Welfare

I’ve been thinking about some posts over at Brownfemipower (here and here) about welfare. BfP recently signed up for PA and is dismal about it. She can’t get past the idea that she must have failed somehow to need such assistance.

Nonsense, many of us assured her. Do what it takes to take care of your family—and hold your head up.

But like many, I know how BfP feels. In my case, there is a healthy dose of hypocrisy, however. I am an avid supporter of welfare rights. A small part of my dissertation discusses the history of the creation of the system, how it was fashioned in a way to assure that men and later, women who’d been legally connected to men, benefited from the more “noble” programs of social insurance, while never married women and women who worked jobs like domestic service and agriculture (i.e. women of color) were left out of social insurance and thus, had to turn to the “welfare” programs. I know that. I fully support historians who assert that the Social Security Act created a two-tier system of social provision, with welfare on the bottom.

And, still, I’ve never considered welfare a viable option for me. Too much prying, too much stigma. On the surface. But deep down, there are more hateful, hypocritical, elitist reasons. Welfare, part of me thinks, is not for me. I’ve never been that poor. I’m too educated. I have so many other sources of support. And the worst—I’m different. Only, I fear my different comes with connotations of better.

I discovered that when I was a pregnant grad student waiting for my health insurance to kick in. I had spotting with my pregnancy and, lacking insurance, I went first to a parish health unit. They sent me to a state hospital. I felt so isolated from the other OB patients there. Their’s was not the graduate-school-induced poverty I had. I saw the results of grinding, unending poverty. And my immediate thought was, “God, get me out of here. I don’t belong here!”

As if they did. As if any woman, and especially a woman in this country, did. So, like BfP (though she in no way suggests her feelings ran the same course as mine), I’m trying to do the work to overcome that feeling, that stigma. It’s hard work.

Which Came First?

This past Sunday being the first one of the month and all, my church had communion. Now, I'm not sure what is customary elsewhere, but here, if you're not baptized, you don't partake. The kid is always let down because he hasn't been dunked yet. Though I "joined the church" when I was four, I want his to be a more conscious decision.

In a charitable spirit, I gave him a sliver of my wafer and let him dunk it in my grape juice (I'm Baptist, people). Then, I made him stand and listen carefully to the pastor. He actually paid attention; seconds later, he whispered, "Mama, this is based on that movie!"

The Passion of the Christ.

To which I hissed back, "No, the movie is based on this!"

Silence, and then, "But the movie came first!"

Sorry...

I've been remiss. My life is always so much more hectic here. I haven't felt much like blogging for a number of reasons-- I hate dial-up, for one. And a chapter of my life that I don't much want to discuss right now has finally ended in a very hurtful way.

But there is one good reason for my silence. I have a job--of course, my advisor doesn't know. I actually had two offers a day apart. One at my alma mater to teach a world history since 1500 (my minor but not exactly a comfort zone) and one based at my home church--a tutorial program funded by the Louisiana DoE. I took the paycut and the easier job with third and fourth graders. So my kid is in my class--that's an experience.

But the best thing is that best friend Louisiana has the 1st and 2nd graders in the classroom next to mine. We've never taught together--she started teaching high school the year after I left teaching elementary. I'm really enjoying that.

What I'm not enjoying is writing lesson plans again.

Memorial Day

Not sure if it's appropriate to pre-pend that with "Happy." We're celebrating anyway--my dad's a decorated Vietnam vet, so we all bow and scrape to him on days like today.

Off to finish barbecuing.

things you cannot do...

wind your mother's nice, glass-topped, porcelain-bottomed snow globe to show your two-year-old friend the pretty music it makes... then leave him alone with said snow globe while you go into another room.

you really cannot do that

Motherwork

Why do some people seem to think that once a woman becomes a mother, she magically becomes that damned Energizer bunny? I mean, I didn't realize that having my child meant I forfeited all rights to being a woman who occasionally needs a recharge, a rest, a child-free moment. Case in point--my summer vacation began today. I had every intention of bringing the kid home, leaving him on his father's doorstep and vanishing into the night.

Only, something happened. And, now, not only do I have the kid, I have his two-year old brother. Don't get me wrong--I love the little brother, he's highly verbal, very funny, and gives the best "sugar" in the South. But he is two. Which means, he'll play with the older kids for a minute, but, when he's tired or they're ignoring him, he's stuck to me like glue. The me who planned to spend at least a week in bed. The me who's forgotten the ins and outs of toddlerhood. The me who's just now realizing that Ican't just say "Mmm" and "Really?"--a two-year-old expects you listen. The me who's wondering, as I'm typing, why he's gotten so quiet and why I hear rustling in the fridge. And the me who keeps forgetting to check his pull-up!

So, apparently my summer vacation is postponed. Indefinitely.

Departing...

Going home to Louisiana for the summer in a couple of days, so it may be the weekend before you hear from me. The whole process of taking down the computer, carrying it to the car, driving it to LA, setting it up on my Mom's new countertop (to her unmitigated horror), begging my dad to buy me a computer desk AND pay someone to put it together AND let me set it up in his room (because he gave me the smallest one in the new house despite my protests. I mean, damn, just because he paid for the house doesn't mean he gets to pick his own room!), getting used to dial-up again (and owing my parents a wad of money for running up their phone bill because I "dial-up" to Texas--can't find a reliable number in North Louisiana), swallowing my sighs as my next chapter is due and my dad is hogging the computer to play solitaire... well, I hope you get the picture that computer use is fraught with strife at my parents' crib.

I'll check in to let you know I made it. And I think, in lieu of too many thoughtful/meaningful posts (it is summer, for God's sake!), I'm going to start the 100 facts in 100 days about Elle.

After all, I'm thoroughly convinced that you (and the world at large, of course) can't get enough of Elle.

Beauty Shop

I went today and the gossip and laughter were even better than usual. The women there discussed movies, men, mothers, children, welfare, religion, sex, politics (mostly "Bush is so dumb"--really significant b/c we live in Texas). In the midst of the laughter, the guy who does our hair (who merits a post of his own) announced, "Y'all's hero is getting a new trial."
"Who?" my sister asked.
His answer: "Clara Harris."

Things I Forget

Though I love my son more than anything else, since he has been "older," I have not been a very physically affectionate mom. I'm more likely to tell him I love him or give him a hurried kiss in the mornings than to embrace him. Hugging is not something I like to do because I am acutely aware of the fact that his arms don't go around me. Shallow, I know, but you'd be amazed the things I notice because of my size.

But tonight, feeling very sentimental for various reasons, I paused to look at him before I covered a newly-discovered rash on his arm with neosporin. And what I feel for this kid, to borrow an old hometown phrase, just went all over me. And I hugged him. Tightly. To his amazement. He smelled so good, like soap from his nightly bath and the overly generous dusting of baby powder he gives himself despite my admonitions. He was warm and small and so solid in my arms. His hair felt thick and coarse against my palm and his arms around my neck were the sweetest weight. For the two minutes before he wiggled away, everything was profoundly okay.

Dear God, how could I have forgotten that?

***Thanks, BfP, for reminding me.***

Dissertation Thoughts

Texter, you asked for it. Some thoughts on my dissertation because I'm hopelessly stuck!
I have three somewhat complete chapters. Advisor has given feedback on all and I have worked extensively revising chapter one. But, here's the problem.

I'm stuck. Blocked. Not producing a damned thing. So, I'm thinking, instead of going forward as advisor suggests each time, I could go back and finish tightening up chapters one thru three. One of the members of my dissertator group (though she's not exactly that anymore because she officially received her PhD last week, yay) said, "No, Elle. You're going to have go back at the end anyway so don't waste anytime." She's a really wise woman, but I figure revision has to better than total atrophy. Opinions?

And then there is the matter of the lit review in chapter one. One of the main points of the chapter is that the poultry industry came south because the state of southern labor was so exceptionally dismal. A sample of works used in my lit review: Reports from the National Planning Association, Alan Draper's Conflict of Interest, Barbara Griffith's The Crisis of American Labor, Michelle Brattain's Politics of Whiteness, some articles from Agricultural History (esp by Nan Elizabeth Woodruff) that look specifically at labor conditions in Arkansas mid-twentieth century, a couple of works by Eric Arnesen, some Bruce Nelson, a dash of Robert Korstad, a little Dolores Janiewski, a smidge of Jack Kirby, and a few other historians. Some issues advisor has: I use Draper's works (book and another article) to back up arguments about southern workers' seeming inability to organize and work for change. Advisor's question: Is he really the main worker apathy/anti-unionism guy? Apparently not, since she asked. So, to any labor historians who stop by, feel free to offer suggestions. She was also a bit miffed that I left out W. Cash, but her other grad student and I felt the work, now well over 60 years old, may be outdated. No problem to go back and throw him in: I wrote an excellent little blurb on his Mind of the South previosuly so that will be recycled and tied in. Oh, and my big problem, since I am of the opinion that Southern labor was exceptional[ly bad], how much do I mention historians who disagree?

She also wants more labor history lit more closely related to my industry (yeah, right), sharper focus on some arguments, more about what white working class women were doing (since my diss focuses on how black working class women came to the industry), and, now that I look, a whole hell of a lot of other stuff that I'm not going to feel like coming back and doing if I set this aside for six more months.

Ugh!

I guess I'll leave two and three for another day.

