Of the computer sort. A particularly nasty one from which I could not avert my eyes. In the middle of typing a post, my computer froze. And then, millimeter by millimeter, AOL started minimizing. Ctrl Alt Del did nothing to unfreeze it, so I switched it off.
And that was the end of that.
It will come on, but windows won't load. Mind you, this is a week after I lost my flash drive!
But, the dissertation chapters are saved elsewhere, so I didn't come apart at the seams... initially. I thought, well, it's still under warranty and, as this last chapter is due next week, not having a computer in the house might be a good thing.
Then it got serious. First of all, I can send it back to the company, but I have to have the stuff on my hard drive recovered/saved, because whatever they were going to do was going to wipe everything clean. So yesterday, I took it to the the Geek Squad at Best Buy and paid too much to back the hard drive up. And they won't have it back to me til Saturday, so I can't send it off til Monday probably.
Then, last night, I found myself sitting around glassy-eyed and shivering. What the hell could I do with myself?
Finally, the last damn straw--I got outbid at the last minute on e-bay for a sea lion I wanted for the Noah's Ark Baby Shower (all caps, that's how serious this is). We're decorating with pairs of animals and I have one Discovery Channel sea lion. I desperately wanted the other one, but someone outbid me!
So, now, I am perturbed (isn't that a horrible word? I'm quite perturbed by it). And my sister missed a late afternoon e-mail from her Curriculum Coordinator so she called this morning from work to tell me, "You can't send that computer off. Find out how much they'll charge just to fix it at Best Buy. I'll pay half." She's perturbed, too. Tempted as I was, I told her that would defeat the purpose of the warranty.
So here I am, having driven up to my university, jeopardizing my 11 am salon appointment, just to use the computer. I need an intervention. For real.
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Friday, February 02, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
An Unorganized History Post
Somedays, I could make 100 posts a day.
And somedays, I can't think of a word to say. Or I'm too busy. Or extraordinarily lazy. Like, I wanted to post about the Kappas who got sentenced to two years for hazing. But I'm too apathetic right now.
But I am reading and writing. I'm sitting in on a labor history class and loving it. I've just read Lichtenstein's State of the Union; Buhle's Taking Care of Business, and I'm about to read Labor Embattled. I also got a book from the library, Hard Work by Fantasia and Voss, that I'm liking it a lot. But I'm all disillusioned now. I have a very idealistic view of the possibilities of labor unions and yet, I can't see how they can ever live up to my dream. The overall feel that I get is that they settled. They became unwieldly old relics stuck in business unionism, an institution unto themselves, instead of organic, vibrant entities able to capitalize on opportunities and the strengths of their memberships.
Last week, the professor asked us did we think labor unions should be concerned solely with issues of wages and working conditions or should they be part of a broader push for social justice. Perhaps, suggested a classmate, we were placing too much on the shoulders of labor unions. Perhaps what we needed was a labor movement, a Labor Party. We spent several minutes wiping away the tears that resulted from our cynical laughter at the idea of the US having any such movement, of acknowledging any class conflict without having people labeled as dreaded socialists and the like (hell, we can't even get most people to vote or anyway advocate for their class interests!).
And then, most of us expressed the idea that labor unions could not fluorish if they do just as the companies who exploit employees do--namely, define their members solely as workers. The well-being of workers depends on much more than a higher wage.
Fantasia and Voss note that the labor movement was becoming more exclusionary just as immigrants from southern and eastern Europe started arriving in large numbers. The emphasis on craft unionism, bastion of skilled, white men, and the racism and sexism that permeated the unions rendered them incapable of reaching both these new workers and black workers. It also meant that union leaders, especially those of the AFL, had a narrow vision of unionism that never included the interpretations of what unionism meant to marginalized workers. For example, many historians have written about how black workers saw union membership as a step towards full citizenship, an avenue for agitation for civil rights. Both Buhle and Lichtenstein indicate that the inability, or as Herbert Hill would argue, the blatant unwillingness, of unions (with a few notable exceptions) to take the forefront in the struggles of the 1960s and beyond meant that they lost much of their appeal. Lichtenstein, using a quote from a young Bill Clinton, notes how the "new" radicals actually viewed the unions skeptically and as part of the establishment.
And that is something else that bothers me, the way that "radicalism" has been treated within unionism by business union leaders like Gompers. Gompers called the IWW (which I will admit I have a largely dreamy view of) a fungus. George Meany bragged that he'd never been on strike. Yes, it's easy to point to Taft-Hartley (an evil piece of legislation, if ever there was one) and blame the legislation for the expulsion of radicals (namely, communists) from unions, but Gompers and his supporters fought many battles against the IWW and later, the CIO, and derided methods like strikes and picketing and IWW members' willingness to get, um, physical. The expulsion of radicals meant the expulsion of the organizers who were most likely to try to reach the unskilled, racial/ethnic "minority" workers. These organizers were also the most likely to see unionism as part of a larger struggle and not an end, in and of itself. The result was an emphasis on bureaucracy and grievance processes and a sad, sad move away from the vision of "social democracy" unionism.
So what happens now? When unionism is at dismal lows among black workers and manufacturing workers, historically (well, since the mid-twentieth century) strongholds? Do unions have a purpose? Can they ever rebound? Will they learn lessons form "alternative" groups like workers' centers (e.g. the Center for Women's Economic Alternatives) and poultry justice alliances? Will they finally see their members' struggles in contexts outside the workplace?
I'm cynical, right now and I shared that in class. So the professor asked, "Elle, are you saying we're doomed?" And I said,"It would take such a radical shift in the mainstream mindset, in the ideology surrounding poverty and class and workers' rights that right now, I have little hope."
He looked at me and smiled and said, "A more radical shift than it took to overthrow slavery? To overthrow Jim Crow, legally? Remember, people thought those things were eternal, too."
And then, my silly old idealistic heart swelled.
