Saturday Family Blogging

First up, long overdue Christmas pics.
My cousin from the post below and her sister. She, her sister, my sister, and I all have the exact same initials. We're also all brilliant and beautiful. :-)

My son (in back) and nephew in "my" room at my parents'.

My nephew opening a gift. He has the camera smile down pat.

My older goddaughter (my Belle!) opening Teh DORA. She was uninterested in anything else I bought her after that.
Three of our little girls.

And some of our boys.

Two of my gifts.

More in July.

January 13, 1913

Delta Sigma Theta.

Is anything else so sublime, so invigorating, so awe-inspiring and yet so much like a gentle, lyrical caress to the human ear?

**sigh**

Today, my Sorority is 94 years old. It has been a turbulent but blessed, beautiful, historic, journey.

For Gwyn, Ragey, BF TX, BF LA, and any other Sorors who stop by--Happy Founders' Day!

For my line sisters, I think of this probate chant:

We are the ladies,

Of Delta Sigma Theta,

Everyone knows,

There's no one greater!

Elegance, Intelligence,

You know we are live.

We are the new Deltas

Spring 95.*

And here is my cousin, still a neophyte, representing:

_______________________

*Lord, I'm old!!!

Cue Mighty Mouse Theme

Can women have that Save the Day Guy syndrome Lauren named and Zuzu expounded upon?

Cuz Madonna seems to have a bad case with regard to her recent adoption of a little boy from Malawi.

Dang, she's all modest about rescuing people 'n creating new laws 'n stuff.

What will our intrepid superheroine conquer next?

Literature

After an unusually long PTO meeting, I stopped at the store to try to buy a new USB cord to plug my digital camera into the computer. It disappeared in Louisiana and has yet to be seen again.

Anyway, I couldn't help myself... I stopped by the book department, particularly the section labeled "African American." For long moments, I stood mesmerized by a most scrumptious trifecta: autobiographies of LL, Denzel, and Tavis, all with lovely cover photos (Lord, ha'mercy, LL!). Once I tore myself away, I realized that I've been ordering books online too long; apparently, so-called "urban" books are all the rage. The shelves were swamped with them. And Lord, some of the titles made my eyebrows lift. Titles like She Ain't the One, Around the Way Girls, My Woman His Wife and so many others. And y'all, I swear, there was one called Someone Else's Puddin. WTF?

And before you think I'm giving urban books a particularly hard time, I will admit to judging those particular selections solely by their covers. They could be excellent--but I can't get past the puddin' reference! I have read a couple of urban books though--I remember liking one quite a bit. The other one was too much for me--not in terms of sex or suspense or drama (I won't even get into some of the non-academic stuff I read and enjoy)--but just something about the whole package. It was a little overwhelming.

Next were the inspirational books. I smiled politely at those, picked up a couple, and returned them to their correct spots. That's another prejudice I have--I'm scared if I actually read one, I'll come away feeling guilty. I know, I know, I'm a grown ass woman who makes her own choices. But it's hard to escape that Baptist upbringing sometimes.

And then there was a little interesting section where urban seemed to meet inspirational with titles like Drama in the Church and some works by Kimberla Lawson Roby (whom I have not read) that focused on... well, drama in the church.

There was a work by Zane--Caramel Flava. I didn't even have to pick it up--I got it for Christmas. :-) And, I started to pick up a carelessly placed copy of He's Just Not that into You, make copies, and distribute it to a couple of friends. But, hell, we know the signs; there's no use in paying ten bucks for affirmation.

There were also (my favorite!!) black cookbooks. Cooking with Garvin, whom I don't know. Mo'nique's You Can't Trust a Skinny Cook--which was all funny to me until I realized the cooking shows I watch most often have Paula Deen, Ina Garten, and Emeril. And, Rachael Ray, of course, who's a bit curvy. I didn't particularly like Giada de Laurentiis and another slender woman whose name escapes me now. Apparently, elle shares the wariness about skinny cooks. And one called Cooking for Your Man, which I was all ready to get on my high horse about, but then I had a reality check. Enough said.