Looking Elsewhere

From Bitch Ph.D, I learned of a blog called Cancer, Baby, home to the witty, wonderful writings of Jessica, who died last week from ovarian cancer. Jessica wrote a post about guys she called "mood oglers," those men who see an unsmiling woman and are presumptuous enough to suggest, "It's not that bad" or "You should smile." Jessica's title of mood ogler inspired me to come up with a name for that oh-so-annoying group that I encounter ever so often--the food oglers.

While mood ogling may be primarily the domain of guys, most food oglers I have encountered have been women. They have somehow ordained themselves watcher of everything other women put in their mouths. Food ogling is usually accompanied by a disapproving shake of the head, a softly murmured , "You aren't going to eat all of that, are you?" or an ambiguous sniff. Most troublesome for me, something about seeing fat women kicks food oglers into overdrive. Not only can they execute the above mentioned shakes, murmurs, and sniffs, they can peer into my grocery cart and shoot me an approving smile when they see my lowfat milk and fresh produce. They can comment on how my physical attractiveness would be greatly enhanced if only I would.... And they can hide behind the cloak of medicine and science and pretend their concern is for my health and not my ample bosom and generous waistline. All this from women I don't even know. That's right--complete strangers have often decided that it is well within their rights to comment on my food choices, whether at the grocery store or in a restaurant.

To be fair, food oglers not only want to redeem the fat, they strive to preserve the slim. Best Friend Texas, who is usually a size 6 or 8, finds herself regularly food ogled and admonished at work. Her sin? Daring to actually eat some of the miniature candies in the office candy dish. (Silly chick hasn't realized the candies are for decoration or for men that stop by.) Apparently, some of her coworkers count how many times she walks towards the candy dish. The girl loves chocolate and is totally unapologetic about it, but still, food ogling works her last nerve.

I saw a food ogler in action today. I went to my favorite Mexican restaurant and was seated next to a couple of co-workers. One woman had ordered sopapillas that came glazed with honey with a scoop of ice cream right in the middle. She smiled as the server brought them to the table, probably already savoring the crunchy sweetness. But before she could take her first bite, her companion said, "Good Lord, I hope you're hungry." Sopapilla orderer immediately snatched her hand back and contritely agreed, "It is a lot. I didn't know it would be so much." For the rest of lunch, I ogled the ogler. Even as she commandeered the conversation, her eyes rarely left the dish with the sopapillas, gaging how much her co-worker was eating. For her part, the sopapilla orderer broke each piece of pastry into incredibly small pieces and used them to take miniature dips in the ice cream. Gone was the pleasure with which she'd greeted her dish. She didn't dare pick up a sopapilla and bite into it or use her spoon to scoop up the cinnamon dusted ice cream.

Food oglers have been amazingly succesful. In general, women's conversations abound with declarations of, "I couldn't possibly eat that," and "This is soooo bad for me," and "I'm full already." More specifically, they've driven me to make sure any less-than-healthful foods are at the bottom of cart, away from ogling eyes. They also had me, at one point, unwilling to go to a restaurant by myself. Their gazes alone seemed to say, "Not only is she fat and by herself, but she's also eating. Dear God!" If you've never seen a large woman trying to disappear into her seat, trust me, it's a sad, sad sight.

More recently, however, I've been trying to take my cousin T's lead. At the steakhouse we frequent back home, her favorite meal comes with a several-ounce ribeye, a baked potato, and a salad. T always cancels the salad and gets an extra baked potato. Her order has caused more than one ogler to look at her askance--T is a size 22 after all and probably should be ordering three salads, no potato or steak, in their opinions. One night, after her food came out, a particularly bold ogler gave a customary sniff. T, great lover of confrontations, asked, "What?" Of course, ogler became immediately sympathetic and concerned, advising T that she should make sacrifices for her health. T's response: "I don't like salad. I don't eat it. I love baked potatoes. And if that bothers you, maybe you shouldn't be looking."

Revolutionary thought, that.

I'm Looking for a Word...

What do you call it when you aren't particularly physically tired, but you don't want to do anything? When writing is anathema to you? When you pick up a book with more than 16 pages and toss it back down? When even your usual self-descriptors of "procrastinator," "works best under pressure," and "aspires to career student-hood" seem inadequate?

Is it a desire to owe Sallie Mae for the rest of your life cuz you won't hurry up and finish? Is it burn-out? Or is it that little ugly word that I'm whispering to myself... am I... (gasp)...LAZY?

The great Elle won't even contemplate such a patently untrue claim.

In lighter news, Sis and I discovered a new doughnut shop that reminds us of Southern Maid. And I know it's okay for us to go there and partake of the white-flour-and-refined-sugar sublimeness cuz guess what? It's across the street from our Curves! The proximity alone has to cancel out some of the fat and calories, right?

Welcome Back...

Sending that "shout out" to myself. Happy belated Mother's Day to all. My kid made me a card that said, "Elle... Best Mother on This Earth!", a construction paper bouquet of flowers in a brown paper bag vase, and gave me a shoulder massage.

Oh, stop hating!! You may be this lucky one day!

The Clock Is Ticking...

It can't be this hard, at this time, in this place? Can it?

A scenario:
Saturday, after a nice intimate interlude, Beloved Guy says, "Uh-Oh." Beloved Girl says, "What do you mean, uh-oh?" Beloved Guy says, "A condom snafu." "Beloved Girl cringes in horror. "No condom snafu," she says, "Monday makes exactly two weeks after the first day of my last period and I have a clockwork cycle. NO CONDOM SNAFU!" Beloved Girl and Guy stare at each on the verge of tears and unremittant panic.

Hours later, Beloved Girl remembers that one of her favorite websites has a link to emergency contraception providers. Sunday morning, she wakes up hopeful. Hope is quickly dashed when she realizes that she is unfortunately in one of the states that doesn't accept prescriptions. Beloved Guy rubs her shoulders and says, "What about your doctor?." Beloved Girl's head snaps up. Of course! She just recently had a well woman exam and everything was okay. Surely it wouldn't be a problem for her doctor to call in a prescription for Plan B.

Monday morning, she calls and leaves a detailed message. Doctor doesn't return call until early afternoon. Beloved Girl explains situation again. Doctor says, "You'd probably have to come in. Why not just go to Planned Parenthhod? Call me if they can't help."

Good idea! There's a Planned Parenthood less than a half mile away. Beloved Girl and Guy run down there, hopeful smiles restored. Until Planned Parenthood rep said, "Eighty-two dollars." Okay, Beloved couple could pay, but Beloved Girl has insurance and a PCP who could just call the damned pharmacy! They left and Beloved Girl called Doctor again. No answer. Another message.

Tuesday morning. Doctor still hasn't returned call. Beloved Girl goes to another appointment. When she finishes, she goes to a local health center to inquire. Health center rep directs her right back to Planned Parenthood. Beloved Girl calls Doctor again. No answer. Another, more frantic message.

Now, Beloved Girl is from a small town and has gone to the local clinic there. She contemplates calling her godmother, who is the head nurse, and asking if the doctor there would call in a prescription for her 350 miles away. But godmother would be all up in the business!!

So Beloved Girl waits for Doctor to call. Tuesday night will make 72 hours, closing her window for EC. She may go back to Planned Parenthood and shell out the $82. She wonders briefly, though, about women don't have the $82 and who have a strangely reluctant, out-of-touch doctor.

The clock is ticking...

See, He Does Think!

...sometimes. Breakfast conversation this morning with the kid:

The Kid: Anthony wore a Yao Ming jersey the other day.
Elle: I know. I saw it.
The Kid: It made me think about Yao Ming.
Elle: Mmm.
The Kid: If his name is Yao Ming, why is he the only person in the NBA who gets to have his first name on his jersey?

R.I.P.

...Big Hawk. From the Houston Chronicle:

Big Hawk, a Houston rapper whose 2001 album reached No. 45 on Billboard's rap chart, was shot to death, police said today.

I'm especially weary of this scenario:

Police do not have a suspect and their only lead involves a witness who saw a white compact car with tinted windows nearby shortly after the shooting, HPD spokesman John Cannon said.

But I'm most tired of this:

Trae, who knew Hawk for almost 10 years, said he can't stand to see yet another friend die too young.

Trae also said that the violence "has got to stop." Trae's not the first to make the observation. So when are we going to start listening?

Oh My.

Y'all, I just checked my AOL account. The first message on the welcome screen: Supreme Court Backs Ex-Stripper. A reference to Anna-Nicole Smith.

No comment except: Why, y'all, why??!

Why I Hate Going to the Doctor's Office

There's this strange place I inhabit, a fine line I walk between being a virtual hypochondriac who obsessively searches herself for signs of catastrophic disease and being a woman who dreads going to the doctor's office. Here, the intriguing intersection that shapes my identity--that fact of being a fat, black, once poor woman--has influenced, probably dictated, the treatment I receive behind medical offices' closed doors.

It began when I was 18 or 19. Home from school, I went to the parish health unit to receive a prescription for birth control pills. Newly sexually active--but not all that naive--I tried to answer all the nurse's questions truthfully. She asked these two back-to-back: Do you use a condom each time you have intercourse? Have you ever had an STD? My answer to both of those was no--a contrite "no" to the first, of course. But my contrition was not enough. She stopped in her survey and told me, "You're lucky. Next time he might shoot you up a load of AIDS." Now, that may have just been her way of talking or her attempts to scare me into safer sex, but I was humiliated. I left that day and have never been back.