And somedays, I can't think of a word to say. Or I'm too busy. Or extraordinarily lazy. Like, I wanted to post about the Kappas who got sentenced to two years for hazing. But I'm too apathetic right now.
But I am reading and writing. I'm sitting in on a labor history class and loving it. I've just read Lichtenstein's State of the Union; Buhle's Taking Care of Business, and I'm about to read Labor Embattled. I also got a book from the library, Hard Work by Fantasia and Voss, that I'm liking it a lot. But I'm all disillusioned now. I have a very idealistic view of the possibilities of labor unions and yet, I can't see how they can ever live up to my dream. The overall feel that I get is that they settled. They became unwieldly old relics stuck in business unionism, an institution unto themselves, instead of organic, vibrant entities able to capitalize on opportunities and the strengths of their memberships.
Last week, the professor asked us did we think labor unions should be concerned solely with issues of wages and working conditions or should they be part of a broader push for social justice. Perhaps, suggested a classmate, we were placing too much on the shoulders of labor unions. Perhaps what we needed was a labor movement, a Labor Party. We spent several minutes wiping away the tears that resulted from our cynical laughter at the idea of the US having any such movement, of acknowledging any class conflict without having people labeled as dreaded socialists and the like (hell, we can't even get most people to vote or anyway advocate for their class interests!).
And then, most of us expressed the idea that labor unions could not fluorish if they do just as the companies who exploit employees do--namely, define their members solely as workers. The well-being of workers depends on much more than a higher wage.
Fantasia and Voss note that the labor movement was becoming more exclusionary just as immigrants from southern and eastern Europe started arriving in large numbers. The emphasis on craft unionism, bastion of skilled, white men, and the racism and sexism that permeated the unions rendered them incapable of reaching both these new workers and black workers. It also meant that union leaders, especially those of the AFL, had a narrow vision of unionism that never included the interpretations of what unionism meant to marginalized workers. For example, many historians have written about how black workers saw union membership as a step towards full citizenship, an avenue for agitation for civil rights. Both Buhle and Lichtenstein indicate that the inability, or as Herbert Hill would argue, the blatant unwillingness, of unions (with a few notable exceptions) to take the forefront in the struggles of the 1960s and beyond meant that they lost much of their appeal. Lichtenstein, using a quote from a young Bill Clinton, notes how the "new" radicals actually viewed the unions skeptically and as part of the establishment.
And that is something else that bothers me, the way that "radicalism" has been treated within unionism by business union leaders like Gompers. Gompers called the IWW (which I will admit I have a largely dreamy view of) a fungus. George Meany bragged that he'd never been on strike. Yes, it's easy to point to Taft-Hartley (an evil piece of legislation, if ever there was one) and blame the legislation for the expulsion of radicals (namely, communists) from unions, but Gompers and his supporters fought many battles against the IWW and later, the CIO, and derided methods like strikes and picketing and IWW members' willingness to get, um, physical. The expulsion of radicals meant the expulsion of the organizers who were most likely to try to reach the unskilled, racial/ethnic "minority" workers. These organizers were also the most likely to see unionism as part of a larger struggle and not an end, in and of itself. The result was an emphasis on bureaucracy and grievance processes and a sad, sad move away from the vision of "social democracy" unionism.
So what happens now? When unionism is at dismal lows among black workers and manufacturing workers, historically (well, since the mid-twentieth century) strongholds? Do unions have a purpose? Can they ever rebound? Will they learn lessons form "alternative" groups like workers' centers (e.g. the Center for Women's Economic Alternatives) and poultry justice alliances? Will they finally see their members' struggles in contexts outside the workplace?
I'm cynical, right now and I shared that in class. So the professor asked, "Elle, are you saying we're doomed?" And I said,"It would take such a radical shift in the mainstream mindset, in the ideology surrounding poverty and class and workers' rights that right now, I have little hope."
He looked at me and smiled and said, "A more radical shift than it took to overthrow slavery? To overthrow Jim Crow, legally? Remember, people thought those things were eternal, too."
And then, my silly old idealistic heart swelled.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Strike up the Violins...
...for the worn out chorus of "I didn't know..." "It wasn't my intent..." and "One of my best friends is (fill in the blank)."
I'm tired of these gangsta/ghetto/"let's mock black people then act like we, as people who grew up in a stridently racialized and stratified society, don't know that it's offensive" parties. At the very least, as my sister noted of the Tarleton State Crew, these people are part of a generation who grew up with a heroic image of Dr. King, so they know that this "celebration" of his birthday may have been just a little problematic.
I really don't have much to add, because, again, this wears me out and I'm late to this. Some good links:
Breitbart.com
Rachel's Tavern
Sylvia
Philip A. Moore
MSNBC Video
I'm tired of these gangsta/ghetto/"let's mock black people then act like we, as people who grew up in a stridently racialized and stratified society, don't know that it's offensive" parties. At the very least, as my sister noted of the Tarleton State Crew, these people are part of a generation who grew up with a heroic image of Dr. King, so they know that this "celebration" of his birthday may have been just a little problematic.
I really don't have much to add, because, again, this wears me out and I'm late to this. Some good links:
Breitbart.com
Rachel's Tavern
Sylvia
Philip A. Moore
MSNBC Video
Was Friday a Monday?
In some alternate universe? Not a pleasant beginning to the weekend. I:
-worked on my disertation at the library, but then left my drive there. It is not in lost and found. I'm not totally panicking because I think I saved the work to my account there. But there are some things on that drive that might not be anywhere else. Why the hell would someone take it?
-got an e-mail from an archivist at Wisconsin Historical Society about some microfilm I've been waiting for since November (lots of ILL issues). He wanted to let me know that he'd given me the wrong call number. Mind you, the ILL request is floating out there, so I'll probably get the wrong microfilm. Again.
-realized my brakes could not go another day without some work. $250!! I so love spending money on my car.
-found out it was supposed to rain again today. And it did. Blech!
