

I'm surrounded by the feeling that I'm not good enough and this is all for naught :(.  <-- look, it's  smiley face with a dimple.  

I will be okay.  That is meant as a statement of reassurance rather than a definitive reality.de

Monday, March 15, 2010

Growing apart

I feel life too intensely.  Maybe that's why I love(d) acting.  The depth with which I'm allowed to feel and portray emotions is ideal.  

Monologues that make my skin tingle and guts vibrate are my coping mechanism.

I was able to lean into that crutch for years.  With my most recent position working with youth I had to teach them how to deal with conflict in a socially acceptable, middle-class, way.  As a result, I wasn't able to harbor my emotions and use them as fodder for my next prized performance.  I learned to address conflict in a healthy and appropriate manner, for that I will always give thanks.

But now, I'm a little too raw for my own liking.  When people come to me with their own issues, projecting them as frustration or wrongdoing by me, that hurts me more than I'd like.  A friend who is dealing with their own shit hurt me badly and I'm not sure they'll ever care or know just how much.  I'm afraid we're growing apart.  I'm afraid we were never on the same level.

I'm a little too well-adjusted to losing people I love for my own liking.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Blog Carnival

I was just asked to participate in a Blog carnival.  Nice!  I'd never heard of it before, but it involves writing and the outdoors so I'm in!

Now, what to write about?

Friday, February 5, 2010

Mrs. Claus

I'm making a list and checking it twice.  Since I'll be losing my health insurance in a little over 100 days I'm making as many doctor's appointments as I can. That means, the Nephrologist, the OBGYN, primary care physician, hematologist, and anyone who has ever had their hands on both my medical records and my physical body at the same time.  Shoot! I forgot the dentist!

I was canceling my gym membership as well as my internet and home phone this morning. The conversation with the woman from the phone company went something like this:

Her: Why are you canceling your subscription?
Me: I'm moving cross -country
Her: WOW GOOD FOR YOU!
ME: Ha ha, thanks.
Her: That's really great! I wish you the best of luck! That sounds like so much fun!!!

I was on the phone with one of my friends the other day and she was trying to explain that a lot of people want get in their cars and go, they just don't.  I guess I'm lucky that way.  I don't have too many voices discouraging me from living out my insane desires. I must admit a little terror creeps in each day.  Is this what I really want?  The reality of the situation often sneaks in and takes a nap right next to terror on some days.  I'm really making a move without a plan.

What's interesting is that since I've stopped sending out my resume and applying for jobs I've gotten more calls/emails for interviews than before.  They're from all over the country.  I don't know if that has anything to do with my vocalization of "I'm going to take my steps and let God build the bridge as I walk," or not. All I know, is that it's nice.  The not worrying part. Someone is taking care of me.  That's all I've ever wanted.

My interview with Seattle went really well. Crap! I have to send a follow-up thank you email. If nothing is set in stone by the time August 1st rolls around I'm just going to get in my little Impreza and drive.

I just wonder where I'm going to shower.

Monday, January 18, 2010

Chloe

About a year ago a former student of mine passed away.  She'd battled leukemia since the eighth grade.  When she died she was a senior in high school.  I miss her. Last year the school held several fundraising events and brought quite a bit of attention to her life and her story. This year, as with everything, there's not as much light on the issue.  I understand, we're human, things fade. They're making bracelets to honor life and struggle.  Just thinking about her again is saddening, and I have to fight back the tears.  I just remember feeling like it wasn't that big of a deal. She'll fight and she'll win. She didn't.

When I was in the seventh grade a classmate of mine died as a result of leukemia as well.  I miss them both.

Thursday, January 7, 2010

Blog Pride Day

I'm coming out of the blog closet-- soon.  I've hidden this little puppy from everyone except Amy, Kim, and Barb for many reasons.   One, they don't judge me ... ever, at least not to my face.  :) Everything I write here is something I've already told them about over the phone, or in Kim's case g-chat.  I just need the catharsis of typing/writing it out. I'm choosing now because apart of hiding in the closet was because I was afraid of what people will think.  Will they judge me for my anger or my longing?  Will they think less of me?  They might and that's alright.