5 years later, and 5 days overdue, I went to my hospital's maternity ward complaining of back pain, and a trickle of fluid from "down there." I had a "new" nurse who told me that as long as the bottom line on the monitor didn't move, I wasn't having contractions. Well, the bottom line kept moving and she kept saying, "You're not in labor. Your waters haven't broken." She kept trying to check my cervix, was unable to do it, and had to call in another nurse repeatedly. I lay on my back from 9:30 to 3:30, in pain, until my impatient, angry sister said, "We're taking her home." A few hours later, I was back, straight into delivery, amnitoic fluid long gone. Afterwards, in an obvious face-saving move, the doctor told me, "First babies come fast like that some time." He couldn't explain why the nurse didn't know my water had broken.

Fast forward another 5 years (and several horrible experiences later). My PCP in my late 20s was a brusque woman who was absolutely appalled by my "choice" to be fat. I went to her for over a year, feeling that I deserved her insults, hoping they would spur me to do something. Some of the most memorable:
(When having me stand and stretch) "Stand with your feet together. Well, as close as you can get them."
(When I went to her crying with back pain) "You should really consider getting your breast size reduced. If you lose weight. As far as the pain, I'm not going to treat the symptoms if you won't remedy the underlying cause."
(During a routine check-up) "Your knees and back are going to be gone in a decade.
(During a painful Pap smear) "I'm sorry, but I have to press harder and really search for (whatever the hell she was looking for) in a woman your size.

Only after talking to some friends, who looked at me as if I was crazy when I talked about my experiences, did I realize I didn't have to take that treatment, that maybe every complaint I had was not an outgrowth of my being big. I mean, I went to the ER after the back fiasco and found out I had pulled a muscle and I'd never had a painful Pap before. I could be hurt or sick in a way unrelated to my size. That was amazing.

The latest incident involved an ER visit with a seemingly nice doctor who apparently decided I was a moron:
"What's bothering you?"
"Abdomen and lower back hurt badly. Really bad nausea. My doctor can't see me til Wednesday."
"Does it hurt when press here? Here? Can you jump? Does that hurt? Can you bend? Does that hurt? Has it gotten any better? Are you sure it's your abdomen and back? Do you think you could be pregnant?"
I answered each question patiently. Then he asks:
"Have you eaten?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because of the nausea."
"What about it?"
"If I eat, I'll throw up. If I throw up, I can't stop."
"Oh. Well, are you hungry?"
"Um, no."
"Okay. Would you like someone to bring you something to eat?"
"No!"
"Fine. Are you sure you're not just hungry? Have you eaten anything?"
Five minutes of this until he decides that, despite the fact that I'm fat, maybe, just maybe, I'm not currently interested in food. Eventual diagnosis: bladder infection.

I'm really curious as to whether this is commonplace. Do other people experiece it? Am I just especially sensitive? And no, I don't mind my doctor saying, for your health, you should consider weight loss. My current PCP said just that, but she talked to me about methods, alternatives, etc. without being condescending or cruel. She works in a clinic that sees mostly underserved clients which is why, despite the long wait for appointments, I chose her. So finally, I'm happy. I get to be treated like a whole person and not some conglomeration of unappealing parts.

Politics

Yesterday, my sister-in-law left me a breathless voicemail: "Elle, call as soon as you get this."

Oh, how I hate those types of messages. Unless someone died, just tell me what you want when you leave a message so I can already have my answer or response half-formed when I call you back! So, I reluctantly called her back.

"There's been an INS raid at your plant," she told me. "I knew you'd want to know ASAP."

"My plant" is the poultry processing facility around which my dissertation revolves. My first reaction was pure historian--"Get all the details you can. Go buy all the papers for me tomorrow." She was getting her information second hand from my brother, a "line leader" at the plant. I hung up and thought about e-mailing my advisor or my group to tell them.

Then, I began to think that maybe I was being a little too analytical, a little too excited about a situation that was more than likely causing people untold fear and distress. I called my sister-in-law back.
"What exactly is going on?" I asked.

From her reply, I gathered there hadn't actually been a raid, but the threat of one that had been circulating since Monday. Something happened Friday--I have yet to know what--that made the danger seem imminent. What followed amazed the community and the plant. People from off the street walked past the plant's guard gate, into the facility, up to the lines and grabbed their family and friends. My brother reported that people began taking off all their protective gear--the aprons, jackets, gloves, whatever--throwing it down, and exiting the plant. In the end, not enough people remained to run the lines. The employees there stood around, shocked, waiting for word from the management about what to do next. I do not know what happened to the people who walked out, to the day's production, to anything, as I haven't talked to my brother since yesterday.

But here is why I entitled my post Politics. The Latino/a presence in the area has been increasing phenomenally for quite some time now. Way back when I still lived there and was teaching middle school, the school boards were ill-equipped to handle the new students. They simply placed them in age appropriate classrooms and instructed us to do our best. For our whole parish, there was one woman, ONE, who came around to each of the schools to meet with the Spanish-speaking parents and address the needs of their children. She and I had gone to the same school at the same time for our MAs, so we knew each other. She was overwhelmed and the parish was so poor (and the citizenry so determined that "we" were not going to be like other places and cater to "them") that there was no talk of hiring more people in her position, bilingual teachers, or anyone else--even though we all realized that this was not a temporary situation. Six years later, not much has changed and I honestly don't know how well ESL children are learning there.

Yet, despite the fact that this is not new, that we all know the Spanish-speaking families who come to the area are largely coming for the poultry processing work, never have I heard of the threat of a raid. In fact, the plant has been hiring Latino/a workers in ever-increasing numbers. When I interviewed the head of personnel 3 years ago, he estimated that 95% of the line workers were black and 3-4% were Latino/a, but--since industry turnover can approach 100% per year--apparently that 3-4% has grown into a much larger percentage, enough to effectively shut the plant down on Friday. The plant management has been blissfully exploiting this group of employees (as it did/does its other line workers) with little worry or interference. Then suddenly, the INS expresses interest in the plant.

Interest that just happens to come in the present political climate.

Let's Talk About...

As I drove up to the school to pick up my son today, the supervising teacher approached my car and leaned in the window. In her hand, she clutched the kid's Spiderman notebook. There was something she wanted me to see, a written conversation between my son and his best friend Anthony (of I'm in Love with a Stripper fame). Below is the conversation, written as spelled:

Anthony: Do you want to hold Nocole
The Kid: Yes. Do you want nocole to come to your crib at 1:00 to sex her
Anthony: Yes. Would you have sex?
The Kid: Yes. Do you wnat to have babyies with Nocole
Anthony: Yes.
The Kid: Do you want to marry nicole (finally on the spelling!!) kiss on the lips
Anthony: Yes

My first comment? "Are you trying to get put out of this school?" You see, neither Anthony nor my kid go to the school they're zoned to. Instead, they're in a magnet program at a much nicer school. I didn't say much on the drive home or the subsequent trip to the grocery store. His dad called and I told him. I'm not sure exactly what he said, but he looked appropriately contrite.

So tonight I got my turn. And in true Baptist fashion, I turned on the scare tactics. First, I asked him what was sex. His definition? Kissing, hugging, and sleeping together. "That is not all sex is," I told him (but didn't go into any details), "and if you have it before you know what it is or before you're ready, you could end up with a baby. Are you ready for a baby? Hell, no! You ain't got a job! You barely have a roof over your head. You could also get a disease. Do you understand that you could get something that will kill you? You'll be DEAD!" His eyes got really big. His mouth drew up tight. He nodded obediently.

Oh, of course I know this wasn't the best way to handle this. But my kid is 7. S-E-V-E-N!! And my parents scared me pretty effectively--now in my 30s, I still have sex phobias. And my sister was a big help. She was watching The Passion of the Christ in the background, the scenes where He's being nailed to the cross and pulled up. So with tears in her eyes, she told the kid, "Look at this man dying for you and you down there at that school showing out. You laughing at him just like those soldiers are. I am so disappointed." Yeah, we piled it on thick. So thickly that we had to hide our own smirks (especially when sis managed to work Jesus into it).

Seriously, I did rag on him about the references to Nicole. "She's somebody," I kept saying, "And you don't write about her like she's just entertainment for you and Anthony. Would you like it if your dad had written about me like that? Do you want your uncle writing about Aunt like that? Do you want your grandpas writing about your grannnies like that? You were very disrespectful to Nicole. Whenever you are ready to have sex, it'll be between you and the person. Not you, your friends, and the person. You don't talk about girls like that!"

He seemed to at least understand that part. Or maybe I just scared the hell out of him.

This is really a learning experience.

Because This Is Not A Game of Bridge

Between (or I guess, "among") Nubian's place, Alas, A Blog, and Ginmar's A View from Abroad (April 21st and 26th), there has arisen (sorry to use that so soon after Easter:-) a multi-faceted conversation that, from what I can discern, began with Ginmar's proclamation that gender trumps race (in matters of oppression). Some strong arguments and heated comments all around--which is why I provide links; I don't think this should be missed. To be honest, I don't agree with Ginmar. If we're going to talk in the most simplistic terms, I probably lean towards race "trumping" gender, at least in this society. However, even that is unfair and incomplete.

Why?

In the early stages of my dissertation, I assumed that "being black" was the most salient part of the identities of the black women poultry workers I study and that "being black" was the most influential factor in their work experience--both the conditions in which they worked and how they responded to that work. My advisor's carefully worded response: "This may be true in some cases, but in a work of this magnitude, you need to look at black women's position at 'the nexus of an interlocking system of oppression': race, class, and gender."

She's right. Any less-thorough or one-sided analysis leaves much unexplained and misunderstood. I just wanted to share her insight, as, apparently, I am not the only scholar who needs to be looking a bit deeper.

BTW, for a historical point of view, (off the top of my head), I'd recommend Dolores Janiewski or Sharon Harley.