-went to bed about midnight and woke up around 4:30, wide awake. Didn't get back to sleep until after six, so when I had to get up at eight, I could've beaten the hell out of somebody!
-am sleepy right now and my sister just called to say, "Let's do something! It's Saturday."
Yes, wet, dreary, sleepy Saturday and she chooses this one day to be chipper and outgoing.
-worked on my disertation at the library, but then left my drive there. It is not in lost and found. I'm not totally panicking because I think I saved the work to my account there. But there are some things on that drive that might not be anywhere else. Why the hell would someone take it?
-got an e-mail from an archivist at Wisconsin Historical Society about some microfilm I've been waiting for since November (lots of ILL issues). He wanted to let me know that he'd given me the wrong call number. Mind you, the ILL request is floating out there, so I'll probably get the wrong microfilm. Again.
-realized my brakes could not go another day without some work. $250!! I so love spending money on my car.
-found out it was supposed to rain again today. And it did. Blech!
-went to bed about midnight and woke up around 4:30, wide awake. Didn't get back to sleep until after six, so when I had to get up at eight, I could've beaten the hell out of somebody!
-am sleepy right now and my sister just called to say, "Let's do something! It's Saturday."
Yes, wet, dreary, sleepy Saturday and she chooses this one day to be chipper and outgoing.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Persistence
This one got to me:
But then, this makes me remember that justice is not measured in how many years someone spends in jail:
A white former sheriff's deputy who was once thought to be dead was arrested on federal charges Wednesday in one of the last major unsolved crimes of the civil rights era - the 1964 killings of two black men [Charles Eddie Moore and Henry Hezekiah Dee] who were beaten and dumped alive into the Mississippi River.I always feel a sense of "Good, but, damn, he already got to live his life!"
But then, this makes me remember that justice is not measured in how many years someone spends in jail:
"I've been crying. First time I've cried in about 50 years," Moore's 63-year-old brother, Thomas, said after the arrest. "It's not going to bring his life back. But some way or another, I think he would be satisfied."
Dee's sister, Thelma Collins, told The Associated Press through grateful sobs: "I never thought I would live to see it, no sir, I never did. I always prayed that justice would be done - somehow, some way."
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
To Quote Ice Cube...
Today was like one of those fly dreamsNot that I have an AK. But Monday was a good day. So, even though I can't sleep, it's a content sort of insomnia, I suppose.
Didn't even see a berry flashing those high beams...
Today I didn't even have to use my a.k.
I got to say it was a good day.
I spent Monday in the library and was really productive. My chapter is all over the place, but I was able to slash and move and consolidate so I have a clearer idea of what I'm trying to do.
My nephew had a number of As and Bs in his progress folder. We agreed on a place for dinner without the kids killing each other (Sis is out of town). I cleaned the stove and the kids helped vacuum. And my son brought home this:
And... one day this week, elle, who likes to envision this blog as (at least partly :-) academic, will post about her dissertation, seeking your insight and wisdom. Shocking, I know. In the interim, read up on unionization and the South and black women and right to work laws and unions' exclusionary practices (yeah, right, huh?). I have this absolutely exciting thesis (not wholly original) about what unions failed to realize when they were ignoring low-wage industries with high proportions of workers from marginalized groups and what they're going to have to do to reach these workers.
I know. Contain your excitement.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Why I'm Pro-Choice
Why am I pro-choice? I don't often examine my reasons, am usually content to offer a "because women should have autonomy over their own bodies" as sufficient cause. But what about me personally? Yes, I've had an abortion. Yes, I've had a child. In both cases, I chose what I wanted to do, and I believe that every woman should have that right.
There was no incapacitating post-abortion syndrome (or whatever the "pro-certain-life" crew is calling it lately). What I did feel was relief. And here is another reason I'm pro-choice, because the discourse around pregnancy, abortion, and motherhood is such that, while I didn't feel guilty about the abortion, I felt guilty about not feeling guilty. I felt guilty because I had no business being pregnant anyway--I should've known better. I felt guilty because one of the factors in my choice was that I was a college student on scholarship far from home and I knew that I wouldn't have been able to stay at my university. Was that selfish? And as a woman, defined largely as a potential mother, wasn't I supposed to be infinitely selfless? I don't want other women going through that "ashamed of not being shamed."
But I am learning that the way I conceptualize choice is influenced somewhat negatively by my privileged-in-some-ways status. First is my previously narrow definition; when I talk of reproductive freedom, I usually mean access to birth control and abortion. Though I know that there are other issues, I prioritize those, because they have been my concerns. But recently, I found this definition from INCITE: Women of Color Against Violence :
REPRODUCTIVE FREEDOM INCLUDES: Free and low cost drug treatment for pregnant and parenting women that offer neo-natal care, pre-natal care, and childcare. * Freedom to seek health care services without the fear of being reported to the police, welfare officials, child protection services (CPS), or immigration law enforcement. * Harm reduction strategies that reduce the risk of babies being born drug exposed. * Resources to address the root causes (rape, poverty, trauma, oppression)for which pregnant women use drugs. * The TRUTH about the risks of choosing long-term birth control methods like Norplant and Depo-Provera. * Supportive community environments where women can make healthy and non-coercive reproductive choiceYes, I thought. I agree with every bit of that. So why haven't my words and thoughts reflected it? But rather than dwell on why I haven't prioritized these issues, I have to work to make them part of my own definition of reproductive freedom.
And BfP has posted an excerpt from Andrea Smith's Conquest: Sexual Violence and American Indian Genocide. What it reveals is that a narrow definition of choice like mine "continues the marginalization of women of color, poor women and women with disabilities." Some reasons why:
1. One example of this marginalization is how pro-choice organizations narrow their advocacy to legislation that affects the right to choose to have an abortion–without addressing the conditions that put women in the position of having to make the decision in the first place.