I'm moving in seven months, that's actually a nice amount of time, and people will want to know what I'm up to.  I'm going to get a prepaid cell phone for emergencies.  I'm not going to part the Red Sea trying to find a job.  I figure a monthly cell phone bill costs as much as Garvey's dog food from this wonderful establishment and if I have to choose a phone or my best friend, I'm gonna choose le pup.

Going through my old blogs wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. It wasn't hard at all. It didn't feel like anything.  I fixed a few glaring grammatical mishaps, deleted one sentence, and that's it.  I was proud of myself.  I didn't feel the need to hide anything from anyone.  When I started this blog with "I saw at sea a great fog bank between two ships that struck and sank..." my heart was crumbling.  I felt like life had ended and forgotten to take me with it, gosh was I pitiful.  I needed an anonymous outlet.  The profile information, the email address, the picture, all faux material.  But no more, I've been hiding in the closet because I was used to it; not sharing my story because it involved other people.  When I was going to group, it's been like a year since my last visit, one of the women whose husband's behavior had damaged her so severely she lost sight of her self and attempted suicide, told us she's not going to hide because "...it's her story to tell."  Those words rang out and resounded in me like a toddler with a musical triangle walking through a cave. My life is my story. I have never, nor will I ever post disparaging remarks about anyone.  That would defeat this blog's purpose.  I write to reflect.  I don't need to mow anyone over for my own self-actualization.

My Icebreaker baselayer pants are coming in the mail today. Yay!  I'll wait to go for a run until they arrive.  I think my trekking poles will also arrive so I may go to the rails to trails and do a test run.  Rasta's front paw is injured. She's not putting any weight on it so she'll probably have to stay here.  :(  She's so much fun. I think I like her more than I like Garvey. Uh-oh.  It's just apart of her charm.  I think Garvey loves her more than he loves me.  So we're even. She does resemble Buckeye (the SBA three- legged dog) as she runs. That is unfortunate.

While I'm waiting for my Fed-Ex boyfriend I'm going to sit in my down sleeping bag (I turned the heat off last night so I could test it out: A+++) finish some planning for MLK Jr. Day, take packing boxes to the basement, vacuum shards of tile from my carpet and take a shower, maybe. My apartment is freezing and being cold and wet are a combination of my two least favorite states of being.

All-in-all I'm feeling mighty fine.  :)

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

Emancipation Proclamation

I'm going to attempt to thru hike the 790 mile baby beast that is the Arizona trail (AZT).  At this point my departure date is August 18, 2010.  Ahhh! Writing it means that others know about it.  It's no longer some internal desire. Well, proclaming it here doesn't make it wholly external.  There's nothing external that will push me to finish.  Except God. And I'm not fully convinced that God is external.

I feel like so much of my life has been future-oriented or past-related. Working full-time has made me wish for time to hike and travel.  I'm quitting my job soon enough and the panic that takes residence is evidence that something is wrong.  I shouldn't be so worried about something that's happening so far in the future.  When I think about moving to AZ my chest palpates and I feel uneasy. When I research the AZT wonder drives me.  A bit of trepidation flutters, but mostly wonder and peace.  I may not finish.  So what. I'm going to try. That's what's important to me.

Right now, I'm deciding if I should sell my belongings... again. I'm leaning toward no because I have really great stuff and I don't want to have to buy it all over again.  I don't mind getting rid of the meaningless things, but my oversized chair and mosaic table are two things that signify good things.

My 0 degree down bag came in the mail today. Yay!  My Smartwool shirt came yesterday.  A bunch of other gear is on its way.  My tent (so excited) should be here in a week or so. I'm going to take Garvey on an overnight camping trip so I can see what we're both made of... can we handle the cold? Most of the other things will go into storage till I'm through with grad school.

I'll be fine. The prospect of mountain lions freaks me out a bit, not gonna front.  Other than that, I'll be fine.  :)