I'm So Excited...

Though you hear more about my non-academic life than anything else, I really am an unaplogetic history nerd. Thus, when I saw Cliopatria's History Blogroll, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. So much to read. So little time (Especially if I plan to finish school. Ever.). And dear God, there's actually a History Carnival!! I just can't take it!

But, if you need something else to get excited about, (for some reason, history just doesn't do it for everyone--go figure), check out the discussion BfP started today. Ahem!

Maybe THIS Is Why the Dissertation Seems a Bit Challenging...

You Should Be a Romance Novelist

You see the world as it should be, and this goes double for all matters of the heart.You can find the romance in any situation, and you would make a talented romance story writer...And while you may be a traditional romantic, you're just as likely to be drawn to quirky or dark love stories.As long as it deals with infatuation, heartbreak, and soulmates - you could write it.

What Type of Writer Should You Be?

Of course, like lots of people (at least, I hope lots of people), I did start with writing romances and have a million partials. That was (thankfully, trust me) short-lived.

I also have some cute short stories that I'm thinking of starting a new blog to share...

Here's the link, cuz I don't know what the hell I did with the HTML above: http://www.blogthings.com/whattypeofwritershouldyoubequiz/

Because I Promised to Be (Mostly) Honest...

...at least on this blog. This weekend, Nubian hosted Blog Against Heteronormativity Day. She defines heteronormativity as

institutions, policies and beliefs that reinforce the rigid categories of male and female. these categories, supposedly, determine our sex, sexuality, sexual desire, gender identity, and gender roles. therefore, there are expected behaviors for males (such as the patriarch of the nuclear family for example), as are there expected behaviors for females (the submissive wife to the patriarch, among other things).

The goal of blogging against heteronormativity is not, as one commenter at her site implied, to cast married, heterosexuals as evil, but

to disrupt those pesky normative ideas that are based on the categories of male and female; to use the internet to question the oppressive institution of heteronormativity because: not all of us identify as male/female...; not all of us are biological heterosexuals...; not all of us are married, and not all of us want to be; not all of us believe that female/male coupling is the norm--some of us don't even believe in the terms "male" and "female"; not all of us believe that what makes a man is his penis, and what makes a woman is her vagina.

I wanted to participate as more than a reader. I wanted to say, to write something. But I didn't. The reason that I gave myself was fear--fear of not knowing enough, of making a fool of myself, of offending someone--all those fears that have held me back for most of my life.

But, I had to acknowledge a different, more honest reason, too. I still privilege heterosexuality. Despite my best intentions and efforts. Oh, not as ignorantly as I did when I was a teenager--when I blithely announced that I "understood" straight and gay, but bisexuality just didn't make sense. And not as overtly as I did in college--when I actually stared the first time I saw a gay couple kiss. It's hard to admit I was that girl who thought she had a right to comment or be amazed or demand explanation.

Now my privileging of heterosexuality is much more subtle. Like when I wonder if something is wrong with me or if I am somehow lacking because I am not married. Or when I was stunned and a bit uncomfortable when I found out one of my favorite bloggers has an open marriage. What did she get married for, I wondered. That's not what marriage is about! I was appalled at myself, but still, I thought it. For one moment, I honestly, selfishly believed that she should do something to counter my judgment, to assuage my discomfort. And that, I think, is part of what heteronormativity is about, the relegation of some people, who won't meekly bundle themselves into the "rigid categories of male and female"/masculine and feminine, to the status of "other," and the insistence that this worrisome "other" defend, explain, comfort, justify.

So, I've probably just made a fool of myself and offended someone. Two things I fear.

But not as much as I fear continuing to lie to myself.

Elle, ABD... This Is Your Life

Copied this from Dorcasina:

20 years ago I . . .
1. was a miserable sixth grader
2. won a regional writing contest

10 years ago I . . .
1. graduated college
2. met my kid’s father
3. started (and subsequently quit) an MA program in counseling psych

5 years ago I . . .
1. started work on my doctorate
2. celebrated when T received her bachelor’s
3. left Louisiana again

3 years ago I . . .
1. pondered where to send my kid to kindergarten
2. received my first significant fellowship
3. started preparing for my comprehensive exams

1 year ago I . . .
1. got serious about my dissertation
2. set a graduation deadline
3. got really nice highlights :-p

So far this year I . . .
1. have written some pretty strong chapters
2. was scared out of my wits by my father’s horrible reaction to dialysis
3. cut my bangs in a fit of restlessness

Yesterday I . . .
1. bought a really big Coach bag for $112
2. sat on my bed and talked to some of the women who are dearest to me in the world
3. did more "talking to" than "fussing at" my son

Today I . . .
1. will go to church
2. will wave goodbye to T and her best friend
3. will argue with my son over what he wants to eat for dinner

Tomorrow I will . . .
1. sleep in—school is out for a day!
2. seriously consider rearranging my desk
3. get to work on my bibliography—I have four sets of endnotes and no comprehensive bibliography (yuck)

In the next year I will . . .
1. hopefully defend my dissertation
2. make my parents proud
3. get a job!!!

Presented Without Comment...

...because I'm so damn tired of this sentiment. Found this at blacklogs.com, authored by a ricland. Tried to find the original blog or whatever but failed. Maybe I'll comment later.

These guys were kids from good homes, athletes with access to plenty of quality women, and, because they were at Duke, young men of above average intelligence and education. In other words, they fit no known profile for rapists we know of. Conversely, the victim is an unwed mother, a student of the worst schools in the Nation, and a common stripper that is, a woman who peddles virtual sex.

Pageant Results... (Long Overdue)

I never told y'all did I? Excerpt from the relevant post:

The most exciting thing has been my goddaughter's unexpected run in her pre-school pageant. J decided last minute and we've raised $500 today alone. T's son is running for "king," too, so we've sold two sets of plate lunches, hotdogs, raffle tickets, etc. As conceited as we are, we're determined that they both win--I even bought Belle a blue dress to match T's son's baby blue suit. Pageant is tomorrow.

Well...

Belle acted a fool, as usual--check out the face. Here's a better shot of T's son:
So, we the kids emerged victorious!

Thank God It's Friday!

My cousin T and her best friend visited this week. Tonight, the sister, the cousin, the best friend and I are leaving town to spend a day in San Marcos. My first trip--my local shopping excursions usually include Dillard's, Lane Bryant, Avenue, Children's Place, then home to rest my weary feet and aching head--but I hear it's an outlet heaven.

Starting last night, the other 3 sensible women began balancing their checkbooks and saying, "I have X amount to spend. DO NOT LET ME GO OVER."

Limits? Boundaries? Budgets? I scoff at the very ideas. I like to be free to express myself and shopping and the related clothes and shoes are definitely self-expression. How can I be expected to curtail that? I don't want to stunt my growth in any area!

But, just in case I get a little too expressive, I'm only taking one debit card, one checkbook, and no credit cards. That way, I get to be me while still keeping a roof over my head and a decent mode of transportation.

Some Uninformed Thoughts

OK, during my recent round of travels, I've noted many stories I'd like to blog about. Immigration. Cynthia McKinney. Test Scores. Christianity. Problem is, I've been so oblivious to the world at large, I figured I didn't know enough to write a cogent, factual post. In keeping an online journal, I've developed the habit of typing and emoting first, then wincing and regretting later. Still, I'm going to chance it to weigh in on one issue--the so-called "Duke" case.

Oh. My. God.

I've made a round of conservative sites I read regularly (don't ask why). The result is that I've been absolutely floored by the rampant hatred and hypocrisy directed at the young woman. Hypocrisy because these sites claimed that the dreaded liberals and feminists support this woman with little evidence--but then, they jumped in and defended the men (allegedly) involved before many details were known about the case. After all, these are "good" white men at a "good" Christian school who unfortunately crossed paths with that sluttiest of seductresses--a black woman. And the woman? Well, her story doesn't make sense, she was (and here are just a few terms I've read) smashed, drunk, high, incoherent, already bruised from her impairment, etc.

And I wonder, even if all the descriptions are true, why does it mean she couldn't have been raped.

Then come the references to her character. Because of her job, I've repeatedly read the words ho and prostitute. LaShawn Barber implies that she is in a class of "nasty women" who should realize there are consequences to your actions. Apparently, consequences rightfully include being raped if your action is something as deplorable as exotic dancing. And, my God, not only does she take her clothes off--she stole a car once!

Which obviously means she couldn't have been raped.

Then, in the spirit of righteous conservatism, they bring up how the evil among us dared to believe there may have been issues related to race in this whole incident. In the world of the colorblind, after all, we wouldn't notice that she is black and they are white. But, if liberals are the only ones noticing race, why is it so hard to believe these guys may have done this and so easy to discount her story? Surely, they won't claim this air of angry disbelief is all about cold, hard facts.

I don't know what happened that night. I'm not well-versed on the case. But I am thoroughly appalled by these widespread notions of "she asked for it" or "she deserved it" threaded throughout the coverage of this story. And I am saddened by the fact that such opinions are shared by many blacks and many women, regardless of political stance.

Test Scores

I just followed a link to a report entitled States Omit Minorities' School Scores. I know I promise to get back to a lot of things, but really, I'm going to read up and get back to this.

How the Whole School Thing is Going...

The good news. An excerpt from advisor's e-mail about last chapter:

I read your chapter draft today and think it is very solid. I hope you won’t be disappointed when I say I don’t have a lot of suggestions for changes. I made editing suggestions and reactions to your questions, but nothing major.