2. While contraceptives are often articulated as an issue of “choice” for white women in the First World, they are articulated as an instrument of population control for women of color and women in the Global South. (I think petitpoussin's post about "elective" sterilization in California prisons is somehow related to this).
3. The prevalent ideology within the mainstream pro-choice movement is that women should have the “choice” to use whatever contraception they want. Yet, mainstream activists often do not consider that a choice among dangerous contraceptives [like Depo-Provera and Norplant, which I know are favored at some health units in North LA] is not much of a choice.I have been dismissive, even on this blog, of the effects of the population control/eugenics ideology of Margaret Sanger in a, "Yes, it's bad, but look what came out of her work" sort of way. I have been dismissive, in real life, towards women who have unwanted pregnancies and yet cannot afford abortion: "How can't you afford abortion? Having a child is much more expensive!" I have been dismissive, in my thoughts, of women in my community who have unwanted pregnancies and yet do not want an abortion because of religious and cultural beliefs.
And what I can say, as a woman, and I think, for me, especially as a woman of color, is, "Shame on me." My own discourse about choice has to stop being so limited, so clueless, so exclusionary.
It's really not choice at all, if it is only the domain of women who can "afford [it] or [who] are deemed legitimate choice-makers."
Sunday, January 21, 2007
A Lesson for elle, the Verbose
So, Kactus tagged me. A story in six words. I've been thinking and thinking. Results so far:
His suitcases, packed. My heart, broken.
A vicious sting. It slithered away.
She gave everything. It wasn't enough.
I like doing this. In the meantime, I tag Julie, Ragey, InfoScholar, Gwyn, Zan, and anyone else who wants to participate.
And BF TX, leave one in the comments :-)
His suitcases, packed. My heart, broken.
A vicious sting. It slithered away.
She gave everything. It wasn't enough.
I like doing this. In the meantime, I tag Julie, Ragey, InfoScholar, Gwyn, Zan, and anyone else who wants to participate.
And BF TX, leave one in the comments :-)
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Out of the Mouths...
...of astrologers. My horoscope for today, submitted sans comment.
Sagittarius:
Sagittarius:
Distractions abound today, so it will be a bit of a struggle to keep your eye on the ball. The good news is that before the end of the day you will get a sneak preview of what things will be like when you have finished this project. You are due for some major recognition -- and there are possible financial rewards as well. Let your people know that socializing is not in the cards right now, that your time needs to be devoted to your latest mountain-climbing expedition.
Friday, January 19, 2007
A Red Car and The Green Light
You know, it's a d-a-m-n shame when you have to wrack your brain to figure out what you do for fun. But rather than dwell on the somewhat isolating activity that's occupying much of my time lately (ahem), I'm going to take you back a decade or so, in honor of Blog for Radical Fun Day.*
If you know anything about me by now, you know that I am from the country. And not a gently rolling area outside a major city. Nuh-uh. I mean the kind of country where I know intimately my cousins 23 times removed, picked my share of purple hull peas, and had a graduating class of 32. And being that my hometown is a proud place that tries to live up to all the stereotypes of rural places, we had our very own hole-in-the-wall club. It was called the Green Light.
And while I had been clubbing a couple of times in large cities and in the college towns close to hometown, there was nothing in the world so wonderful, so worthy of all-week anticipation, so much fun as Saturday night at the Green Light. Now, were you to cast your eye upon this marvel during the daytime, you'd raise your eyebrow and re-think your characterization of elle as a sensible woman. For it is nothing much to look at under the glare of the sun, a small wooden building, tilting precariously to one side, that makes Harpo and Sophia's juke joint look palatial.
But oh, at night, and on Saturday nights in particular, we packed that place with an enthusiasm never before seen... except on the previous Saturday nights. We stepped on each others' feet. We bumped each others' hips. We frequently had to escape outside for fresh air. Yet, the Green Light maintained a mysterious aura that made it seem the hottest spot in all the South.
Indeed, so deliciously overwhelming was the experience of the Green Light, that you could not go in unprepared. No! There was a ritual Sis, Cousin T (whom I shall call Trinity), and I observed on Saturday nights. There were preparations during the week sometimes, if the party had a theme--hurried jaunts to Lane Bryant and the hair salon, inspections of the supply of lip glosses and liners--but the Saturday night ritual began around 6. On cue, one of us would turn on the CD player. Blackstreet, Biggie, Tupac, UGK, Xscape, some old Dr. Dre, circulated for the next four hours. We took turns bubble-bathing in our one tub and yelling directions at whoever was ironing clothes that night.
Every once in a while, we'd stop to hype ourselves up by singing along: "Looking for that good stuff, da-da-da-da-daaaaa-da, Tighten up on that back stroke," or "If you take your love away from me, I'll go crazy," or, for a minute, "Every time I see your face it makes me wanna sing and every time I think about your love it drives me, Crazy." You see, Trinity and I didn't drink yet, and so these mini-concerts helped keep us pumped, helped keep the hearts pounding, while we were getting ready.
And then the donning of the carefully selected, group approved outfit. We'd wonder aloud, "Does this look right? Tell the truth. Don't have me lookin a damn fool!" But that was a rhetorical exercise. One glance in the mirror was the ultimate affirmation. I had a level of conceit matched only by... well, Trinity and Sis's conceit. We were pretty in three different ways and couldn't no one tell us shit! Thus we'd exit the house and climb into my car, a 1991 red Mercury Cougar.
I loved that car with a passion that has yet to burn within me for my later automobiles. They simply do not have the heart, the strength, the ability to take a beating that the Cougar had. It was a hand me down from my dad and when it finally gave up the ghost, it had almost 300,000 miles. That car lived through accidents, haphazard driving, and constant overload.
