A Red Car and The Green Light

You know, it's a d-a-m-n shame when you have to wrack your brain to figure out what you do for fun. But rather than dwell on the somewhat isolating activity that's occupying much of my time lately (ahem), I'm going to take you back a decade or so, in honor of Blog for Radical Fun Day.*

If you know anything about me by now, you know that I am from the country. And not a gently rolling area outside a major city. Nuh-uh. I mean the kind of country where I know intimately my cousins 23 times removed, picked my share of purple hull peas, and had a graduating class of 32. And being that my hometown is a proud place that tries to live up to all the stereotypes of rural places, we had our very own hole-in-the-wall club. It was called the Green Light.

And while I had been clubbing a couple of times in large cities and in the college towns close to hometown, there was nothing in the world so wonderful, so worthy of all-week anticipation, so much fun as Saturday night at the Green Light. Now, were you to cast your eye upon this marvel during the daytime, you'd raise your eyebrow and re-think your characterization of elle as a sensible woman. For it is nothing much to look at under the glare of the sun, a small wooden building, tilting precariously to one side, that makes Harpo and Sophia's juke joint look palatial.

But oh, at night, and on Saturday nights in particular, we packed that place with an enthusiasm never before seen... except on the previous Saturday nights. We stepped on each others' feet. We bumped each others' hips. We frequently had to escape outside for fresh air. Yet, the Green Light maintained a mysterious aura that made it seem the hottest spot in all the South.

Indeed, so deliciously overwhelming was the experience of the Green Light, that you could not go in unprepared. No! There was a ritual Sis, Cousin T (whom I shall call Trinity), and I observed on Saturday nights. There were preparations during the week sometimes, if the party had a theme--hurried jaunts to Lane Bryant and the hair salon, inspections of the supply of lip glosses and liners--but the Saturday night ritual began around 6. On cue, one of us would turn on the CD player. Blackstreet, Biggie, Tupac, UGK, Xscape, some old Dr. Dre, circulated for the next four hours. We took turns bubble-bathing in our one tub and yelling directions at whoever was ironing clothes that night.

Every once in a while, we'd stop to hype ourselves up by singing along: "Looking for that good stuff, da-da-da-da-daaaaa-da, Tighten up on that back stroke," or "If you take your love away from me, I'll go crazy," or, for a minute, "Every time I see your face it makes me wanna sing and every time I think about your love it drives me, Crazy." You see, Trinity and I didn't drink yet, and so these mini-concerts helped keep us pumped, helped keep the hearts pounding, while we were getting ready.

And then the donning of the carefully selected, group approved outfit. We'd wonder aloud, "Does this look right? Tell the truth. Don't have me lookin a damn fool!" But that was a rhetorical exercise. One glance in the mirror was the ultimate affirmation. I had a level of conceit matched only by... well, Trinity and Sis's conceit. We were pretty in three different ways and couldn't no one tell us shit! Thus we'd exit the house and climb into my car, a 1991 red Mercury Cougar.

I loved that car with a passion that has yet to burn within me for my later automobiles. They simply do not have the heart, the strength, the ability to take a beating that the Cougar had. It was a hand me down from my dad and when it finally gave up the ghost, it had almost 300,000 miles. That car lived through accidents, haphazard driving, and constant overload.

But I digress. We'd drive the 6 miles to the Green Light, wheedle our way in for free or grudgingly hand over the $5. And then, it was on. For most of my life, when it comes to dancing, I have been a wallflower. But not at the Green Light. I danced. I laughed. I flirted. I had much attitude when the occasion called for it, like when best friend Louisiana and I were slow dancing next to each other one night (she with her now-hubby, don't remember my partner) and some girl came up to her and acted like she was going to slap her. In an act of beautiful fluidity and grace, BF LA and I swung on her at the same time. Alas, I did not get to earn any fighting cred right then; BF LA ended the debacle by throwing the offender into a table. And then we kept dancing.

And there was also Big Ferg, the best friend of DJ Quiet Storm, who would get on the microphone and admonish wallflowers, "If you scared, go to church." When a song came on that my girls and I loved, he'd tell Quiet Storm to turn down the music so the whole club could listen to us sing. Horribly. But with so much enthusiasm and none of our usual self-consciousness.

We loved the Green Light for another reason--it gave us the opportunity to rub something in the cops' face. They harass any black club in the area and they hated when the Green Light was open. They'd come make sure every single car was parked in the too-small lot, not too close to the road--in which case they'd gleefully ticket or tow. But for the most part, all they could do was sit and wait, hoping for a brawl, or a gunshot, or a drunk driver. We used to go outside and stick our tongues out and flip them off. They'd act like they didn't see.

But one night, they set up a checkpoint. Big Ferg was on probation and didn't have a driver's license. So, Sis agreed to drive him home in Quiet Storm's car. Turns out, the car's brakes were shot. They ran into a ditch and Big Ferg rolled over onto Sis. Now, Big Ferg was 5'5" and about 450lbs. Sis remembers that he apologized profusely while he was on top of her and all she could say was, "Mmph." That was so funny to us then and now, in light of later events, it is really a sweet memory.

Then after the club, since I was still firmly ensconced in my ability-to-stay-up-all-night years, we'd climb into the Cougar, usually six or seven of us by then, and ride the 22 miles to the nearest "city." We'd converge upon the Huddle House or, much more fun, the Texaco, for a late night breakfast. Yes, I said Texaco. Yes, we have delis in our gas stations--makes up for the lack of fast food franchises. A controlled (after all, we had house training and the parents weren't coming to get us out of jail for bad behavior) afterparty would ensue. And just about dawn, I'd collapse into bed, too tired to take off my makeup or my bra. But I'd have sweet dreams.

So that is what a early-twenty-something country girl did for fun. Any other day, I might have been too embarrassed to tell you.

But, oh, never underestimate the lure of a Red Car and a Green Light.

Lord, I'm Feeling It Today...

..fat, that is. And not for any reason like my pants won't fit or something.