Trust me, you'd have to know my advisor to understand the deep, relieved breath I let out after I got this.

The not so good news. An excerpt from the letter I got in response to my latest national fellowship application:

We regret to inform you that we are unable to offer you a fellowship. However, it is a pleasure to inform you that your application was sufficiently meritorious to receive special recognition.

This is more of a wounded pride thing--my first rejection of this sort. But, I submitted the application at 11:20 on the night it was due by midnight and I found two glaring errors immediately afterwards. SO this is really more than I deserve.

The really worrisome, how the hell am I going to finish, news. My school put me on a waiting list for a Teaching Assistantship. First time ever, but I don't blame them. I accepted a TAship the last two years in a row, then left them stranded because I got fellowships that mandated that I not hold outside jobs. At this point, however, in what should be my last year, I may not be able to pay the steep out of state tuition and pay living expenses, etc.

Okay, now that I've wailed, I'm off to look for solutions.

Hello!

I was out of town for Easter, of course. But I'm back and so glad to be here! Anyway, some people de-lurked while I was gone. I'm happy for that. Plus, I heard from an old friend at Too Conservative. I'll be over shortly, TC, I promise!

Legacies

Do you ever wonder what you're going to have to past down to your kids? I do--a lot. And since I'm a materialistic being, my lack of "things" bothers me. But this post is not about my legacy to the kid. No, this is a bitterly angry diatribe about a legacy a relative of mine is shaping.

In my rural neck of the woods, we know our cousins down to fifth and sixth and so forth. And we're usually pretty tight right up through fourth cousins (Those would be my great aunts and uncles' great-grandkids. For example, J is the great-granddaughter of my grandmother's sister and we're virtually inseparable). This story is about just such a relative, who's not so close to me by blood as she is by love and strong family ties. I'll call her Anne.

Now, Anne is an interesting woman. Loud and funny and loving. She's a great homemaker--cooks up to-die-for food in a spotless house. She's the mother of five, grandmother of five, and is intricately involved in her children's lives. She regularly babysits all her grandkids and provides daycare for her youngest. Anne is also a crack addict. She never moved away from her mom's home--couldn't afford to. She hasn't held a regular job in years. And all this shapes her legacy to her children. It was a legacy that her mother so worried about that, on the night before she had the surgical procedure that led to her death, she begged Anne's second oldest son to take care of the family, to keep them together.

And that is just what he did. In his early 20s, he forfeited the rights to a life of his own, promising to provide for his mother's family until the youngest graduated high school. Along the way, he started drinking heavily, lost the woman he truly loved, and many opportunities to leave. But he paid the bills. He kept the house. He loves his siblings and his niece and nephews. But he resents what he had to do because his mother couldn't.

As do his three younger siblings. They love their mother, but their mouths tighten when you mention her. They barely restrain themselves from negative comments. Rearing them has been a family effort--we've all bought clothes, school supplies, class rings, caps and gowns. But we couldn't buy them what they wanted most--a decent legacy from their mother. The ability to not feel shame, to not look ashamed.

For most of this time, I've felt sorry for Anne. Because she has potential. Because she loves her family in her own way. Because she does what she can. Because she's getting thinner each time I see her. But the sympathy is leaving me. Anne is now shaping the legacy of her grandchildren, and it is perhaps even more disturbing than that she created for her kids.

That youngest grandchild? The one she keeps all the time because he and his mom still stay with her? He has tuberculosis. And he got it from Anne. And Anne got it from God knows where, but I have no doubt it is somehow related to her addiction. So now, in a fit of anger, we're all asking ourselves, when does it stop? How will life be for this baby, just over a year old, who's lying in NICU? For his mom who feels guilt for exposing her child to his grandmother? For the youngest son, who graduates next month and is scheduled to go off into the Army on May 22 (will the Army even take him if he has TB)? For that second oldest son who was already rejoicing that the youngest had "made it," that he himself had kept his promise to his grandmother, that freedom was on the horizon? And even for Anne, whom, despite the anger, we still love? Can she change or reshape her legacy?

Is it too late?

Dreams...

Initially, I dreamed of having this really popular blog to which intelligent people flocked because I wrote deeply analytical/explanatory/wise posts that made sense of the world and of the disertation process. I expressed that dream when I got back Friday night to my sister who said (quite grumpily as she'd had both boys for days), "You don't keep your ass at home long enough to write anything."

Including the dissertation. But thanks anyway to all the brilliant people who stop by. I'm going to do better. Really.

On another dreamy note (Best Friend TX, Rageyone, and Best Friend LA might particularly enjoy this one), my cousin (whom people call Little Elle because she's a lot like me--only better!) was initiated into the illustrious world of Delta Sigma Theta. Best Friend LA and I attended (Best Friend LA cried). Little Elle cried, too, said it was like a legacy, a dream come true.

But enough of dreams. I have to get writing before I leave again. This Thursday. Poor car!

A Promise...

...after an announcement. I'm out of town again from tomorrow through Friday. It's a mostly pleasure trip, but you know how Elle loves a new library.

On to the promise. At church yesterday, the pastor was denouncing The DaVinci Code and various other attempts to"discredit" Jesus's divinity/"God"-ness. When I read that book, (and yes, I will admit I read it), I was amazed by all the references to the sacred feminine. Now, I'm not much for conspiracy theories, but the sermon, one of the premises of the book and similar arguments, the extremist takeover of Christianity, and my recent experiences at church in general have gotten me to thinking--can you balance feminism and Christianity? Can I? Which is a scary thought, because when I wondered that aloud to my sister, she asked, "What if you can't? Do you give one up?" So maybe I shouldn't be saying can I. but how do I?

I want to post about that. If I have time, I'll do so tonight. If not, I'll see you all this weekend.

Off to Curves! (ugh)

ATTENTION!!

The Third Radical Women of Color Carnival is posted over at Nubian's.

Check it out.

Live Blogging...

...the game. What the hell is happening to my Tigers?! Quinn, you jinxed my home state!

Saturday Zoo Blogging

Ah, nothing quite like class field trips. I accompanied my son and 100 other 2nd graders this past Thursday. All I had was the camera phone so... We began with the Koala, which was much larger than I thought. The kids loved the way he moved from limb to limb.

I had a group of three boys. They begged and pleaded for me to go into the reptile house. The first hideous beast? The American alligator. I think it was albino. I must admit, it was a gorgeous thing. I almost had to let my phobia of croco-alligators go--I'm so sure that's how I'm going to meet my demise!!

Then, being a good Delta, I made a pilgrimage to the elephants. One of the boys said they smelled bad. The nerve!

The zoo's newest addition is a Baby Giraffe named Sienna. This isn't a picture of her, but we did get to see an employee bottle feeding her knobby-kneed gloriousness.

And finally, submitted without comment, Girl Astride Tortoise...

Sorry for the lack of symmetry; I've never posted more than one picture per post.

Overheard... The Burgeoning Male Gaze

On a recent trip...

The Kid (to my nephew): You know that song, I'm in Love with a Stripper?

Sister and I eye each other speculatively.

Nephew: Yep.

The Kid: Anthony (a 2nd grade classmate!!) says a stripper is a woman who takes her clothes off and you give her money.

Nephew: Ugh! Aunt Elle, the Kid is talking about women taking their clothes off.

Elle: Why are you talking about women taking their clothes off? Don't talk about women taking their clothes off!

Silence.

Nephew (whispers to the Kid): What about boys?

The Kid: Now, that's just nasty!

Sister: Why is it nasty for men to take their clothes off but not women?

The Kid: I don't know! Who wants to see that?

Elle: Some people like to see men take their clothes off.

The Kid (irate and challenging): Who? Who, Mama?

Elle: Who the hell let you hear that song anyway? And why does Anthony know what a stripper is?

Sister: Elle, why are you arguing?

Should've been, Elle why are you avoiding the important questions?

Who Said It Was Bliss?

My ignorance, that is. This old post accused people of judging others based on their experiences. After a recent look at the feminist corner of the blogosphere, I realize I did the same thing. Here in my insulated, comfortable, racially harmonious little world, I really did/do believe that feminists of all backgrounds, generally speaking, were working to build this vastly inclusive sisterhood where we'd bury our old hatchets and stand on common ground. I downplayed the significance of the exclusion and silencing of (or was that simply a refusal to hear?) women of color, intimating that it was a thing of the past. I derided the complaint that white feminists and feminists of color have widely different issues, concerns, and styles. We've moved past that, right?

And then I looked. At Nubian and brownfemipower who've had markedly different experiences (than mine as portrayed in the abovementioned post). At Twisty, who started a related conversation on her board. At lots of other blogs where women of color expressed discontent with all those things I thought were past. I was ignorant. I am ignorant.

But if you know anything about me, you know that I am vainly, smugly proud of my intellect. I'm going to educate myself. I'm listening. I'm learning.

And I'm thanking Nubian and numerous other bloggers for rattling my comfortable little cage.

Rolling Right Along

I finally stopped being lazy and added the blogrolling stuff to my template (I signed up back in December or January). Still no tags yet, despite the patient tutelage of Soror Rageyone. And, of course, I'm still too lazy to figure out how to get my real life buddy, Quinn, back on top.

Oh, well, you're still number one in my heart, girl!

Not so good...

Not so good for a dissertating young woman:

31.25 %

My weblog owns 31.25 % of me.
Does your weblog own you?

Of Color...