Finally, pushed out of the African American section were the works by more mainstream black authors. They were on a shelf simply labeled "novels." I hope that's because they have such a loyal fan base and sell so well that people will seek them out. But given the number of highly-glossed lips, barely covered bottoms, stacks of money, and sunglasses (when did they become teh symbol of "urban"?) I saw in the other section, I doubt it.

I just realized there's no way I can edit that last paragraph to not sound snobby--well, maybe except to say, if it gets people reading, good.

What did I buy? Did I even buy anything? I'm not telling because, if I did buy something, trust, it goes on this list begun by petitpoussin. And I'm not ready to divulge. **she writes coyly**

Three Things (Thing One)

So, I have three things to say, and rather than kick myself for being online right now, I'm going to say them, then bid you all adieu as I once again place the computer in quarantine. I'm leaving this on top so you'll know these all important three things are here and in the posts below.

In a wonderful effort to explain how I'm feeling, a wise, dear friend sent me the following observation:

every step you take, you're greeted with more steps to go and the feeling that you're not getting anywhere.

To which I can only say, "Exactly." I have a routine, really I do. Reading at night. Writing during the day. Anxiety at all times because, 1) at some point during the reading, I realize, I cannot read everything on this topic and I've read so much that I can't even cover it all and 2) at some point during the writing, I spend long moments staring at the paper, then scribbling down sentences, then scribbling those out. I am blocked in a way that is only exacerbated (actually, the block is probably caused) by the fact that I need to have a complete draft in the next month. End of discussion. So this chapter has to be finished and I have to go back and add what was supposed to be another chapter into my chapter two (they fit well together, so screw writing a whole new one).

But I've decided that I'm pretty much tired of my own whining. I am not the only person to struggle through this process. I just have to do it. Over the last year of blogging, I've seen Quinn, Ragey, and others do it, so it's not as if I don't know it's possible. So, for at least the next week, there is a moratorium on "poor elle" posts. And if you even smell the delicate but bitter scent of one, feel free to respond with a sharp, "Get over yourself, please."

Because it's just time, you know. I've had long enough. I've read enough. I know enough. And the damned thing is not going to be perfect.

Research Dilemma (Thing Two)

My dissertator group has often offered me sympathy on my struggles to write about people who are still living. Human subjects, anonymity, confidentiality, ugh, it boggles the already near-exploding mind.

But my research has recently become complicated by the fact that I know the area and some of the people I study well. Two of the things my dissertation discusses are 1) sexual harrassment and discrimination faced by women in workplaces that were, initially, largely composed of white male supervisors and black female line workers and 2) ways women work together, outside of formal processes, to resist this and other forms of harassment, poor treatment, and being defined by others as solely workers (denying the importance and salience of their roles outside the workplace) and sexually available (by virtue of a large portion of the workforce being black single mothers).

In my interviews, the following situation has come to light. There is one man in a supervisory position who allegedly routinely harrasses women for sexual favors. He is said to have had sex with line employees in company offices, in parked cars, and at local hotels on break. His hands and eyes, according to one employee, are always "busy." One woman claims to have reported him to his supervisor, to no avail, as the two men are friends. Some women constantly threaten to "turn him in" but don't, for fear of their jobs.

So they bond together and fight him in other ways. They do not approach him singly; if they must go to his station (not really an office), they go in pairs. They warn new hires about him. One woman, who has a reputation for not taking shit, has allegedly threatened to do him bodily harm if he touches her again (apparently, he placed his arm around her shoulder and whispered something suggestive in her ear). And finally, they have begun reporting his actions to plant management.

You are probably not shocked. I cannot say, truthfully, that I was either. Here is my problem: this man is the significant other of someone I know.

Someone about whom I care deeply. And while she does not fool herself about him, she does not know the extent of his alleged actions, that his job is eventually going to be on the line.

In some ways, I want to tell her. But I am bound by the promise of confidentiality. Right?
____________________
She does not read this blog. Yes, I am sure. I have three IRL friends/family who know her, who do read this blog, but they already know of the situation, from family members who work at the plant. It is an open secret, apparently, one that I knew something of, I will admit. But I did not know the extent or how much he is feared, either.