Ok, promise not to fuss. I know I publicly swore off radio stations a while ago, but I was weak this week--I've been having the Hooked on Phonics Multiplication CD in my car since Christmas and I'm tired of it.

But anyway, witness godforsaken Station #1: Last night, they apparently had people call in who were basically saying, "I'm fat and I'm proud," or "I'm not ashamed." Okay. But then the DJs suggested that, since they had fat people representing, "Are there enough anorexics and bulimics who could call in and represent?" To which they all laughed and one guy said, "Nah, man, they're probably too weak from throwing up dinner." And the original DJ said, "I'm just saying, since anorexics and bulimics are the opposite of being fat."

Mmph.

Horrible Station #2: Topic for the morning? How do you feel about fat people? Chosen because one listener called in and complained about how she was sick of seeing fat people at buffets with three or four plates. And that she was tired of fat people because they were lazy and they stink. And I thought, my God, what other group could you get on the radio and say this about and have the hosts laugh?* I turned it in the middle of one girl, obviously young, who called in with tears in her voice to defend herself, "I'm fat and I don't stink. I make sure I shower everyday." I really felt sorry for her.

But really, this time, I am through. Multiplication facts never sounded so good.
____________________
Of course these are people who noted on air that the "gay brigade" was going to be after Isaiah Washington. And once the woman host thought about that, she appended, "But I love the gay brigade."

Belated Demand to De-lurk

Because I am still cold and irritable, I am demanding that anyone who stops by regularly but doesn't comment, please do so. Yes, I know I'm over a week late, but really, it's me. Did you expect differently?

I don't think I really have lurkers--I recognize most of the cities or ISPs of the people who come here. But I do have at least one that I'd love to meet--someone from my university who checks in once a week or so. De-lurk posthaste so I don't inadvertently talk about you to your face. :-)

Despite my irritability, I promise to be kind and welcoming--school is cancelled for the kids, which means I didn't have to get up on my day off, go out in the cold, and drop them off. But I'm still awake!!

Though that will be remedied shortly.

How to Piss elle Off When She's Already Sleepy and Cold

...fuck with the kids. Seriously, I checked my e-mail today and one AOL headline was "Why Didn't Boy Try to Escape?" a reference to Shawn Hornbeck.

I get a particularly nasty attitude when people ask this of battered women (because just leaving, you know, is so easy to do). But when assholes start asking it of kids?

I get sick to my stomach.

He is a child who had to depend on this man for everything. Everything. And who knows what the bastard may have been telling him? Who knows how terrified he was at what might happen to him, to people he loved, if he tried to escape? So what if he had internet access and a phone? If you've been in a violent or abusive situation, you know escaping is more about what is in your mind than all the routes available to you.

I hate this question, because it has the suspicious smell of victim blaming. There is an implication that "It must not have been too bad," or "He must have liked something," or somehow, an 11-year-old child was in collusion with his abductor.

I hope they focus this much on the damned kidnapper's motives.

Carnivals

Three Carnivals. The resultant likelihood of elle getting any academic work done on this cold, rainy day... mmm... approximately 0%. But if I read up now, I'll be good the rest of the week, promise.

First, at abyss2hope, the Carnival against Sexual Violence. One highlight:

In How to tell a rape victim posted at F-Words, we get Sara's story of her experience with date rape, and how the "fate worse than death" idea kept her from recognizing it as rape because it hadn't completely broken her.

I think I know how Sara feels--in my case I took it to the point of, "Since I'm still functioning, working, writing, was I really raped?"

Next, at Working, Writing, Wailing Mama (that really should've been my name), there is the Carnival of Gradual Progress. What I need to check out posthaste:

check out the strategies for productivity provided by Jim Gibbon on overcoming procrastination and developing personal productivity. StyleyGeek gives another great roundup of such strategies here. (And don't forget to check the comment threads for more input on how the strategies are working for others.)

Finally, the 46th edition of the History Carnival is up at Investigations of a Dog. The carnival links to dcat who posted Reductio Ad Kingum. An excerpt:

But King stood for some fairly specific things in his life, and his legacy deserves more than simply to serve as a pillar of virtue for whoever can hastily utter his name first, irrespective of whether that invocation bears scrutiny.

which sounds vaguely* related to what I may have been trying to say in the post below.
_____________________
vague on my part, not dcat's

On Martin, Metaphors, and Mohandas

Happy Birthday, Dr. King! God bless his memory. And Happy King Holiday, readers!

Okay, lots to say and I lack the finesse, the right words to say it--but I'm saying it anyway.

As a historian, and one who absolutely loves the study of the post-World War II U.S., I am always amazed by how we use Dr. King as a metaphor. He is, at once, a synonym to the Civil Rights Movement, the influence of the black church, and positive black manhood. Now, while none of those is a bad thing, they don't leave much room for him as a person; one who didn't spring from somewhere as a full-fledged leader, but whose life experiences shaped and--the part the metaphor most obscures--continually changed his philosophies.

As a mom to a school-aged child, I understand the usefulness of the metaphor. You can explain to children the bare bones of segregation, as "white people and black people couldn't...", but answering the question of, "why did it change?" is a lot more difficult. So you pull out the King metaphor, highlight it with a touch of school segregation (to make it relevant!) a dash of Rosa Parks and a smidge of "I Have a Dream" and voila! They get it.

Somewhat. You see, we can tell King's life in a very linear fashion, where it makes sense that point A (alternately his birth to a preacher and teacher OR the incident in which he was told he could no longer play with his white friends) led to point Z (usually identified as the March on Washington). My nephew has absorbed the metaphor quite well. His one minute rendition of Jim Crow and it's demise: "When he was a little boy, he played football with his friends and two of 'em were white and then they said they couldn't play with him anymore and he was upset. So, when he got big, he had a dream And so, before Dr. King, white people and black people couldn't play together and after Dr. King, they could." And we nod our heads and think, that will suffice.