Nubian has a great, debate-inducing post on the term "people of color." Personally, I like the term, but honestly, I've never thought much about it. Some of Nubian's readers object, feel that it excludes white people (which makes them defensive or absolves them of repsonsibility to be part of the solution to issues that revolve around race/ethnicity/color), casts white people as "colorless" or "raceless," or normalizes a racial binary of white/of color. I am most sympathetic to that last point, but using the term "people of color" did not/does not create that binary--it exists anyway, whether we reference it or not. The solidarity implied in "people of color," that sense, on some level, of a shared experience is valuable.

But I don't discuss this nearly as well as Nubian and I haven't thought it out clearly. Please read her post.

Marriage is for White People...

Or so notes an article in yesterday's WaPo. That's not the author's position, but that of a 12-year old black boy. A particularly interesting excerpt from Ms. Jones's provocatively titled piece:

Among African Americans, the desire for marriage seems to have a different trajectory for women and men. My observation is that black women in their twenties and early thirties want to marry and commit at a time when black men their age are more likely to enjoy playing the field. As the woman realizes that a good marriage may not be as possible or sustainable as she would like, her focus turns to having a baby, or possibly improving her job status, perhaps by returning to school or investing more energy in her career.

As men mature, and begin to recognize the benefits of having a roost and roots (and to feel the consequences of their risky bachelor behavior), they are more willing to marry and settle down. By this time, however, many of their female peers are satisfied with the lives they have constructed and are less likely to settle for marriage to a man who doesn't bring much to the table. Indeed, he may bring too much to the table: children and their mothers from previous relationships, limited earning power, and the fallout from years of drug use, poor health care, sexual promiscuity. In other words, for the circumspect black woman, marriage may not be a business deal that offers sufficient return on investment.

Before I comment, I will be careful, as did Ms. Jones, and say, "in my observation." I will note that, all men and women are not the same, that there are guys out there who are ready and willing to make the sacrifices and compromises to commit and share their lives and there are women who have no interest in ever marrying. But, I must say, in a feeble and worried-about-censure voice, that my observations are much like the author's. After two really hard relationships and lots of effort, tears, and anger, I'm pretty much resigned to the fact that I'm never getting married. I mean, I am a Black woman over 30 who just can't deal with the things I did in my 20s. To be fair, I'm set in my own ways and usually think I know right, or at least, best, so I come with my own flaws.

But most of the guys I've met are just not ready. Many of them feel they don't have to be--hell, if I put my foot down there are other women who so badly want a man, they'll ignore the infidelities, the lack of effort, the bruising to their self-esteem, just to have one. Ms. Jones comments on that, too:

Most single black women over the age of 30 whom I know would not mind getting married, but acknowledge that the kind of man and the quality of marriage they would like to have may not be likely, and they are not desperate enough to simply accept any situation just to have a man. A number of my married friends complain that taking care of their husbands feels like having an additional child to raise.

I hear that last observation a lot, in the form of "Girl, I have two kids," or "He can't do a damn thing without my helping."

Within my own circle, this discontent with marriage has produced a strange effect: my female family and friends are inordinately concerned with preserving the sanctity of my singlehood. Just Saturday, J told me, "Girl, leave those papers at the courthouse and that man at the altar." My sister and T immediately gave her high fives. They all emphasize how well I will do on my own with the PhD, how lucky I am to have waited. My ever-practical sister says that I should get a companion and nothing more. My own mother, who has been married almost 40 years, urges that I should have another child to keep the kid from being an only child, but seems to have forgotten my lack of a mate. I think I have become their hope, in a sense, for a "good" marriage. They are unwilling for me to enter or stay in a relationship in which I would have to deal with selfishness, infidelity, lack of ambition, or any other significant flaw. The irony is that many of them have dealt with these things and stayed. Or maybe it's not so ironic. They want, desperately, wholeheartedly, better for me.

Ms. Jones's article tries to end on a bright note, by pointing out that while the decline in marriage among African American women may be brought about by negative factors (e.g. a lack of willing, ready-to-work-at-it partners), it may continue because of more positive ones (our accomplishments and self-sufficiency make us unwilling to accept a less than fulfilling relationship). And I am the first to admit that marriage is not some grand cure-all that will fix everything that plagues our communities. It comes in too many forms--including abusive ones--to be the answer to everything for everyone. Additionally, not all women and men seek this arrangement.

Still, the article made me a bit sad.

There's no place like...

...my beloved computer desk. I made it back safely. See you soon.

On Research

So I'm sitting in a library in Magnolia, AR looking through some state documents. None have proven to be that one groundbreaking document that will elevate my dissertation to superstar status. They aren't particularly interesting. But being here reminds me why I chose this field in the first place--sometimes, I really love the research. More specifically, I love the search. For example, I really don't know what I'm looking for here (don't tell my advisor) but I love the looking, the discovering. Is it strange that I find this... fun?

The Local Drugstore

While sitting in the nail shop shortly before this prolonged trip, I picked up a "women's" magazine. Amidst all the tips, tricks, and techniques, there was a suggestion that women find forgotten treasures-beauty products, novelties, gifts, etc-at drugstores. Yesterday, my dad sent me to fill one of his prescriptions, so I decided to explore my old-school hometown drugstore. I found funky furniture, pier-1 inspired rattan items, playing cards, keychains that held sand from my tiny town, beautiful picture frames and a box that contained Colgate shaving soap.

I stared at that little red and white box marked $1.20 for a long time. I stared and I remembered my stooped shouldered grandfather, Payne.

Now Payne was not a man concerned with physical appearances. He routinely wore mismatched socks and shoes. He misbuttoned his shirts and jackets and safety-pinned any wardrobe malfunction. He pushed around a decades old lawnmower, because, well into his 70s, he still "cut yards." I used to sink down in my seat on the school bus when I was a little kid and groan my embarrassment.

But on shaving, Payne was a stickler. He had one of those old brushes that you use to put the lather on and he shaved himself with a straight razor while we watched and talked him through it. He talked back, but I never saw him cut himself. I still remember the rhytmic scrape-scrape-scrape of his shaving.

What I also remember is how much he loved us. See, there was always tension between my mom and her mom. My grandmother made no bones about the fact that my uncle and his kids were her favorites. I didn't care much when I wasn't around her, but the way she discounted my mother's efforts routinely pissed my sister and me off. But, we bit our tongues, largely because of Payne. He adored my mom and loved all seven of the grandkids. When we needed money, he'd pull out this old weather beaten wallet and issue it silently. When we were late for curfew, he'd wait up and quietly unlock the screen door. When I was in the throes of teenaged angst, he'd tell me these stories about his sister--who bore an amazing resemblance to me as he told it--to help ease me through.

He was a good man, a strong man, and he loved my grandmother despite the fact that she cussed and hollered and fussed and often told him, "Payne, these are my children!" A spiteful statement, because Payne was not our biological grandfather. But, instead of taking her to task, he'd sigh, shake his head, and say, "You wrong, girl. You know you wrong." And he kept loving us all the same.

The last time I saw Payne, in a Rehabilitation hospital, he was tired and suffering from cancer. He missed my grandmother terribly. Still, he managed to smile at me and pat my cheek, one of the few times he'd ever been physically affectionate. He told me, "Take care of yourself, Sugar." I told him I loved him and he nodded once. I realize now that in the 20-something years I had him, he never once said the words. But never have I ever been so sure someone felt them.

So, of course, Elle, being sentimental, weeping Elle, bought the soap. My dad found it in his bag and said, "I told you I had razors and shaving cream." I had to tell him that I didn't buy it to use it.

At least, not in any practical way.

I Know Y'all Miss Me...

...but I'm still not back in the Lone Star State. Decided to spend an extra week between LA and AR. I get to interview a worker's advocate whose been involved in the industry I'm studying for over 20 years. I get to write sans two little boys. And guess what? I've actually put my nose to the grindstone and turned out some pretty good stuff. My mom still works, my dad fishes a lot, so I spend hours alone with nothing but a spiral notebook, my binders, notecards, and a few books. The result? I've done more in 2 days than in all February.

The downside, of course, is that I miss my TX family. And the advisor sent me an e-mail that began with ELLE, WHERE ARE YOU? She seems a little peeved that I've missed some pretrty important people sorta in my field who were visiting the area. I had my sister e-mail her until I could get to a computer. And then I sent an approriately contrite e-mail--in which I mentioned my near-nervous breakdown of February and rebounding quite amazingly to produce this wonderful chapter. I hope she replies soon. I hate feeling that I've let her down.

But, best friend Louisiana who has some influential contacts has procured a really nice laptop for me to use while I'm here. So maybe, I can keep in touch more. Or maybe I'll keep going without computer and keep getting my grind on.

Lord Have Mercy

When I tell y'all I'm from the country... trust! The most exciting thing has been my goddaughter's unexpected run in her pre-school pageant. J decided last minute and we've raised $500 today alone. T's son is running for "king," too, so we've sold two sets of plate lunches, hotdogs, raffle tickets, etc. As conceited as we are, we're determined that they both win--I even bought Belle a blue dress to match T's son's baby blue suit. Pageant is tomorrow. I've been pursing my lips and blowing kisses as I solicit donations--all my feminist sensibilities leave when it comes to the children.

Gotta realize Elle loves the kids!

Well, off to make that money!

(You all know, of course, that I've written approximately one dissertation related paragraph?)

It's So Hard...

but still, I shall say goodbye! Off to Louisiana until the 20th, so blogging will be light to none!

Have a good week. Wish me luck on the dissertation chapter. I have to bust my ass over the next ten days.

Love,

Elle, A(lways)B(ehind)D(ammit!)