But I digress. We'd drive the 6 miles to the Green Light, wheedle our way in for free or grudgingly hand over the $5. And then, it was on. For most of my life, when it comes to dancing, I have been a wallflower. But not at the Green Light. I danced. I laughed. I flirted. I had much attitude when the occasion called for it, like when best friend Louisiana and I were slow dancing next to each other one night (she with her now-hubby, don't remember my partner) and some girl came up to her and acted like she was going to slap her. In an act of beautiful fluidity and grace, BF LA and I swung on her at the same time. Alas, I did not get to earn any fighting cred right then; BF LA ended the debacle by throwing the offender into a table. And then we kept dancing.
And there was also Big Ferg, the best friend of DJ Quiet Storm, who would get on the microphone and admonish wallflowers, "If you scared, go to church." When a song came on that my girls and I loved, he'd tell Quiet Storm to turn down the music so the whole club could listen to us sing. Horribly. But with so much enthusiasm and none of our usual self-consciousness.
We loved the Green Light for another reason--it gave us the opportunity to rub something in the cops' face. They harass any black club in the area and they hated when the Green Light was open. They'd come make sure every single car was parked in the too-small lot, not too close to the road--in which case they'd gleefully ticket or tow. But for the most part, all they could do was sit and wait, hoping for a brawl, or a gunshot, or a drunk driver. We used to go outside and stick our tongues out and flip them off. They'd act like they didn't see.
But one night, they set up a checkpoint. Big Ferg was on probation and didn't have a driver's license. So, Sis agreed to drive him home in Quiet Storm's car. Turns out, the car's brakes were shot. They ran into a ditch and Big Ferg rolled over onto Sis. Now, Big Ferg was 5'5" and about 450lbs. Sis remembers that he apologized profusely while he was on top of her and all she could say was, "Mmph." That was so funny to us then and now, in light of later events, it is really a sweet memory.
Then after the club, since I was still firmly ensconced in my ability-to-stay-up-all-night years, we'd climb into the Cougar, usually six or seven of us by then, and ride the 22 miles to the nearest "city." We'd converge upon the Huddle House or, much more fun, the Texaco, for a late night breakfast. Yes, I said Texaco. Yes, we have delis in our gas stations--makes up for the lack of fast food franchises. A controlled (after all, we had house training and the parents weren't coming to get us out of jail for bad behavior) afterparty would ensue. And just about dawn, I'd collapse into bed, too tired to take off my makeup or my bra. But I'd have sweet dreams.
So that is what a early-twenty-something country girl did for fun. Any other day, I might have been too embarrassed to tell you.
But, oh, never underestimate the lure of a Red Car and a Green Light.
If you know anything about me by now, you know that I am from the country. And not a gently rolling area outside a major city. Nuh-uh. I mean the kind of country where I know intimately my cousins 23 times removed, picked my share of purple hull peas, and had a graduating class of 32. And being that my hometown is a proud place that tries to live up to all the stereotypes of rural places, we had our very own hole-in-the-wall club. It was called the Green Light.
And while I had been clubbing a couple of times in large cities and in the college towns close to hometown, there was nothing in the world so wonderful, so worthy of all-week anticipation, so much fun as Saturday night at the Green Light. Now, were you to cast your eye upon this marvel during the daytime, you'd raise your eyebrow and re-think your characterization of elle as a sensible woman. For it is nothing much to look at under the glare of the sun, a small wooden building, tilting precariously to one side, that makes Harpo and Sophia's juke joint look palatial.
But oh, at night, and on Saturday nights in particular, we packed that place with an enthusiasm never before seen... except on the previous Saturday nights. We stepped on each others' feet. We bumped each others' hips. We frequently had to escape outside for fresh air. Yet, the Green Light maintained a mysterious aura that made it seem the hottest spot in all the South.
Indeed, so deliciously overwhelming was the experience of the Green Light, that you could not go in unprepared. No! There was a ritual Sis, Cousin T (whom I shall call Trinity), and I observed on Saturday nights. There were preparations during the week sometimes, if the party had a theme--hurried jaunts to Lane Bryant and the hair salon, inspections of the supply of lip glosses and liners--but the Saturday night ritual began around 6. On cue, one of us would turn on the CD player. Blackstreet, Biggie, Tupac, UGK, Xscape, some old Dr. Dre, circulated for the next four hours. We took turns bubble-bathing in our one tub and yelling directions at whoever was ironing clothes that night.
Every once in a while, we'd stop to hype ourselves up by singing along: "Looking for that good stuff, da-da-da-da-daaaaa-da, Tighten up on that back stroke," or "If you take your love away from me, I'll go crazy," or, for a minute, "Every time I see your face it makes me wanna sing and every time I think about your love it drives me, Crazy." You see, Trinity and I didn't drink yet, and so these mini-concerts helped keep us pumped, helped keep the hearts pounding, while we were getting ready.
And then the donning of the carefully selected, group approved outfit. We'd wonder aloud, "Does this look right? Tell the truth. Don't have me lookin a damn fool!" But that was a rhetorical exercise. One glance in the mirror was the ultimate affirmation. I had a level of conceit matched only by... well, Trinity and Sis's conceit. We were pretty in three different ways and couldn't no one tell us shit! Thus we'd exit the house and climb into my car, a 1991 red Mercury Cougar.
I loved that car with a passion that has yet to burn within me for my later automobiles. They simply do not have the heart, the strength, the ability to take a beating that the Cougar had. It was a hand me down from my dad and when it finally gave up the ghost, it had almost 300,000 miles. That car lived through accidents, haphazard driving, and constant overload.
But I digress. We'd drive the 6 miles to the Green Light, wheedle our way in for free or grudgingly hand over the $5. And then, it was on. For most of my life, when it comes to dancing, I have been a wallflower. But not at the Green Light. I danced. I laughed. I flirted. I had much attitude when the occasion called for it, like when best friend Louisiana and I were slow dancing next to each other one night (she with her now-hubby, don't remember my partner) and some girl came up to her and acted like she was going to slap her. In an act of beautiful fluidity and grace, BF LA and I swung on her at the same time. Alas, I did not get to earn any fighting cred right then; BF LA ended the debacle by throwing the offender into a table. And then we kept dancing.