Unfortunately, we remain content to let that suffice for far too long. To a point where people become resistant to learning anything else. And no, I'm not throwing up my hands and lamenting the fact that, "All they know is MLK!" I want them to know MLK and other people, too. But I also want my son to know more than names and big events. I want him to understand that segregation wasn't just about separation--it wasn't just that white and black kids couldn't play together, but that there is a whole ideology of superiority and inferiority coded into that separation. And I want him to understand about grassroots activities, especially the roles women played as organizers. I think this history is too important to be understood solely as a metaphor.

I have a person-as-metaphor left over from my childhood, too. It is centered around Mohandas Ghandi, whom I know primarily in terms of Dr. King's adherence to non-violent protest. Thus, I admire Ghandi from afar, as the securer of India's freedom (ah, metaphor) and an influence on the CRM. I have this quote by him appended to my e-mail signature:

What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name of totalitarianism or the holy name of liberty or democracy?

And because I understand Ghandi in simplistic, metaphorical terms, I was content to quote him.

But, one of the friends I e-mail regularly is Jewish, and last night, she sent me this

You might want to rethink quoting Gandhi. I discovered that Gandhi recommended, when Hitler started imposing discriminatory laws against the Jews in the 1930s, that all German Jews commit suicide. After the war, when challenged, he stuck to his recommendation!

Thus, in the weeks since she has learned this, her metaphor of Ghandi, which was similar to mine, has changed. And because I am trapped in thinking not of Ghandi, but of what I was taught about Ghandi, I am really disturbed.

And On That Note...

...I'm logging off for the night. H/T Meagan.

You Are 63% Addicted to the Internet

In your opinion, life without the internet is hardly worth living. Could be, but you probably need a bit more fresh air and sunshine to think clearly.

Are You Addicted to the Internet?

Four Songs I Have on Repeat This Weekend.

Really. I cannot stop listening to 'em. Since Friday night!

A Rose Is Still a Rose by Aretha Franklin (Irreplaceable is like a later version of this song's message).
Until You Come Back to Me by Aretha.
First Love by Goapele.
Backstroke by Teedra Moses.

Every couple of hours, I throw in Maroon 5's Pure Imagination. I hate when I get stuck like this.

Saturday Family Blogging-Basketball Edition

Okay, so it's Sunday. I started it last night. The kids are in a basketball league. A few shots from game day:

Sis and son after his team's win.

BF TX and son. She's not standing, so y'all can't see how disgustingly cute she is pregnant.

The Kid and my reluctant godson, pre-game.

Trying not to look smug in victory.

help... weak... need... food

So, Sis and I are waiting anxiously to go out to dinner. But since I struck a deal with the devils last night, we can't.

See, the kids get to watch TV Friday and Saturday night. They'd made big plans to watch Jump In on Disney last night. But, I had errands to run and Sis was out so they had to go with me. I promised they could watch it tonight.

**sigh**

Around 7:40, I gave up the battle and started watching it with them. KeKe Palmer reminds me so much of my sister, so I have a soft spot for her. And Corbin Bleu is taking over the role the lead character in High School Musical played--boy who tries to do something labeled decidedly non-manly and is harrassed for it.

My first impression? Damn, it's bad enough 99% of the Disney cartoons have main characters with dead and missing moms; must Corbin's mom be dead, too? What is it about us mamas that's so horrible and prohibitive-of-character-development?

Saturday Family Blogging

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

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

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

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

And some of our boys.

Two of my gifts.

More in July.

January 13, 1913

Delta Sigma Theta.

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

**sigh**

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

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

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

We are the ladies,

Of Delta Sigma Theta,

Everyone knows,

There's no one greater!

Elegance, Intelligence,

You know we are live.

We are the new Deltas

Spring 95.*

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

_______________________

*Lord, I'm old!!!

Cue Mighty Mouse Theme

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

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

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

What will our intrepid superheroine conquer next?

Literature

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three Things (Thing One)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Research Dilemma (Thing Two)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just a Hat Tip (Thing Three)

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

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

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

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

Why My Sister Does Better Recaps than the News

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

elle: "Mm-hmm."

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

elle: "Girl, for real?"

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

Things I'd Miss...

...if my life were any other way.

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

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

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

Writing Exercises

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

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

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

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

That is all.

The Giving Tree

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

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

Wait, It Is the 21st Century, Right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Toying with the Blogroll

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

Things...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good News

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

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

I LOVE BABY SHOWERS.

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

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

So BF Texas start thinking...

Another Thought...

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

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

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

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

100 Facts about Elle (17)

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

***image removed***

Miss Celie's Blues

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

borrowed from nubian.

Resolutions

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

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

A whole one-and-a-half pounds!

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

Wish Me Luck!

On two things:

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

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

Is that a valid New Year's resolution?

Dilemma

So, I've been thinking about this post in which I worried aloud about my son. And I'm cringing as I think about how narrowly and traditionally I've defined success. I think it's part of a problem I have--believing one thing politically and acting out in a totally contradictory way. IOW, my efforts to think outside the box leave a lot to be desired.

For example, Quinn writes some about her adventures in gender free parenting. That is also a goal of mine, but one in which I fail miserably. I had a little girls' sleepover recently. When I was planning it, I honestly thought, "Oh, we'll do some 'fun' stuff like polish their nails and give mini-facials." I'd even picked up four pots of sparkly lip gloss before I thought, "What the hell are you doing?" We ended up coloring, watching a movie, and eating lots of popcorn. But I was tempted.

Just like I am when I shop and I buy more things for my four year old goddaughter than my own son. "It's more fun to shop for girls," I whine, "All you can do for boys is buy jeans and shirts!" But now I'm thinking, what am I modeling for her? Where is all the feminist theory in practice?

There are many more examples of my being a contradictory hypocrite. Why can I talk the talk, but struggle to walk the walk? If it was just with myself, I wouldn't be so troubled. But I worry that I'm helping bring up a whole new generation in a patriarchy-conforming manner.

Goodbye?