Just a Hat Tip (Thing Three)

To brown rab girl fish who found this quote at Brownfemipower's from Audre Lord (which I have liberally truncated)

Every black woman in america has survived several lifetimes of hatred... Now we deny such hatred ever existed because we have learned to neutralize it through ourselves, and the catabolic process throws off waste products of fury even when we love... It is not that Black women shed each other’s psychic blood so easily, but that we have ourselves bled so often, the pain of bloodshed becomes almost commonplace.

Some days, the way I treat (and think of) myself and, yes, other sisters, I feel that all through me.

I'll see y'all later.
____________________
From Audre Lorde, "Eye to Eye," Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches by Audre Lorde. The Crossing Press, 1984: 156-7.

Why My Sister Does Better Recaps than the News

Sis: "You know that ol' birth control patch that was too good for us fat women?"

elle: "Mm-hmm."

Sis: "Why..." she smiles, then shakes her head, "I don't mean this in a bad way for the women who used it. But why they cause pulmonary problems and blood clots?"

elle: "Girl, for real?"

Sis: "Mm-hmm. They already being sued. That's what they asses get, trying to leave us out."

Things I'd Miss...

...if my life were any other way.

I've spread the insomnia bug to my sister. Since we were both up, it made perfect sense to forage for food. She made ham sandwiches and called out directions to me--"Get me an orange soda. No, one off the top shelf. And chips. No, I want cool ranch doritos." (My dad often observes that he doesn't think that the youngest in the family has the right to be so bossy. It's worked for our family for 29 years now).

So now she is lying on the passenger side of my bed (don't ask), complaining about the cheetos getting stuck in her teeth (the cool ranch doritos have vamped, apparently, into the clutches of two boys, ages 6 and 8, who wish to remain nameless), and looking for something "good" on TV. Not that we're going to notice once we start talking. She asked me what I'm doing. "Telling everybody how much I'd miss your ass if we ever separated." She looked at me over the top of her glasses and said, "Who the hell else is gon' deal with this bullshit, up at this time of night eating and typing?"
"Bitch," I say.
"Ya mama." From her, I can accept that. :-)

I'm thinking, this sleepless night won't be so bad.

Writing Exercises

I've gotten into the habit of unplugging the modem for a few hours to write sans temptation. I'm going to unplug it again in a little while, for more than a few hours, as I've kind of written myself into an interesting spot in this chapter (interesting spot being elle-code for a corner from which there appears to be no write-able escape). Before I do, I decided to talk (ok, write) out loud to myself to see if I can pinpoint the strange way I'm feeling.

I think the word that would best describe the way I'm feeling right now is melancholy. I'm not depressed, not particularly miserable (in fact, I've had some really bright spots over the last week), but I have this post-holiday, tinge-of-homesick, sick-of-the-dissertation, starting-to-feel-the-pressure sort of thing going on, coupled with an unexplained longing for something. You know the feeling you get sometimes when it just seems as if something is missing but you don't know what? I'm trying to tell myself, it's the phd, elle, you're longing for the phd. Hah! Anyway, the melancholia is manifesting itself physically--a minute ago I felt so boneless and weak that it felt like I was just a big puddle of blah.

Speaking of physical symptoms, I think I've written at various times on this blog (or maybe I just complain to people IRL) about bad bouts of itching, my swollen ankles, and repeated kidney infections. These don't occur together, I don't have hypertension, and my blood sugar levels are okay, so I've decided to swallow my fear and go see a(n) urologist... just in case.

The other feeling I have right now... does anyone else have the crazy problem of being in love with the idea of someone? Okay, maybe not in love, but feeling a strong attachment/connection to what you believe someone to be? The reason I describe it as being in love with the idea of someone--I don't even know one of my unrequited loves in real life and the other one I haven't been really close to in over a decade. But I know their politics and their brilliance and other quirky little things and I am so feeling them right now.

That is all.

The Giving Tree

That's my son's library book this week. We just read it.

That book always makes me sad, somewhere, deep down.

Wait, It Is the 21st Century, Right?