Why the Word also Means "Failure, Flop"

Ever a day late and thousands of dollars short, I wanted to drop a quick bomb before I start getting ready for the oft-delayed-but-much-anticipated lunch with Best Friend Texas.

Bill Napoli is a perverted idiot.

There now, that felt good.

A Hard Act to Follow

Oh My God, this rambles...
Last night, best friend Louisiana called. She was crying so hard, I could barely understand her. This in itself is alarming--best friend LA does not cry often. Not for herself, anyway. She cries for her friends but treats her own problems with this brusque, brisk, get-over it attitude. So, I was scared but managed to make soothing noises until she could talk.

Her mom, who has diabetes, suffered a stroke, and had a dangerous blockage to a major artery, has Level/Stage Four cirrhosis of the liver. They have to go Monday to talk to her doctor. And best friend is worried that the prognosis will be unbearably dismal, that her mom will be given some sort of "time limit," in her words. "I just can't go. I just can't hear that," she sobbed over and over. To which all the inept, insufficient Elle could say was "You can go. You know how strong you are. She'll need you. I'll be home, too."

What could I say? This woman is my rock. We have been best friends since I was four and she was five. We're the two oldest and possibly tightest members of our pentagon--my group of Louisiana friends that includes her, my sister, my cousin T, my cousin J, and me. She has the most amazing knack for telling me how it is--whether I want to hear it or not--and still making me feel like I'm something special. Last year, when I began crying uncontrollably at the rehearsal for my parent's 35th wedding anniversary luau, she grabbed my face and said "What is it? You know I'm going to fix it for you." This year, when I started sleeping in my closet (because I needed the darkness), turning off the ringers on my phones, and readied myself to wallow in misery, she kept calling, kept fussing, kept loving. When I wailed, "What's wrong with me?" she snapped back, "Nothing, he's an insecure idiot." When I cried, "I'm never going toget this degree, never going to write this thing," she said, "Shut up and stop being lazy."

You see, she has spent almost 27 years saying the right thing at the right time to me. She has spent 27 years helping me fight my battles and "fixing" things for me. She's the type who can assure me in one breath that we're classy, smart, and above petty squabbles and in the next, threaten to handily kick the ass of anyone who even looks at me wrong. She is counselor, advocate, reality check, and friend rolled in one great package. In all these years, we've had two major arguments, many small disagreements, and lots of attitude. But always, always there's the bond, the love, the sisterhood--possible in part because she knows all my neuroses and loves me anyway.

And I am worried. In a general sense, because T's father (my uncle) died of complications from diabetes in 2002. J's father died 2 weeks ago. My own father seems to be having a lot of bad days now that the dialysis has begun. All of them are/were in their 50s. 50s! So I am worried in a large sense that health care and information for black people really is substandard and when we do get the info, we disregard it. J's father (and mine) continued to smoke. T's father refused to take his hypertension and diabetes meds which led to stroke and blindness and his spending his 40s in a nursing home. And even though we see this, live this, despair of this--the smallest member of the pentagon is J at a size 14. Not that large necessarily means unhealthy, but we are a mostly sedentary bunch. We get together and eat and go to movies and eat and talk and eat and plan outings and events and eat. I have no illusions we will ever be size 2s or even 8s--the four of us who are kin have large mamas, aunts, grandmothers, cousins, etc--but I do want us to be healthier.

But what I am worried about most immediately is that I will fail best friend LA in this hour of need. I do not have the words she has. I am the queen of sympathetic silences, handholding, and backrubbing. I don't think I've ever "fixed" one thing for her. Because she's so self-confident, I've never had to reassure her of her worth. The more I think about it, I'm scared she's going to evaluate this friendship one day and worry that one of us is giving more--I'm infinitely more needy than she is. But there are three things that I do for her, three things that may serve me well at this time. I make her laugh. And I love to hear her laugh while she chokes out, "Oh my God, Elle, you are going straight to hell for that." I listen and I hear her, even when I don't agree. And, I'm her "crying place," where she comes in those rare moments that it all gets to her. Like last night. Like I fear Monday will be.

Three little things that I'm hoping will be enough.

I'm Waiting...

For the usual things you guys know about--for my prince to come, spring break, the dissertation to write itself, and these extra pounds to magically disappear (though I have lost 13 lbs since January 27, thank you very much). But what I'm waiting on most is for people to get angry.

I mean, all the people I expect to be mad are. Quinn is. Angry Black Bitch stays that way. Bitch, PhD is peeved. Twisty Faster is in a lovely uproar. My best friend is caught somewhere between mad and profoundly sad. My sister has pronounced it a damned shame. These people I expect to be upset. I am familiar with their beliefs and politics on the subject.

But when does everyone else get mad that legislators are deciding that they have a right, based on their religious and/or misogynistic beliefs to control all women's reproductive systems? I get the e-mails from NARAL, see the coverage of South Dakota's "law" on the web, get the disgruntled calls from my friends. Again, all this is expected. What I'm waiting on is Ms. and Mr. Average America to stand up and say, "This goes too far. I'm tired of the conservative hypocrisy of claiming to want smaller government and less interference in our lives while agitating for control over people's bedrooms. I'm tired of them claiming to care about life of the 'unborn' but cutting and denigrating every social service they fear will help the already born. I'm tired of them insisting that every woman who has an abortion will be traumatized and psychologically damaged at some point. And I'm tired of them pretending that this is about protection when we all know this about punishing alleged sexual promiscuity and promoting the band-aid cure of heterosexual-marriage-and-nuclear-family for any problem that ails us."

Why isn't this happening, people? I do not believe the majority of Americans are anti-choice. Hell, I believe many in that camp are only anti-choice when it comes to other people's daughters, wives, nieces, etc. How far will they have to go before people are alarmed? Would we be more irate if they were threatening birth control--cuz they are you know? Would it be more offensive if they were telling us who to sleep with and when and under what circumstances to do so--cuz, yep, that's implied too. Would we be bothered a bit more if we knew that the only women they value are good Christians who "save" themselves for marriage--and that's a nice paraphrase.

So what is it going to take? What's going to make people realize that women's freedom is in jeopardy? When will we acknowledge that paying lip service to equality while doing everything to undermine it is wrong? When will people call the anti-choicers on their bluff.

Twisty, I'm with you on this one. I sooooo Blame the Patriarchy.

Told You So

Didn't I say that it would be March and I'd be scurrying on the next chapter and the blog would still be pink?

**Sigh**

Anyway, I just sent the incomplete chapter to my brilliant dissertater group. There is hope--their feedback from chapter 1 sent that thing from 12 stumpy pages to 30+ in a smaller font. I always like to turn in first drafts that are around 25 pages. Don't ask me why I get stuck on page numbers, I just do.

But, let me make a point. One of the silliest things I've ever done is stay isolated for so long while working on this degree. My advisor finally talked me into approaching my group (I knew all of them; they'd all been wonderful to me, but I was just so shy and so melodramatic--part of me wanted to feel alone in my suffering). They let me in :-) and, with their help, suggestions, and criticism, I've written more in a few months than I did the first three years of my program. I've also opened up to them more than I ever have to any therapist. And, you know what, highly-touted individualism aside...

Sometimes, it feels good to belong.

Why Quinn is THE Brain

So glad my girl said what I was thinking about South Dakota. Check her out.

Back to South Dakota

S.D. Governor Signs Abortion Ban Into Law

What else can I say right now?

That Thing We Take for Granted...

Yesterday, while idly flipping through blogs, I happened upon one called "and I wasted all that birth control" which chronicles one couples journey through infertility, loss of children, and worried excitement over a current pregnancy. From there, I read some other blogs with similar themes. Then, this morning, I read over at Quinn's that she had had an infertility diagnosis. The result--I feel like something on the bottom of a really old shoe. Not because I have a child when so many people who want one don't, but because I am so cavalier and complain-y about it.

You see, I never thought about getting pregnant, except how to prevent it. When we conceived the kid, I was haphazardly taking the pill--I figured I'd been on them so long I didn't really have to take them at the same time everyday--and daddy-of-the-kid swears he didn't remove the condom--something he'd done twice before in our then-year-long relationship, so who knows. Anyway, I was a super-regular every-28-day sort of girl, so when I was late, I knew immediately what was wrong (or right, I suppose). I didn't do much gnashing of teeth and wailing--I was in love, I already had a BA and was well into the MA program, my family would be supportive, and the best friend (I have two, btw) Louisiana edition proclaimed herself godmother from day one.

So I stumbled into motherhood with little drama. Except that made up in my own mind--I just knew my kid was going to have every birth defect I read about--and Elle being Elle, I read lots. Eventually, my godmother sat me down after my newborn's PKU stick (which I freaked over) and told me to get a grip. With the help of friends and family, I did. Truth be told, I had it wonderfully easy. My baby had a sweet temperament--very little crying. He wasn't ill often. He smiled a lot. My sister and cousin T got up with him in the middle of the night more than I did. Both sets of grandparents would babysit at a moment's notice. My mom, who still worked nights, provided child care for him while I TA'ed and went to school. When I began teaching, my mom's best friend took over the child care for the unbelievable sum of $30 per week. When we moved so I could work on the PhD, daddy-of-the-kid took on most of the hands-on-parenting.

And still I complained. I didn't like holding bottles and giving baths. I hated lugging around the carrier and car seat. Training took forever and then he was a bed wetter. He doesn't sit perfectly still for the few hours a day I have with him now. He asks a lot of questions, talks non-stop. His grades--4 Bs and 1 C+ last report card--and standardized tests--on which he scores just a little above average--show that he probably will have markedly different interests than his academia-loving mom (shallow as that is, it has been painfully hard for me). My point is that I complain about everything then mumble a little "God, thank you for my child," each night as if that is adequate enough for this wonderful gift that I was given.