The end of the year has also brought some not-so-welcome endings--nubian's done. As are BfP and BlackAmazon. As a WoC, feminist*, woman, I am mourning the loss of their input. I want to say I understand, and I do on some level. But then again, I don't understand what it's like to be out there, brave and bold and constantly put on the defense. Just fierce.

Because I am non-confrontational; I disengage; I run when the fire gets too hot. I can retreat here and say, ha-ha-ha, isn't my kid the cutest? or I saw this movie! or wow, I'm so caught up in my dissertation, I can't focus on much else! You see, I have the courage of my convictions, but little courage in my words and beliefs on so many issues. So, no, I don't understand much.

But I know it must get tiring to hear how what you're doing or saying is off and wrong, that you're too sensitive, to be constantly dismissed by people who, on the surface, would appear to be allies. And I know it must get old to have someone come to your site, all demurely, and comment "with respect" then run back to her place and say that you and your regular commenters

"haven’t evidenced they have even begun to think deeply around issues of transgender as they relate to feminism and gender, in general, but who hold the erroneous belief that they have; relentlessly mischaracterize and misunderstand my and other radical feminist views; reject what I say out of hand before I can say it, most of the time and reassert all of the above instead of evidencing any interest in actually communicating"

(and that's just the beginning--or middle, maybe). I tried to think of a nice academic term for that, but I'ma have to call it what we call it around here:

Two-faced. Throwing rocks and hiding your hands. And one thing I do understand,

That shit can wear you out real fast.
____________________
*not sure that term fits exactly

Dreamgirls

We went to see it Wednesday. Whatever you've heard--good, bad, mixed--trust me:

Hearing "And I Am Telling You" ripped like that--that alone is worth the ticket price!

Diabetes

My seventeen-year-old niece is feeling out of sorts--she's diabetic and so she's a little worried. My dad has gotten up from his nap to check her blood sugar on his glucometer. They are having a soft discussion--this is part of their everyday lives. She's being characteristically bossy: "Be careful, PaPa," "Make sure it doesn't really hurt me, PaPa," "No this is how you do it, PaPa." He's saying, "Child, you bout to have to do it yourself," "Quit messin' up my strips, girl!" "Hurry up!"

And she's immediately apologetic; she wants him to help her. My sixteen-year-old niece is standing behind her, holding her hand, so that she doesn't jerk it when my dad uses the lancet.

During the course of the conversation, we've discovered that she has no kind of insurance. She was covered by my brother's (her father's) health insurance until recently. Then, some one in the payroll department called him in to ask why he didn't pay child support for her--when he does for her other siblings. He revealed that she is not biologically his. And they told him that he could be in trouble for fraud because his insurance had covered her all these years since the divorce. Isn't that bullshit? And her mom, who's a nurse working 70-80 hours a week at two jobs, makes too much for her to get medicaid. We've had this child since my brother and her mom got back together (they had one child, broke up, she had another child, then they got back together, got married and had two more kids); she wasn't even one. She's most emphatically ours--and I resent BCBS taking it upon themselves to accuse him of fraud.

But anyway, she's not getting the checkups she needs. And she knows it and worries about it. That is why she got my dad out of bed--she takes comfort in his knowledge, even as they argue over the best way to check her levels and types of insulin and if he really knows how to use the glucometer.

Sharing, apparently, makes it better.

The Spirit Is Willing but...

...the flesh is weak. As an aside, best friend Louisiana thinks that quote is hilarious each time I say it--I've heard it in church for decades now, so I don't get her amusement.

Anyway, I don't know what the hell my dad has signed up for, but we now get Blender, Forbes, the NYT, and some hunting and fishing magazines. I asked him a while back, "Blender?" "I don't know," he said.

So, today there's a card in the mail. He looks at it, laughs, and reads to me, "12 issues for $12."

"Mmm," I say. He smiles again. "I could take that," he says, "But I don't suppose the good Lord wants me to." "What is it?" I ask.

"Playboy."

"Well," I say, "God probably wants you to stay informed. Lots of people read it for the articles."

My daddy laughed in my face, y'all.

Irony

After a drizzly, dismal, cold, ear-achy Christmas, today's all bright and crisp.

Hmph!

I Don't Have A Title

And don't feel like thinking of one. So there!

Today is my maternal grandmother's birthday. She would've been 87. Tuesday is the anniversary of her death. She's been gone 12 years. Christmas is bittersweet for my mom--some years, she only goes through the motions--you can tell her heart isn't in it. But time is making it better.

I find myself recalling the strangest things about my grandmother (Mam-maw). She called earrings, "earbobs." She had a fierce attitude. And she may have been the greatest cook in southern history. I'm not just saying that cuz she's my grandma--people came from all over the area to eat her cooking. Her house was the first stop any out of town relatives made. And while my mom and some of my older cousins and aunts are no slouches when it comes to soul food, I've never tasted anything like her cooking. She made everything from entrees to dessert from scratch. I remember her mixing German Chocolate and pound cakes by hand--she only used mixers when she got older and tired easily. I think that's a big part of the reason that so many of our non-holiday family get-togethers are still centered around food--woe to my hips and thighs.

I've finished my Christmas shopping--it has reinforced my determination to have no more children. I have one child, four godchildren (yes, I have a new one!), seven nieces and nephews, and a slew of young cousins. So I'm a sucker for a sale. With an age range of 6 months to 19 years, one of the children is bound to be able to wear it! But I've given up feeling guilty about being a shopaholic for the kids--some things just never change.

Anyway, I'm finally getting in the exhausted-thank-God-this-comes-once-a-year frame of mind.

Back on the topic of food (one of my favorites :-), let me sketch the anatomy of a rural Louisiana Christmas dinner. As I type, my mom is boiling chicken for dressing, baking a pound cake, and searching for "old meat" for her purple hull peas. I've decided to make a cheesecake from scratch, some macaroni and cheese, and a broccoli-rice casserole. The greens, ham, and hot water cornbread (none of my city friends know what that is--I'll explain one day!) will come from my cousin T and her mom and sister. My other aunt will make a roast and pecan pie. Several someones will invariably bake sweet potato pies. There's bound to be a chocolate cake, a lemon pie, and some chocolate pies. Someone will bake or fry chicken. And, I fear, that is just the beginning. We will scramble to find other, more distant relatives to feed because we make way too much (and vow every year to cut back) for our relatively small family. Then, we'll exchange gifts, play cards or dominoes, take the kids outside to try the new stuff (that will last approximately to New Year's), and talk. And laugh.