A while ago, I blogged about how the residents of my hometown elected the town's first black mayor. Since then, one long term employee of town hall has resigned and one police officer has decided to go work in another parish. They are both white. While the police officer claims the other parish will pay more and and pay his mileage, the town hall employee has been pretty honest about the fact that she doesn't want to work for a black man. I know you're thinking, "that's two people, elle," but remember I come from a town in which we have three police cars, a volunteer fire department, and about four town hall employees. So this is significant. And no, these aren't throwbacks to another age--the town hall employee is a year younger than I am. And when I see her, she will smile and speak and I will once again be blown away about how some people just don't get it.

For a number of people in my hometown, "it" isn't racism if "it" doesn't entail some violent act. Sort of like the white girl who confided to me years ago, when my cousin J was dating a white boy, that she just didn't understand why he would date J when he could have a white girl. Or how my high school let black cheerleaders ride the bus with the all-black boy's basketball team, but the white cheerleaders had to be chauffered to games because "it wouldn't look right." I could regale you with stories like that all night, but I digress.

The reason I'm thinking about my hometown mayor, is because I read this: Louisiana Mayor's Death Sparks Controversy. Gerald Washington, the new black mayor of a mostly-white town, was found shot to death and the coroner has ruled it a suicide.

But the coroner and the sheriff have offered no reason for why Washington would have killed himself. No suicide note was found. And there is no evidence he bade farewell to anyone, put his financial affairs in order, or gave any other indication he was about to kill himself, authorities said.

In fact, Washington seemed to be readying himself for his new job:

About noon, he set City Hall's alarm system for the first time. He got instructions on how to raise and lower the U.S. flag. He had already ordered a new mayoral letterhead with his name on it and a button-down shirt embroidered "Gerald Washington, Mayor."
A few hours later he indulged in a hobby, placing a $4 bet at a nearby horse racing track.

Apparently, the coroner wishes people would just get over these damned unfounded conspiracy theories!

"This is the South, so of course everybody's going to say it was some white guy shooting a black guy," said Dr. Terry Welke, the Calcasieu Parish coroner who ruled that Washington killed himself.

Now why in the world would we think something like that?

Toying with the Blogroll

You know how we humans love to categorize and dissect. Expect a mess for the next few days. And if I inadvertently lose you, please let me know!

Things...

...that made me say hmm (and okay, a few curse words):
1) During a discussion at home in which I teased bf Louisiana about her little pudge and the fact that she used to say, "After my first child turns four or five, I'm not having anymore,"--her child will be almost seven when the baby comes. She laughed then told me, "We weren't planning this. If they had let me get my tubal ligation two years ago-" Of course, I was like, "Let?" And she proceeded to tell me how she couldn't have the procedure unless her husband agreed, too. He had to sign some papers, too. She never approached him with it because, she says, she simply refused to ask anyone else's "permission" to have the procedure. "I kept saying, but it's my body," she said.

2) Late Sunday morning phone call from frantic cousin, "elle, I thought you said the morning after pill was available over the counter now!" Sleepy me, "It is!" Cousin: "I called Wal-Mart (in a neighboring city of Ruston, LA) and they said they have it, but I need a prescription." Slightly irate me, "I'll call them."

Professional sounding me, "Yes, I had a friend call earlier about Plan B and she was told she needed a prescription." Snotty pharm tech, "Yes, she does." Snotty me, "Even though the FDA has approved it for OTC sales?" Pretending-to-be-knowledgeable pharm tech, "There are two kinds. There's different packaging and we sell the one with the packaging that requires a prescription." WTF me, "Is that a nation-wide Wal-Mart policy or just your location?" Proud pharm tech, "I'm not sure, but I know it's what we do." Professional me again, "Then I need a number for your pharmacy or corporate headquarters." Not-so-confident tech, "Uh, I don't know it." Then:
"You don't know how I could talk to someone about the pharmacy's policies?"
"No, ma'am."
"So, there's no number posted anywhere for customers who want to make a complaint?"
"I don't know it."
"I'll wait for you to find it. Or I can keep calling back to see if you've found it."
"Hold on, ma'am." He comes back with 1-800-WALMART. I call and find they don't open til noon on Sundays. I call back and ask for the pharmacist, who was unavailable for some time until they gave up. I get the same convoluted explanation.
Does anyone know about this?