And there was also Big Ferg, the best friend of DJ Quiet Storm, who would get on the microphone and admonish wallflowers, "If you scared, go to church." When a song came on that my girls and I loved, he'd tell Quiet Storm to turn down the music so the whole club could listen to us sing. Horribly. But with so much enthusiasm and none of our usual self-consciousness.
We loved the Green Light for another reason--it gave us the opportunity to rub something in the cops' face. They harass any black club in the area and they hated when the Green Light was open. They'd come make sure every single car was parked in the too-small lot, not too close to the road--in which case they'd gleefully ticket or tow. But for the most part, all they could do was sit and wait, hoping for a brawl, or a gunshot, or a drunk driver. We used to go outside and stick our tongues out and flip them off. They'd act like they didn't see.
But one night, they set up a checkpoint. Big Ferg was on probation and didn't have a driver's license. So, Sis agreed to drive him home in Quiet Storm's car. Turns out, the car's brakes were shot. They ran into a ditch and Big Ferg rolled over onto Sis. Now, Big Ferg was 5'5" and about 450lbs. Sis remembers that he apologized profusely while he was on top of her and all she could say was, "Mmph." That was so funny to us then and now, in light of later events, it is really a sweet memory.
Then after the club, since I was still firmly ensconced in my ability-to-stay-up-all-night years, we'd climb into the Cougar, usually six or seven of us by then, and ride the 22 miles to the nearest "city." We'd converge upon the Huddle House or, much more fun, the Texaco, for a late night breakfast. Yes, I said Texaco. Yes, we have delis in our gas stations--makes up for the lack of fast food franchises. A controlled (after all, we had house training and the parents weren't coming to get us out of jail for bad behavior) afterparty would ensue. And just about dawn, I'd collapse into bed, too tired to take off my makeup or my bra. But I'd have sweet dreams.
So that is what a early-twenty-something country girl did for fun. Any other day, I might have been too embarrassed to tell you.
But, oh, never underestimate the lure of a Red Car and a Green Light.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Lord, I'm Feeling It Today...
..fat, that is. And not for any reason like my pants won't fit or something.
Ok, promise not to fuss. I know I publicly swore off radio stations a while ago, but I was weak this week--I've been having the Hooked on Phonics Multiplication CD in my car since Christmas and I'm tired of it.
But anyway, witness godforsaken Station #1: Last night, they apparently had people call in who were basically saying, "I'm fat and I'm proud," or "I'm not ashamed." Okay. But then the DJs suggested that, since they had fat people representing, "Are there enough anorexics and bulimics who could call in and represent?" To which they all laughed and one guy said, "Nah, man, they're probably too weak from throwing up dinner." And the original DJ said, "I'm just saying, since anorexics and bulimics are the opposite of being fat."
Mmph.
Horrible Station #2: Topic for the morning? How do you feel about fat people? Chosen because one listener called in and complained about how she was sick of seeing fat people at buffets with three or four plates. And that she was tired of fat people because they were lazy and they stink. And I thought, my God, what other group could you get on the radio and say this about and have the hosts laugh?* I turned it in the middle of one girl, obviously young, who called in with tears in her voice to defend herself, "I'm fat and I don't stink. I make sure I shower everyday." I really felt sorry for her.
But really, this time, I am through. Multiplication facts never sounded so good.
____________________
Of course these are people who noted on air that the "gay brigade" was going to be after Isaiah Washington. And once the woman host thought about that, she appended, "But I love the gay brigade."
Ok, promise not to fuss. I know I publicly swore off radio stations a while ago, but I was weak this week--I've been having the Hooked on Phonics Multiplication CD in my car since Christmas and I'm tired of it.
But anyway, witness godforsaken Station #1: Last night, they apparently had people call in who were basically saying, "I'm fat and I'm proud," or "I'm not ashamed." Okay. But then the DJs suggested that, since they had fat people representing, "Are there enough anorexics and bulimics who could call in and represent?" To which they all laughed and one guy said, "Nah, man, they're probably too weak from throwing up dinner." And the original DJ said, "I'm just saying, since anorexics and bulimics are the opposite of being fat."
Mmph.
Horrible Station #2: Topic for the morning? How do you feel about fat people? Chosen because one listener called in and complained about how she was sick of seeing fat people at buffets with three or four plates. And that she was tired of fat people because they were lazy and they stink. And I thought, my God, what other group could you get on the radio and say this about and have the hosts laugh?* I turned it in the middle of one girl, obviously young, who called in with tears in her voice to defend herself, "I'm fat and I don't stink. I make sure I shower everyday." I really felt sorry for her.
But really, this time, I am through. Multiplication facts never sounded so good.
____________________
Of course these are people who noted on air that the "gay brigade" was going to be after Isaiah Washington. And once the woman host thought about that, she appended, "But I love the gay brigade."
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Belated Demand to De-lurk
Because I am still cold and irritable, I am demanding that anyone who stops by regularly but doesn't comment, please do so. Yes, I know I'm over a week late, but really, it's me. Did you expect differently?
I don't think I really have lurkers--I recognize most of the cities or ISPs of the people who come here. But I do have at least one that I'd love to meet--someone from my university who checks in once a week or so. De-lurk posthaste so I don't inadvertently talk about you to your face. :-)
Despite my irritability, I promise to be kind and welcoming--school is cancelled for the kids, which means I didn't have to get up on my day off, go out in the cold, and drop them off. But I'm still awake!!
Though that will be remedied shortly.
I don't think I really have lurkers--I recognize most of the cities or ISPs of the people who come here. But I do have at least one that I'd love to meet--someone from my university who checks in once a week or so. De-lurk posthaste so I don't inadvertently talk about you to your face. :-)
Despite my irritability, I promise to be kind and welcoming--school is cancelled for the kids, which means I didn't have to get up on my day off, go out in the cold, and drop them off. But I'm still awake!!