And somewhere amidst the way too full, so damned broke, and God, I'm stressed, I will think about how blessed I am. To have food to share and people to talk to and family who loves me and a million children swarming and both my parents living and a sister who's my best friend and a child who's healthy and a house to gather in and just so much!

And I'll realize that the hurried grace I said before dinner is not nearly enough.

What I've Been Doing

1. First and foremost, being extraordinarily lazy. I realized Saturday that I didn't even put a bra on all day. TMI, but true.
2. Going to high school basketball games in which the kids I taught in elementary school make up the teams. Reality Check!
3. Accompanied best friend Louisiana, who's the cheerleader sponsor for my old high school, on a trip to take the cheerleaders to the mall. Since my 16 and 17 year old nieces are on the squad, I got to spend time annoying them.
4. Reacquainting myself with Rachael Ray, Paula Deen, and Ina Garten. Boy, do I have big plans for Christmas dinner--southern, sophisticated, and done in under 30 minutes. Oh, and using as many full pounds of real butter as possible.
5. Grumbling and groaning and looking at my chapters to begin an exercise Advisor has asked me to complete.
6. Interviewed the ESL co-ordinator for the parish and some parents with whom she works.
7. Made plans to travel to another Texas city to visit archives that will (help) fill in the history of the union I'm studying. Dragging best friend Louisiana and my sister along, kicking and screaming. Apparently, I'm going to owe them big.
8. Got my hair washed and set on big rollers. It's quite cute. I'm always amazed--the woman that does my hair here is usually finished in under two hours. The guy that does my hair in Texas takes at least four--we've become quite good friends because I share so much of my life with him.
9. Being pleasantly annoyed by my parents. I can't explain that one.
10. SHOPPING! And not even for myself **noted smugly.**

I Gotta Leave Y'all with Something Cute...

...as I prepare to depart this place, never again to see it in the year 2006. That's the plan, at least. Anyway, witness my godson, far left, at his school's Christmas pageant. Apparently, he had to warm up to the idea.

Happy Holidays, y'all (you don't need the whole "blogging will be light" spiel, do you?)

And happy birthday, nubian.

It's the Most Wonderful Time...

Grading is DONE. This semester is over. We meet tomorrow to discuss, to decide who might need a little mercy (if someone has a 79, but came to class everyday and showed progress over the course of the semester, then s/he might get a B- instead of a C+), and to take our stuff to the registrar.

I am deliriously... sleepy.

Louisiana Politics (or Why I'm Mad at William Jefferson)

"Here's to no longer biting our tongues!" said a brilliant woman I know. In the spirit of that declaration, I just have to write hastily about one William Jefferson.

I don't know much about the Jefferson case; anyway you look at it $90,000 frozen dollars is a bit troublesome, especially given the allegations of past issues. But I'm mad at him. Yes, for the obvious reasons--because he's black and from Louisiana and a Democrat. Trust me, black Louisianans had (and apparently have) a lot of hope and pride tied up in this guy.

But you know why I'm really mad at him?

Jefferson was born in Lake Providence, a small town in East Carroll Parish in far northeastern Louisiana, where he and his eight brothers and sisters worked alongside their father, who was a sharecropper and a heavy-equipment operator for the Army Corps of Engineers.
Though neither of his parents had graduated from high school, Jefferson graduated from G.W. Griffin High School in Lake Providence and received a bachelor's degree from Southern University... He later earned a law degree from Harvard University in 1972.

The child of grade school drop-outs, sharecroppers, William Jefferson is probably a "first." Part of the first generation in his family to reap the benefits of civil rights struggles, to go to college (an Ivy, no less), to escape. Not to downplay what he means to his constituents, but can you imagine what his successes mean to his family and community?

I am a "first" myself. And I can't tell you how many people in my hometown expressed pride in me when I was working on my BA. How many elderly people came up to me in church or at the store and pressed soft, wrinkled dollar bills in my hand--a little something to take back to school with me. They used to make me stand there while they rummaged in their bosom, or reached for a safety pin that held money to the inside of their dresses, or dug slowly in faded backpockets for crumbling wallets. They were praying for me, they'd say, and they knew I'd be fine.

Or how often my hairdresser, who'd been doing my hair since I was a six-year-old getting a press and ponytail, waved away my payment and told me to "Save it for a book or something you might need." Or the number of little "scholarships"--like the one from the Parents' Civic and Social Club or the church education fund--that helped me buy books or eat off-campus or make a trip to the store. These people had a vested interest in me, much as I'm sure Jefferson's community had an interest in him.

Moreso than I, Jefferson comes from rural poverty. In 1990, for example, Lake Providence was the poorest commmunity in the nation--not just in Louisiana, which is something in and of itself, but in the whole damned country. I can't believe he's not some kind of symbol, a source of pride, proof that there is a way out of Lake Providence. His story, his legacy, means something to those people.

If he is guilty of wrongdoing, that is a lot to throw away, a lot to forsake. No one, not even firsts, can live their lives for other people; after all, people take a chance if they choose to live through you--God knows I've disappointed some. But I don't think there's anything wrong with realizing that, in the eyes of your community, you represent much more than yourself. I can't help thinking that ignoring that makes you a bit selfish.

That's why I'm mad at William Jefferson.

Protect Darfur Women from Abuse and Genocide

Just got this from our Women's Studies Department:

Dear Friends,

I have just read and signed the petition: "Protect Darfur Women from Abuse and Genocide."

Please take a moment to read about this important issue, and join mein signing the petition. It takes just 30 seconds, but can truly make a difference. We are trying to reach 100,000 signatures - please sign here: http://www.thepetitionsite.com/takeaction/532375082

Once you have signed, you can help even more by asking your friendsand family to sign as well.