... that make me happy.
1) Apparently, there was a conspiracy in 1933 in the LA parish I'm studying in which two white men (from elsewhere) enlisted black residents to arm themselves, march on the parish seat, demand more food and assistance "from whites" (that's what the first article says), and demand that some laws change--particularly (according to the article and this shows just how RADICAL the plot was) the law forbidding interracial marriage. Forget the desire to ameliorate the horrible conditions of the Depression for poor blacks in rural LA--we know what they **really** wanted.
From a selfish standpoint, this is going to be important to my chapters one and two. From a more human standpoint, I'm scared of what I'm going to find. The march didn't occur, but I know that some black people did receive shotguns. I know that at least one black man was killed. I also know that I lived in that parish and never heard one word about this. What was done? What happened to the list of black recruits who paid the white "plotters"?

2) I finally joined AHA in November (yes, it took that long). I never thought about it much before and when I did, I was like who has an extra $40. But I bit the bullet and joined. So yesterday, I got my first issue of the American Historical Review. I expressed to my sister that I feel so historian-y now that I'm getting my very own journal (okay, while I love my Labor journals from LAWCHA, it ain't the same!) She said, "You know what will make you feel even more historian-y?" "What?" I asked, thinking about elle in a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, a nice armchair, and an unused pipe. "Graduating," she said.

Have I mentioned that Sis has been in a little bit of a mood since she had to return to the hallowed halls of elementary academia?

Good News

No, not the gospel, but I will make a loose Bible reference.

(BF Texas--don't kill me). I think, timewise, it's safe to announce that both of my bestest friends in the whole wide world are pregnant. Once I got over jealous, "Hey, those heifers did something without me!" and maudlin, "Even if I wanted to have another baby, I couldn't" moments, I realized I might be more excited than they are. This is almost as sweet as having your own new baby but without morning sickness during weeks 6-14 (yes, I remember), a nose that spread across my face and shined like Rudolph's, and achy nipples. Plus...

I LOVE BABY SHOWERS.

Best friend Louisiana is due first, so we are planning a shower for March. At 3 this morning (yes, I have teh insomnia), I sent her an IM saying that I'd seen some cute Noah's Ark themes and to text me with her opinion when she woke up. I found this on my computer a little while ago:

I think Noah's Ark sounds wonderful. Bless his heart, he's going to need Jesus from the beginning.

So BF Texas start thinking...

Another Thought...

...on the Miss Celie's Blues post. Another two thoughts, really.

1) Women are WONDERFUL. Thanks for all the love and encouragement.

2) More of a rhetorical question than a thought really: In remembering how low my self-esteem and self-confidence has been at times, I thought, What happens to us? We aren't born feeling so low. My aunt has preserved a letter that I wrote her when I was five that contains the line, "Do you still think I'm a genius because I am." And my sister's mother-in-law laughs all the time and tells me how bubbly and conceited I was when I was young. Why is it so necessary that things like that be crushed and abused out of women?

But of course, I think I know the answer(s) already.

100 Facts about Elle (17)

Fact # 17
I thought this was cool... if you ignore the smudged eyeliner (that's a bad habit). For a very limited time, see who I resemble! Actually, I see a little Sarah Vaughan and that's it.

***image removed***

Miss Celie's Blues

This is a very graphic post.
That song, which I love, has come up twice recently, in posts by bloggers I love. You know it, the one from The Color Purple that Shug sings to Celie at the juke joint, the one that gives Celie the courage to poke out her tongue at women who made fun at her. Nubian wrote about why she loves the movie and the song, what she sees of herself in them. And BfP included it in a beautiful tribute to Black Amazon.

I had mentioned to nubian, in another place, that I loved the song, that my sister and I sing it to each other quite often. Since then, I've wanted to write about what it means to me. I've balked at the idea--despite all the things I share with y'all, there's lots I don't say. What would people think? I wonder. Is it appropriate--it's not as if my pseudonymity is unbreachable or even particularly well protected. How personal should an aspiring academic get online?

But I can't shake it, the desire to write about it. And so I will.