Though that will be remedied shortly.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
How to Piss elle Off When She's Already Sleepy and Cold
...fuck with the kids. Seriously, I checked my e-mail today and one AOL headline was "Why Didn't Boy Try to Escape?" a reference to Shawn Hornbeck.
I get a particularly nasty attitude when people ask this of battered women (because just leaving, you know, is so easy to do). But when assholes start asking it of kids?
I get sick to my stomach.
He is a child who had to depend on this man for everything. Everything. And who knows what the bastard may have been telling him? Who knows how terrified he was at what might happen to him, to people he loved, if he tried to escape? So what if he had internet access and a phone? If you've been in a violent or abusive situation, you know escaping is more about what is in your mind than all the routes available to you.
I hate this question, because it has the suspicious smell of victim blaming. There is an implication that "It must not have been too bad," or "He must have liked something," or somehow, an 11-year-old child was in collusion with his abductor.
I hope they focus this much on the damned kidnapper's motives.
I get a particularly nasty attitude when people ask this of battered women (because just leaving, you know, is so easy to do). But when assholes start asking it of kids?
I get sick to my stomach.
He is a child who had to depend on this man for everything. Everything. And who knows what the bastard may have been telling him? Who knows how terrified he was at what might happen to him, to people he loved, if he tried to escape? So what if he had internet access and a phone? If you've been in a violent or abusive situation, you know escaping is more about what is in your mind than all the routes available to you.
I hate this question, because it has the suspicious smell of victim blaming. There is an implication that "It must not have been too bad," or "He must have liked something," or somehow, an 11-year-old child was in collusion with his abductor.
I hope they focus this much on the damned kidnapper's motives.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Carnivals
Three Carnivals. The resultant likelihood of elle getting any academic work done on this cold, rainy day... mmm... approximately 0%. But if I read up now, I'll be good the rest of the week, promise.
First, at abyss2hope, the Carnival against Sexual Violence. One highlight:
Next, at Working, Writing, Wailing Mama (that really should've been my name), there is the Carnival of Gradual Progress. What I need to check out posthaste:
_____________________
vague on my part, not dcat's
First, at abyss2hope, the Carnival against Sexual Violence. One highlight:
In How to tell a rape victim posted at F-Words, we get Sara's story of her experience with date rape, and how the "fate worse than death" idea kept her from recognizing it as rape because it hadn't completely broken her.I think I know how Sara feels--in my case I took it to the point of, "Since I'm still functioning, working, writing, was I really raped?"
Next, at Working, Writing, Wailing Mama (that really should've been my name), there is the Carnival of Gradual Progress. What I need to check out posthaste:
check out the strategies for productivity provided by Jim Gibbon on overcoming procrastination and developing personal productivity. StyleyGeek gives another great roundup of such strategies here. (And don't forget to check the comment threads for more input on how the strategies are working for others.)Finally, the 46th edition of the History Carnival is up at Investigations of a Dog. The carnival links to dcat who posted Reductio Ad Kingum. An excerpt:
But King stood for some fairly specific things in his life, and his legacy deserves more than simply to serve as a pillar of virtue for whoever can hastily utter his name first, irrespective of whether that invocation bears scrutiny.which sounds vaguely* related to what I may have been trying to say in the post below.
_____________________
vague on my part, not dcat's
On Martin, Metaphors, and Mohandas
Happy Birthday, Dr. King! God bless his memory. And Happy King Holiday, readers!
Okay, lots to say and I lack the finesse, the right words to say it--but I'm saying it anyway.
As a historian, and one who absolutely loves the study of the post-World War II U.S., I am always amazed by how we use Dr. King as a metaphor. He is, at once, a synonym to the Civil Rights Movement, the influence of the black church, and positive black manhood. Now, while none of those is a bad thing, they don't leave much room for him as a person; one who didn't spring from somewhere as a full-fledged leader, but whose life experiences shaped and--the part the metaphor most obscures--continually changed his philosophies.
As a mom to a school-aged child, I understand the usefulness of the metaphor. You can explain to children the bare bones of segregation, as "white people and black people couldn't...", but answering the question of, "why did it change?" is a lot more difficult. So you pull out the King metaphor, highlight it with a touch of school segregation (to make it relevant!) a dash of Rosa Parks and a smidge of "I Have a Dream" and voila! They get it.
Somewhat. You see, we can tell King's life in a very linear fashion, where it makes sense that point A (alternately his birth to a preacher and teacher OR the incident in which he was told he could no longer play with his white friends) led to point Z (usually identified as the March on Washington). My nephew has absorbed the metaphor quite well. His one minute rendition of Jim Crow and it's demise: "When he was a little boy, he played football with his friends and two of 'em were white and then they said they couldn't play with him anymore and he was upset. So, when he got big, he had a dream And so, before Dr. King, white people and black people couldn't play together and after Dr. King, they could." And we nod our heads and think, that will suffice.
Unfortunately, we remain content to let that suffice for far too long. To a point where people become resistant to learning anything else. And no, I'm not throwing up my hands and lamenting the fact that, "All they know is MLK!" I want them to know MLK and other people, too. But I also want my son to know more than names and big events. I want him to understand that segregation wasn't just about separation--it wasn't just that white and black kids couldn't play together, but that there is a whole ideology of superiority and inferiority coded into that separation. And I want him to understand about grassroots activities, especially the roles women played as organizers. I think this history is too important to be understood solely as a metaphor.
I have a person-as-metaphor left over from my childhood, too. It is centered around Mohandas Ghandi, whom I know primarily in terms of Dr. King's adherence to non-violent protest. Thus, I admire Ghandi from afar, as the securer of India's freedom (ah, metaphor) and an influence on the CRM. I have this quote by him appended to my e-mail signature:
But, one of the friends I e-mail regularly is Jewish, and last night, she sent me this
Okay, lots to say and I lack the finesse, the right words to say it--but I'm saying it anyway.