Thank you!

Please stop by The Petition Site. And for news about the Darfur genocide and what you can do, please regularly visit Daily Darfur.

Sunday Drive

But about the drive mentioned below...

After seeing numerous instances of Rudolph grazing from the manger and Santa Claus bearing frankincense or myrrh and the reindeer being guided by a star in the east, I have to mention this piece of advice.

Please encourage your neighbors to keep their decorations consistent. Secular or religious. Religious or secular. Nativity or North Pole.

There is no such thing as a "nice combination" of both.

The Visit

So today, the kids, my sister and I drove to the halfway point between here and my hometown to pick up my mother. My brother and sister-in-law drove her there. She's off from work unexpectedly for at least a week--plant management delayed telling them so that they couldn't look into unemployment insurance (that Bo Pilgrim; he really is the consummate Christian). From what I gather, the employees with younger children are worried--they live paycheck to paycheck and were, of course, planning to buy Christmas gifts with the checks they get over the next two weeks. This, combined with the fact that the local Wal-Marts no longer have lay-a-way, is proving quite devastating to a number of hopefully-penned Christmas lists.

But I digress. My sister noted on the way up there, "You know this means we have to spend three weeks instead of two with her." "I know," I said, "But she'll be cool out here."

My mom is going through some sort of anxiety/depression/paranoia/OCD thing that she refuses to take medicine for because she doesn't want people to think she is crazy. In the meantime, she gets stuck on one issue and goes on and on and on. Tonight my damned brother gave her fuel--he had a little accident in her car and her driver side mirror got knocked off. She mentioned it approximately 20 times in the less-than-three-hours it took us to get back here. And each time Sis dug in my ribs or punched my thigh or glared at me. Sorry, damn!

And now, it's become a religious issue as she doesn't "want to question God," but she's wondering "why things keep happening." Which kind of irked me because this is so trivial. I want to say, "Mama, there are a million things you could question God about, but a side mirror?" But I do know everything is magnified and worsened in her mind so I'm keeping quiet and listening. Even as she's lying down and repeating, wishfully, "I hope I can get some sleep. I hope this doesn't ruin my trip. I hope my mind eases." We're going to talk to her again about therapy and medication. One day, we hope it works.

So Close to Home

Back in the days when I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life (as if I do now), I spent two quarters in an MA program for counseling psychology. At this university, psychology was part of the college of education, so I had an assistantship working in the dean's office. During my time there, one student, who had a sizable fellowship, abruptly quit school. The dean decided that the remaining funds would be held until another time.

Until she met Lily.

Lily was a determined Ed.D. student who'd heard about the other student and decided that she would apply, unsolicited, for the remainder of the fellowship funds. She came into our office everyday, polite but firm, insisting that the funds would be well-invested in her, that she would graduate. She also sent a letter (that I read while filing, of course) pointing out her academic and work records and how determined she was to get this degree. Everyday, while I sat behind the desk, she sat in a chair and talked to me, waiting for a glimpse of the dean, eager to plead her case in person. "I'm going to get this," she'd tell me. "They might as well put that money to good use." We'd chat until the dean surfaced, at which time Lily would pounce upon her with enviable agility, her voice full of equal parts southern sweetness and resolve. She was a steel magnolia in action, confident, capable, proud.

She got that fellowship. And I left the college of education. Three years later, at the same ceremony in which my sister received her B.A., Lily got her Ed.D. Good, I thought, and let her slip from my mind.

Some time after that, I saw her at a restaurant. She hugged me and I teased her, "You put that money to good use." "Mm-hmm," she said, "But I don't know how good!" We were from the same parish and she was now teaching there--an experience I'd already had, so I knew exactly what she meant.

A few minutes ago, best friend Louisiana called, bringing what I thought would be a welcome respite from typing and deleting, typing and deleting. Earlier tonight, some of the parish teachers met at a local restaurant for dinner. Lily's sister, also a teacher, was there (Lily stopped teaching for the parish last year). Best friend's principal had called to tell her, not ten minutes after best friend left the dinner, Lily's sister got a call to pick up her mom and go to the hospital.

Lily had had a car accident.

Lily died, y'all. Lily. Three years older than I, determined, smart, funny, mother-to-a-small-child, wonderful Lily. Lily, who probably had short-term Christmas plans. Lily, who I know had long-term professional plans.

Lily, Lily, Lily

Co-opting the Language

A few days ago, Maya at blackademics.org, wrote about how the makers of Equal artificial sweetener apparently thought it cute and kitschy to reword a number of slogans and print them on packets. Most upsetting to Maya was the newly-minted phrase "Power to the Packet":

POWER TO THE PEOPLE was not just a slogan, but a rallying anthem which was appreciated and honored during the Civil Rights Movement. This statement demanded that we stand up, take power and become accountable for our community. The marketing team for Equal’ 0 calorie sweetener morphed this historic proclamation into a diluted tongue-and-cheek advertisement for their ‘Campaign of Flavor’, which ironically (or not so much) further enforced corporate financial gains by exploiting Black culture.

I understood her point because I've been thinking the same thing about the commercial for this nifty little device:

Yep, the apparently all (em)powerful NuvaRing. Have you seen this commercial in which the spokeswoman begins, "Birth control, back in the day about pregnancy protection--no objection!" I want to write the manufacturers and tell them, "No one objected to birth control? Talk about your revisionist history!" But I digress.

As NuvaRing only has to be used once a month, it frees women from the tyranny of daily birth control, prompting the makers to cast it in the same liberating tradition as the Civil Rights Movement. Yep, this commercial ends* with the spokeswoman co-opting the phrase "Let freedom ring!" while thrusting her fist defiantly into the air, NuvaRing gripped proudly. I mean, even though I've seen it a few times now, I still scan the image, expecting that proud fist to be covered in a black glove.

Yeah.

Which is not to say that birth control in and of itself is not liberating for some women (me included), but rather, I don't think the road to freedom for women is paved with NuvaRings.