I no longer watch The Color Purple from the beginning. I can't take it--Mister's abuse of Celie, the separation from Nettie, the attack on Sophia, and all the other pain is too much. I have to pick it up deep into the film. Usually when Celie's about to cut Mister at the dinner table.

I can't take Miss Celie's pain because it mirrors my own. I know her too well, it feels like. The childhood sexual abuse by a man you should've been able to trust. That first unexpected slap just for speaking your mind. That moment when you touch that newly-inflicted injury with your hand, feeling the blood and still not believing that he could do that, that he would do that. Scrambling to have everything just so, only to be told that it's not right. It's never right. Lying still and squeezing your eyes shut, because it's just easier to go along with it--it can't really be rape if you're in a relationship. Because that would mean you'd been raped more than once. And no one will believe you've been raped more than once.

And I know why she hid her smile behind her hand, too. Oh, yes, part of it is because you don't deserve to be happy. Hell, if you did, all those things wouldn't keep happening to you. But another part is, don't-look-at-me, I-don't-want-the-attention. Because, you reason, after you're abused repeatedly, there must be something about you, something that attracts the attention of abusers, something you're doing wrong. So you struggle to make yourself as small, as invisible as possible.

I did that. And in the back of my mind, I nurtured a love for another song, His Eye Is on the Sparrow. Because I believed those words--that if God cared about a plain, little bird, then surely I, as small as I tried to be, meant something.

But, of course, there's another part to The Color Purple, the part I can watch, the part with which I am beginning to identify. When Celie makes it out. My journey out didn't begin as beautifully as hers did--with letters from her beloved sister (or, perhaps, from the moment she met Shug) or as satisfyingly--when she told Mister off, fearlessly, at that family dinner.

It began in three places, I believe. In my home--I woke up one night from a dream, crying, thinking, what would I be if all those things hadn't happened to me? That was a catalyst, in a sense, because I'd fooled myself into believing that I wasn't really affected anymore, that I was in control of my life, that I wasn't like other women because I'd only been hit three or four times, and I could get out at any point because I had the education and the income, and on and on.

In my mind--because I had a child. And I did not want him growing up seeing me abused or learning to be abusive.

In a doctor's office--after the last sexual assault, when I'd decided to call the police. I spent my 28th birthday in a police car and an examining room. I refused the rape exam--he hadn't been able to penetrate because, tired of lying there and closing my eyes, I'd fought his ass back. And I still couldn't wrap my mind around the idea of my being raped. What I did let them do was swab my face. I suppose he'd considered that consolation humiliation.

But something else happened too. I had to talk to a rape counselor and best friend Texas was in the room. At one point, the counselor asked me something like, "You don't think very much of yourself, do you?" I said no. And best friend Texas started crying. It dawned on me that, for some reason, she thought much of me. And I used that, her love and the love of my other friends and family, who were outraged when I didn't feel I had a right to be, who thought much of me-old, fat, not much more than a little brown sparrow, me. I used it to edify me while I was trying to develop some self love. I can never explain what my best friends, my sister, and my closest cousins have been to me. Never.

So like, Miss Celie, I made it out, too, in a way. I don't think I am as triumphant as she was, not yet. But I do know, for certain, that when I shimmy for my sister and laugh and sing that part, "I'm something, I hope you think that you're something, too," I know that coming from nothing, from sparrowness, I mean it with everything in me.

borrowed from nubian.

Resolutions

Speaking of resolutions, let me give y'all some inspiration. See, each year I still half-heartedly resolve to lose weight.

I went to the (yes, THE, as in only) clinic in my hometown the Tuesday after Christmas (had a jaw problem that made it feel like my head was about to explode each time I pressed the side of my face or behind my ear--which is why I thought it was an earache). Just so happens that I'd also been there December 29, 2005. Well, when comparing my statistics, lo and behold, it turns out I lost weight over the last year.

A whole one-and-a-half pounds!

Now, if someone as haphazard (trust me, that's a perfect adjective) as me can succeed, so can you!

Wish Me Luck!

On two things:

1. Driving back home today. Traffic is going to be horrible as approximately a gazillion people will have the same bright idea.

2. Making this "THE" year. In which I get the PhD. In May, hopefully. I'm going to have to work.

Is that a valid New Year's resolution?