As a historian, and one who absolutely loves the study of the post-World War II U.S., I am always amazed by how we use Dr. King as a metaphor. He is, at once, a synonym to the Civil Rights Movement, the influence of the black church, and positive black manhood. Now, while none of those is a bad thing, they don't leave much room for him as a person; one who didn't spring from somewhere as a full-fledged leader, but whose life experiences shaped and--the part the metaphor most obscures--continually changed his philosophies.
As a mom to a school-aged child, I understand the usefulness of the metaphor. You can explain to children the bare bones of segregation, as "white people and black people couldn't...", but answering the question of, "why did it change?" is a lot more difficult. So you pull out the King metaphor, highlight it with a touch of school segregation (to make it relevant!) a dash of Rosa Parks and a smidge of "I Have a Dream" and voila! They get it.
Somewhat. You see, we can tell King's life in a very linear fashion, where it makes sense that point A (alternately his birth to a preacher and teacher OR the incident in which he was told he could no longer play with his white friends) led to point Z (usually identified as the March on Washington). My nephew has absorbed the metaphor quite well. His one minute rendition of Jim Crow and it's demise: "When he was a little boy, he played football with his friends and two of 'em were white and then they said they couldn't play with him anymore and he was upset. So, when he got big, he had a dream And so, before Dr. King, white people and black people couldn't play together and after Dr. King, they could." And we nod our heads and think, that will suffice.
Unfortunately, we remain content to let that suffice for far too long. To a point where people become resistant to learning anything else. And no, I'm not throwing up my hands and lamenting the fact that, "All they know is MLK!" I want them to know MLK and other people, too. But I also want my son to know more than names and big events. I want him to understand that segregation wasn't just about separation--it wasn't just that white and black kids couldn't play together, but that there is a whole ideology of superiority and inferiority coded into that separation. And I want him to understand about grassroots activities, especially the roles women played as organizers. I think this history is too important to be understood solely as a metaphor.
I have a person-as-metaphor left over from my childhood, too. It is centered around Mohandas Ghandi, whom I know primarily in terms of Dr. King's adherence to non-violent protest. Thus, I admire Ghandi from afar, as the securer of India's freedom (ah, metaphor) and an influence on the CRM. I have this quote by him appended to my e-mail signature:
What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name of totalitarianism or the holy name of liberty or democracy?And because I understand Ghandi in simplistic, metaphorical terms, I was content to quote him.
But, one of the friends I e-mail regularly is Jewish, and last night, she sent me this
You might want to rethink quoting Gandhi. I discovered that Gandhi recommended, when Hitler started imposing discriminatory laws against the Jews in the 1930s, that all German Jews commit suicide. After the war, when challenged, he stuck to his recommendation!Thus, in the weeks since she has learned this, her metaphor of Ghandi, which was similar to mine, has changed. And because I am trapped in thinking not of Ghandi, but of what I was taught about Ghandi, I am really disturbed.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
And On That Note...
...I'm logging off for the night. H/T Meagan.
| You Are 63% Addicted to the Internet |
 In your opinion, life without the internet is hardly worth living. Could be, but you probably need a bit more fresh air and sunshine to think clearly. |
Four Songs I Have on Repeat This Weekend.
Really. I cannot stop listening to 'em. Since Friday night!
A Rose Is Still a Rose by Aretha Franklin (Irreplaceable is like a later version of this song's message).
Until You Come Back to Me by Aretha.
First Love by Goapele.
Backstroke by Teedra Moses.
Every couple of hours, I throw in Maroon 5's Pure Imagination. I hate when I get stuck like this.
A Rose Is Still a Rose by Aretha Franklin (Irreplaceable is like a later version of this song's message).
Until You Come Back to Me by Aretha.
First Love by Goapele.
Backstroke by Teedra Moses.
Every couple of hours, I throw in Maroon 5's Pure Imagination. I hate when I get stuck like this.
Saturday Family Blogging-Basketball Edition
Okay, so it's Sunday. I started it last night. The kids are in a basketball league. A few shots from game day:
Sis and son after his team's win.
BF TX and son. She's not standing, so y'all can't see how disgustingly cute she is pregnant.
The Kid and my reluctant godson, pre-game.
Trying not to look smug in victory.
Sis and son after his team's win.
BF TX and son. She's not standing, so y'all can't see how disgustingly cute she is pregnant.
The Kid and my reluctant godson, pre-game.
Trying not to look smug in victory. Saturday, January 13, 2007
help... weak... need... food
So, Sis and I are waiting anxiously to go out to dinner. But since I struck a deal with the devils last night, we can't.
See, the kids get to watch TV Friday and Saturday night. They'd made big plans to watch Jump In on Disney last night. But, I had errands to run and Sis was out so they had to go with me. I promised they could watch it tonight.
**sigh**
Around 7:40, I gave up the battle and started watching it with them. KeKe Palmer reminds me so much of my sister, so I have a soft spot for her. And Corbin Bleu is taking over the role the lead character in High School Musical played--boy who tries to do something labeled decidedly non-manly and is harrassed for it.
My first impression? Damn, it's bad enough 99% of the Disney cartoons have main characters with dead and missing moms; must Corbin's mom be dead, too? What is it about us mamas that's so horrible and prohibitive-of-character-development?
See, the kids get to watch TV Friday and Saturday night. They'd made big plans to watch Jump In on Disney last night. But, I had errands to run and Sis was out so they had to go with me. I promised they could watch it tonight.
**sigh**
Around 7:40, I gave up the battle and started watching it with them. KeKe Palmer reminds me so much of my sister, so I have a soft spot for her. And Corbin Bleu is taking over the role the lead character in High School Musical played--boy who tries to do something labeled decidedly non-manly and is harrassed for it.
My first impression? Damn, it's bad enough 99% of the Disney cartoons have main characters with dead and missing moms; must Corbin's mom be dead, too? What is it about us mamas that's so horrible and prohibitive-of-character-development?
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