*At least the TV version ends that way; I can't see this one for some reason.

Ooh, Gwyn Gon' Get It!

Sometimes, as a black woman, there are issues you'd like to discuss, but you're a little hesitant. Cuz your mama told you about airing the extended family's dirty laundry. "Bite your lip," she said. And you do.
Initially, you can just bite down on one inside corner of the bottom one.
Then, you learn to draw the whole bottom one into your mouth and clamp down hard.
Then, you start folding them both in and compressing them until the area around your mouth turns a sickly shade.
And finally, you can't help it! Something slips out. And once it is open, you might get a little something like this:

Welcome and thank you for tuning in to the first annual Brotha Please Awards also known as the "boo, negro boo awards." I'm your host for this evening, Gwyneth Bolton, and tonight we'll be honoring three brothas who need to sit their behinds down and shut up. Now, I know that we shouldn't reward bad behavior. But we should have a way to call attention to these brothas in a way that serves to curb that kind of behavior in the future.

Read more.

I Now Know How My Parents Felt...

...trying to find my sister and me a Cabbage Patch Doll that crazy year people were fighting each other to get them. Witness the main thing my goddaughter told me she wanted for Christmas:

This godforsaken BABY ALIVE!!!! Had I known, I would've just kept mine for her. This doll is sold out everywhere. People are selling them on Amazon for $100 (twice the price) and on e-bay for that much and more, when you consider the fact they charge $20-30 for shipping it! True, my problem is compounded by the fact that I wanted a brown doll, but the white ones are scarce commodities, too (though they tend to be on back order while the African American and Latina ones are plain "Sold out, and we don't know when the hell we're getting more!")

And no, I haven't lost my mind; I'm not paying $100 for any doll.

Why I Love History (or, A Brief Update)

I swear I'm like, shoulders deep in piles of documents from the National Labor Relations Board (I love FOIA!), the Amalgamated Meatcutters and Butcher Workmen and the United Food and Commercial Workers (thanks to the Wisconsin Historical Society!). Now, if I didn't have to write up my findings, I'd be in heaven. Some interesting tidbits:

• A 1947 letter from an AMBW leader addressed to the NLRB in which the union man verifies that all required parties have signed a document stating they were not communists.
• A secret ballot packinghouse workers used to choose between the AMBW (AFL) and the United Packinghouse Workers (CIO).
• A twisted and very interesting story from one of Tyson's Arkansas plants. Apparently, plant management rewarded one ex-union steward with a "cleaner," better-paying job and other perks after she agreed to be the employee agitator for union de-certification. Tyson was not supposed to get involved with the de-certification process and of course they, and the woman, denied it. The NLRB officer who wrote this opinion very politely called them liars. He noted that the woman showed remarkable zeal, giving up her vacation and personal days to work towards getting the UFCW kicked out of the plant. The reason why was clear to him despite Tyson's parade of witnesses who denied it. He also took to task a Tyson rep who denied calling himself a union buster, noting that the man probably did use the title and further, took pride in such a title because he'd been plant manager at another location that had de-certified the UFCW.

All right, I'm going back to work!

Show Him that It Is Not in Vain

Quaker Dave has a new blog called Daily Darfur. If you can't click now, it's at http://dailydarfur.blogspot.com/. Please stop by. Often.

My Child's Awareness

Okay, as I was typing that last post, my son got up to tell me, "Mama, I've been noticing something. My teacher is the only third grade teacher who's not-"

I stopped him there, way unready to deal with what I knew was coming. "Well, no. Ms. D is Latina."

"That's true," he said, "but my teacher is the only one who's black!"

Wow. I didn't even realize he was thinking about things like this. "What does that mean to you?" I asked.

"I don't know. But I don't feel very good about it." When I pressed him about why he didn't feel good about it, he couldn't articulate it. Instead, he pointed out that the situation was the same in first grade, where there is one black teacher and the one "brown" teacher left "because she had a baby." And then, he said, "And all the music teachers are white! I don't feel very good about that either."

And then he kicked my mattress and went back to bed.

To say that I am stunned is an understatement. Tomorrow evening is going to bring quite the conversation.

What Do You Teach Your Child about the Police?

Especially when your child is a black boy (yes, I think that makes a difference)? That question is on my mind this week because of Sean Bell and Kathryn Johnston. My son saw me reading an article about the Bell case and asked me what happened. After I explained to him, he asked me, "But why did the police do that?" And in a fit of angst, I told him, "Because they can. They can just kill us for no reason." That is unlike anything I've ever told him before, and I am worried about it.

Over at BfP's, Luisa made this observation on a post (in which BfP asks "does it make sense to give a group of people who put on a specific outfit the power to kill, rape, violate, and otherwise cause destruction and devastation to a particular area and its occupants?"):

I was not raised to respect the police or military. and this gets me in a little trouble ever now and then… I can feel myself becoming anxious around them. I always want to say something rude but, I also fear them. It is a strange emotion. I feel queasy when cop cars pass me. They are the only people who I fear in my neighborhood because if they force me into their car late at night, my fellow humans might just let it happen and who knows where I will end up. who knows what story they’ll tell…

I know that strange mix, the loathing that comes from knowing that, when this person puts on a uniform, he (yes, he) somehow assumes a power that makes his actions unquestionable (even if those actions include demanding a minstrel show). That fear that he can do anything to me and get away with it. And I'm not just saying that; it is a very real fear for me. My experiences with the police have included:

• My father and I being pulled over while I was an undergraduate, separated, and questioned. We were in Texas, our car had Louisiana plates, and the cops admitted they suspected drug trafficking. Similarly, I was tailed closely by a cop for a while in a small East Texas town who didn't turn on his lights, initially. He was following me so closely that I put on my signal and got into the next lane. Then he turned on his lights--said I was supposed to wait until I'd traveled at least so many feet after turning on my signal to switch lanes. The problem, again, was my Louisiana plates in a Texas town. He wanted to know where I lived currently, where I was traveling to, and why. I answered, simply because I didn't know if I was allowed not to answer and I had no intention of disappearing in East Texas.
• Coming from a club one night, my sister and I were pulled over by two white male cops who made us get out, shined flashlights in our faces and smirked the whole time. They asked us what we were doing out so late.
• My male cousin, a minor at the time, being taken to the police station in the middle of the night and the police refusing to let any of us come in. When we began to loudly protest, my aunt begged us not to, scared what they might do.
• Having a friend who was pulled over for a traffic stop quizzed about my car (I passed by twice to make sure he was okay). The officer, new to my hometown, asked why that "Texas car" was in town so much. What kind of business could I have there?