And I think of who I do the complaining to. Quinn--though I didn't know about her diagnosis--who has to listen to me over lunch saying things like "Ugh, I don't want anymore," and "Why would anyone have more than two." Both best friends who did silly things like wait to get married/have stable committed relationships and have good jobs before they entered motherhood. So, they were in there late 20s and neither got pregnant on the first few tries. Knowing this, I still said to best friend Texas edition one day, "I'm glad we're older. Hopefully our fertility is declining." She gave me a rare, censorious look.

What reading through those blogs showed me is that, while I love my kid, I don't appreciate him. I don't appreciate being a mother. I don't appreciate the ease of my "unplanned" pregnancy. I give lip service to appreciating my support network, but I take it for granted. When I was 24, I would've had so much attitude if my parents had refused to babysit. The kid's father, to whom I can barely speak civil words, maintains a steady presence. And, this weekend, when I go home, I will barely see the kid because he is so loved and so missed that he'll spend almost each night of spring break at someone else's home. Someones who appreciate this beautiful, cheerful, talkative gift I have.

Poor, clueless Elle.

Sometimes...

...you wait all week for Saturday, and it turns out to be Monday in disguise. :-(

Tag--Updated

On one of the questions below, I said I'd take the weekend off. But I forgot about Nelly. Lord, who needs time off!! :-)

Tag...

Borrowed this from What An African Woman Thinks. Has anyone else noticed how much I love the ellipsis?
Black and White or Colour; how do you prefer your movies?
Color. Nothing at all sentimental about me.

What is the one single subject that bores you to near-death? Academically? Science. In the world? Trying to understand science/technology etc. My eyes start to roll towards the back of my head when people try to explain things to me and I get confused reading technical stuff. So if it's not something I can play with and figure out with a minimum of help, it's not for me.

MP3s, CDs, Tapes or Records: what is your favorite medium for prerecorded music? CDs. I hear about MP3s, Ipods and Nano-whatevers through a thick veil. I'm frightened of new stuff (and yes, I realize none of the above are new--just new to me) until best friend explains it all. I still use the 3.5 disks to save all my dissertation work--best friend was horrified, but my computer gives me problems when I try to save to CD-RWs. Honestly!

You are handed one first class trip plane ticket to anywhere in the world and ten million dollars cash. All of this is yours provided that you leave and not tell anyone where you are going … Ever. This includes family, friends, everyone. Would you take the money and ticket and run?
For 10 million dollars? Hell no. Not even for 10 billion dollars would I leave my family and friends for life. I'm way, way too attached. Now for a few months or a year, if my kid was grown, then, maybe. But I'd obsess that someone was going to die or get ill or get married or whatever while I was gone, so I'd forfeit, I'm sure.

Seriously, what do you consider the world’s most pressing issue now? Poverty and related issues like disease, famine, war, and ignorance. A close second--organized religion.

How would you rectify the world’s most pressing issue? I have no idea. I have some ideas about poverty in the U.S. which is absolutely ridiculous-- I think poor American should be an oxymoron. But in other countries that are just poverty-stricken on a grand scale, I'm clueless. Which is no excuse for my inertia.

You are given the chance to go back and change one thing in your life; what would that be?
Just One? I would have gone to see my grandmothers immediately when they called for me. I was too "busy" with my life, thought I had time. They both died shortly afterwards. Part of me will never make peace with the fact that I did that twice.
And I have to say, if it weren't for my kid, I would change the fact that his father and I threw our friendship away to pursue something else that worked out soooo horribly. :-(

You are given the chance to go back and change one event in world history, what would that be?
Imperialism. Which means there's be no Elle and no U.S., but imperialism/colonialism/domination and subjugation have wreaked havoc on the world's people. Of course, that's not one event. The assassination of Lincoln. Then the confederates may not have gotten off so easily and reclaimed power between 1877 and 1900. Southern blacks may have actually gotten a chance to participate fully in society.

A night at the opera, or a night at the Grand Ole’ Opry – Which do you choose?
Grand Ol' Opry. Since I'm a southerner, there's a chance I might at least understand the words there!

What is the one great unsolved crime of all time you’d like to solve?
I'd like to know who killed Tupac and Biggie. I don't necessarily believe the police don't know, but I'd like for everyone to know. Especially their moms.

One famous author can come to dinner with you. Who would that be, and what would you serve for the meal?
Jacqueline Jones. She set a pretty high standard for what I eventually hope to do (don't worry, ABD friends, I no longer think the dissertation is going to be groundbreaking). I don't know what I'd serve--probably have something catered. I'm old school in the sense that I take my cooking seriously and if you don't clean your plate, I'm slightly offended (ask my sister). So rather that get my feelings hurt, I'd call some nice restaurant up--once I knew what she liked.

You discover that John Lennon was right, that there is no hell below us, and above us there is only sky — what’s the first thing you might do to celebrate this fact?
OK, in the spirit of the question, I'll set my fire-and-brimstone indoctrination aside and think. Hmm. Invite Morris Chestnut, Henry Simmons, Boris Kodjoe, LL, and TI over on successive nights. I'd take the weekend off :-) Ooh, I'd also do something publicly humiliating to this person who has been bugging/harrassing/taunting me for almost a year now.

Ok, I tag Quinn, Rageyone, Mon, and Ginviren. Nubian, my other blogfriend, is out of town for happy reasons!

Blogging Differently

Really, when I started this, I had in mind the words of my best friend who envisioned me as an all-around political-commentator-stick-it-to-the-man-while-still-being-a-concerned-mother sort of writer.
Okay, I envisioned that, too.
Now, at three months old, I have to come clean about some things. The goal of this is to make me a better blogger, in the image that best friend and I first envisioned.

1) I'm not as political as I'd like to be--though I do know the five freedoms, sheesh! I don't watch the news reguarly, I hate newspapers because I hate clutter, and my TV stays off until 6 pm. My nerves can't take the noise. Thus, I will rarely have "this just in" posts. I promise to stay relatively current, however.
2) Last year, I found out I wouldn't be able to write my dissertation in my spare time while proceeding with my "real" life. I actually have to sit down and work on the thing and (here's the part that almost killed me) I have to do revisions! Elle, the queen of turning in first-drafts-as-final-drafts with little more than spell-and-grammar check! Though I love blogging and love reading other people's blogs even more, I have to unplug the dsl modem and give it to my sister for long stretches of time as a reminder of my writing priorities.
3) I don't know everything--that's a big concession. I don't even know how I feel about everything. For example, because I taught public school for 3+ years and subbed after that, I tend to be a bit **swallows a gasp** conservative on some education issues. I have yet to mae peace with that in my mind given my stance on so many other issues. I think the blog is incomplete because I don't write on views that I have that seem discordant. Maybe I'll blog on education soon and you'll see.
4) I'm lazy as hell. Good, insightful writing takes time, effort, and, in my case, tears (though not often). I read other blogs, particularly AngryBlackBitch and am blown away by what is said and how succinctly and effectively it is said. Later, I console myself. Not sure when later comes.

But just when I'm feeling my guiltiest, I realize something else. I don't want this to be solely a political blog. I almost wrote an entry the other day about my funny experience in a MAC store--but stopped because I wondered how it would affect my image. But I've decided that I need to be honest. Yes, I am a damned good student who spends too much time in the library. Yes, I identify myself proudly as a feminist. But I am also someone who spends way too much money on clothes and cosmetics, who sometimes questions her skills at mothering, who doesn't always live up to the goals of feminism. I am a horrible friend sometimes because I just shut myself away. I cuss so much that we had to start a gallon-sized pickle jar for my change. And I wonder if the women I study, who so earnestly want their stories told, don't deserve a better narrator.
So there I am. Maybe my blog can reflect that, the real multi-dimensional Elle. I'll write about my views on education and why I shop too much and this horrible dinosaur book my son brought home.
In the end, hopefully, the blog will be like me: good and bad, flawed but fortunate enough to be loved by many.

For Annika...

Because I am incredibly lazy and because this story touches my heart, I present a plea stolen verbatim from Quinn's blog. Annika Tiede is a five-year-old in need of a third liver transplant, the result of a rare ailment. Her family is raising money because (in my own simplistic terms) their health insurance has already paid everything it's gonna pay this year.

Some you have probably already heard about Annika here or here or maybe here. Either way, know ye that there is need, and we can help. How many times have we started a sentence with "the great thing about the internet is..."? Well, here's a great thing the internet is doing. Blogging communities are getting together to provide donations and other assistance to a family in need. Of course, you can donate. But there are more ways to help. Do you want to buy a crafty gift for someone special? Do you make crafty gifts for special someones? Then check out the raffle. Or you can make a virtual casserole for Annika's family. And let's hope there will always be cake.

I'm going to see if I can get one of her links in my sidebar. I'm also going to hug my kid, who's greatest problem is remembering to regroup when he's doing subtraction.

A Cyber Twin

A few days ago, while using technorati to find out who was linked to me in this wide, wonderful blogosphere :-p, I found a blog called Random Thoughts owned by one ginviren. She describes herself as "a quiet person who is also opinionated." I could do nothing except smile when I read that--she described Elle in a nutshell. I know it's hard to believe, but I really am shy. Really. As in awkwardly so. That's why this blog is so helpful.

Anyway, welcome, ginviren. Glad to know there's someone here in Texas that's a bit like me.