And so on. It's not that I don't have respect for people trying to do their jobs; it's that I've had a wealth of experience in which that job description has magically expanded in ugly ways. Quite often, the response from black parents I know has been to teach their children to always defer to authority, to not question, to do as they are told. For example, I hear parents say, about spanking their kids, "I'm whooping his/her ass now, so the police won't do it later." And no, this is not just an excuse to engage in teh evil spanking, it is evidence of a very real belief that teaching children to obey "authority" figures may save their lives.

Yet, just as I don't want to leave my son with the image of the police that I created with my comment, I don't want to teach him to blindly obey either. I did tell him later that there are "lots of good police who protect people," but that some of them feel like they have "superpowers over people" because they have guns and clubs.

And uniforms. Lord, the power of a uniform.

In the meantime, I am thinking of this. Sean Bell was 23. Kathryn Johnson was 92. Is there ever a time, an age when we are safe?

H/T Y. Carrington and Philip Arthur Moore

Is It Just Me...

...or is anyone else's little toolbar (with spellcheck and add pics, etc) missing from the post screen? I can't do any formatting things manually either.

Why Is This Video...

...so threatening to so many youtube viewers:



Would to God that it was because of the offensiveness of "Tip Drill." Or if some commenters decided they find "booty dancing" troublesome. Nah, what upsets the commenters at youtube is that these women

Are fat. FAT. And apparently having fun. And doing something as sensual as dancing. And by God, they have friends. Who the hell wants to be seen with a fat girl?

The comments are rife with "nasty," "disgusting," "gross," "wrong" and observations about vomiting and gouging out one's eyes. And then there is the ultimate: "You should be ashamed of yourselves." Because we know how shame works to immobilize and silence women. And I can tell you how it works to immobilize and silence fat women, how it makes all eyes turn upon you, how it makes your skin crawl, how it makes you wish you could just disappear.

That is exactly what these commenters are wishing on these women. Oh, a few of them are careful to disguise it in that "I'm so concerned for your health..." And, lately, my ultra-concerned brothers and sisters of color have added a new twist: they are concerned for our health because we're killing the black community.* You talk about a guilt inducer. Oh. My. God.

But come on, if we're really concerned about people's health, would we be turning up our noses and insulting them? Since we believe fat is solely the product of overeating*, if we wanted to encourage people to eat more healthfully, wouldn't we be asking our government officials why, since the mid-1990s, meat and dairy have received 3x the subsidies of grains and why "fats and oils [have] collected 20x more government handouts than fruits and vegetables"? Wouldn't we be demanding that the media curb the 70% of food advertising that is controlled by convenience and "junk" foods?* Wouldn't we ask food processors why they lie and say they're adding "value" to our food when what they're typically adding is sugar and fat?

So, nah. I don't think we're all that concerned with what people eat; what we're obsessed with is how they look and the connections we make between that appearance and food.

Over at Trash Talks Back, Elaina gave me another idea for why this video is so upsetting (please go read her whole post!):

I'm relearning that fat people are expected to be losers. People think that we are fumbly or we are lazy, or that we are afraid to do outrageous and energetic things.

The women in the video defy that assumption, and apparently it's creating a sort of dissonance that is unbearable. Elaina also said something that I think is another clue into the mindset of the commenters:

People constantly wave their own fears of becoming what you are in front of your face, without a thought as to how you will feel about it. Anti-fat thought is presumed to be correct thought.

Oh, and don't think fat people don't have fat phobic thoughts. My first reaction to this video was, "I can't believe they had enough nerve to..." 'Cause we're not supposed to, you know, have nerve or willingly display our bodies--I say willingly because whether we want them to or not, our fat bodies have been co-opted for the purpose of showing people what they want to avoid. My second thought was, "Ooh, I'm so glad they did."

It's a strange position fat people occupy, taking up more space than what society has decided is your right to have while simultaneously being invisible... until someone wants to point out what not to become. And apparently that concept is so sacred that youtube commenters believe that fat women should be excluded, invisible, on a site designed for anyone to share video. But fat women aren't anyone, of course. We're those pesky "others."

Elaina had a few tips I wish I could go post in the comments at youtube:

6. You have no right to presume that our fatness means anything more than we weigh a certain amount over what's been deemed by capitalist white supremacist patriarchy as the "norm."
7. Do not assume that we are lazy or unintelligent.
8. Do not assume that we are weak.
9. Do not assume that we are obsessive-compulsive about food.
10. Do not assume that we are desperate for your friendship and/or your sympathy.
11. Do not assume that we think that we are less attractive than you are, or that we hate our bodies, or that we strive to be like you.

And please, do not assume that we don't dance* and that we don't laugh and that we're not sensual. Keep your issues and your projections to yourself.

And, no, the commenters at youtube didn't get these women down, because they also posted this:

____________________

*I don't doubt that some people genuinely have health concerns and I don't discount medical evidence that links obesity to some illnesses. But this is often the most convenient excuse for fat phobes.
*And of course overeating is nothing more than a lack of willpower which "proves" how weak fat people are.
*All from the intro to Steve Striffler's Chicken.
*Yes, in the company of supporive friends and family, ms. elle has been known to shake her moneymaker then drop it like it's hot.

History Carnival #44

...is up at Barista.

There's apparently a blog called Progressive Historians.

I'm one conditioned response away from salivating at the idea.