cycle
(8/09)
breaking down the word- the world, into tiny scraps and fragments
pieces of a human shell
jagged and torn
we put back together with glue
and bits of ingenuity
and hope they fit
but usually
no
breaking down the thought- the train- the tossing and turning of words and images
in hope of creating one
single
thing
but creation is never simple
isn't that the truth
breaking down the questions- into smaller ones- into half-questions- into
huh
and
what
and
how
but never
answered
the sky is a light silver, today
and the rain falls down as if from a lawn sprinkler
quickly and delicately
my thoughts race
about the state of the future
and sustaining a family, a home, and a life
when will I let the rain in to my pacing/racing brain?
When will I let the peace into my being and breathe deeply?
When will it ever be enough?
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
"did i just hear an alarm start ringin?"
"Did I just hear an alarm start ringin? Did I hear sirens go flyin' past? Though I don't know what tomorrow's bringin', I've got a singular impression things are movin' too fast."-jason robert brown
I don't know if it is because I'm American, or I live in the NY metro area, or what, but I feel like life goes flying past so quickly, and we are constantly being pushed to keep up with the pace. It's not that I want to take my life leisurely and lay back on a farm all day and watch the birds go by. It's just that so many things have happened, even in the last year, and I wish I could have more time with them, to digest them, to absorb them, to revel in the glory and the bliss of getting married, and to be grateful for the miracles, like my Grandfather (Poppy) and Aunt Babs having major brain surgery, and both recovering quickly and well!
I remember, when our family used to go to Philly to visit Grandma and Papa, and we would walk along the streets by Rittenhouse Square, and my dad would hold my hand and always be pulling me, as if we had to be somewhere and I was holding them back. When I asked my dad if he would walk slower, he would always tell me that his sister had long legs too, and she used to drag him around, and it helped him to walk faster, so that's what he would do with me. There are a few differences here. I am 5'2'', my dad is 6'3''. My aunt is at least 6'0". Besides that, I don't know why my dad felt the need to justify the fact that he was basically making me race all the time. Sometimes, the leaves would be so beautiful, in the fall, and we would walk by Urban Outfitters, or a park, and I would want to slow down and enjoy it, or I would want to stop to watch,and he would rush me along, telling me to take longer steps. Take longer steps? He told me my steps were too small. I wanted to yell at him. What was wrong with my little steps? I had little short, legs that made little steps, and I liked my pace.
Now, as I walk the streets of the town I live in, I do so slowly, but aware. I know that my pace isn't the fastest, nor the slowest on the street. But what I do know is that I'm comfortable in my shoes, and with my pace. It took a really long time to get here, of feeling judged, pressured, always rushed, never good or fast enough. But I'm here. We have to accept people for who they are. I am short and chubby and I walk slowly. My dad is tall and neurotic and walks quickly. This is the way things are. Some realities hit you at odd times. I realized, about a year after I moved out of my parents' house, how much their judgement wore me down, and made me feel so horrible about myself. My parents are really good people, but with the best of intentions can also come heartache and frustration. I don't blame them in any way for how they raised me, because I know they did their best. But, sometimes, when I get out of the car and walk into a store, I turn around, worried that the world is passing me by, that people are staring, that I am indeed, this freak of nature with the short, stubby legs.
Is this a creation that my dad invented to try to motivate me to lose weight?
Or am I just what I am?
I don't know if it is because I'm American, or I live in the NY metro area, or what, but I feel like life goes flying past so quickly, and we are constantly being pushed to keep up with the pace. It's not that I want to take my life leisurely and lay back on a farm all day and watch the birds go by. It's just that so many things have happened, even in the last year, and I wish I could have more time with them, to digest them, to absorb them, to revel in the glory and the bliss of getting married, and to be grateful for the miracles, like my Grandfather (Poppy) and Aunt Babs having major brain surgery, and both recovering quickly and well!
I remember, when our family used to go to Philly to visit Grandma and Papa, and we would walk along the streets by Rittenhouse Square, and my dad would hold my hand and always be pulling me, as if we had to be somewhere and I was holding them back. When I asked my dad if he would walk slower, he would always tell me that his sister had long legs too, and she used to drag him around, and it helped him to walk faster, so that's what he would do with me. There are a few differences here. I am 5'2'', my dad is 6'3''. My aunt is at least 6'0". Besides that, I don't know why my dad felt the need to justify the fact that he was basically making me race all the time. Sometimes, the leaves would be so beautiful, in the fall, and we would walk by Urban Outfitters, or a park, and I would want to slow down and enjoy it, or I would want to stop to watch,and he would rush me along, telling me to take longer steps. Take longer steps? He told me my steps were too small. I wanted to yell at him. What was wrong with my little steps? I had little short, legs that made little steps, and I liked my pace.
Now, as I walk the streets of the town I live in, I do so slowly, but aware. I know that my pace isn't the fastest, nor the slowest on the street. But what I do know is that I'm comfortable in my shoes, and with my pace. It took a really long time to get here, of feeling judged, pressured, always rushed, never good or fast enough. But I'm here. We have to accept people for who they are. I am short and chubby and I walk slowly. My dad is tall and neurotic and walks quickly. This is the way things are. Some realities hit you at odd times. I realized, about a year after I moved out of my parents' house, how much their judgement wore me down, and made me feel so horrible about myself. My parents are really good people, but with the best of intentions can also come heartache and frustration. I don't blame them in any way for how they raised me, because I know they did their best. But, sometimes, when I get out of the car and walk into a store, I turn around, worried that the world is passing me by, that people are staring, that I am indeed, this freak of nature with the short, stubby legs.
Is this a creation that my dad invented to try to motivate me to lose weight?
Or am I just what I am?
Friday, July 10, 2009
Looked in the Mirror for the First Time and Saw That . . .
I was working with my tutee yesterday, and we were working on reading comprehension. I know what you think, reading comprehension? feh, so boring! But it was actually an enlightening and really great experience. I was testing how she worked with reading comp versus listening comprehension. I read a piece aloud to her. It was not short, or easy to comprehend, especially for a high school kid. I think this is high level stuff, but I also think this girl can handle it. It was a piece called "Straightening our Hair" by Bell Hooks that was excerpted from a magazine in the eighties.
It's this amazing piece about black women and the subculture of their hair, and dealing with it, and the many different codes and social cues that are intertwined in that. The essay discusses when Hooks was a little girl, always wanting to have her hair straightened with the rest of the girls, in the kitchen, where the women would gossip and have fun. Hooks saw it as a ritual, part of becoming a woman. Then she talked about straightening black hair, and what it does, to one's sense of self. She talked about the idea that keeping one's hair "natural" means you are rebelling against society, and the conformists that are looming, and that you are not feminine. You are showing your blackness and pride and spirit by keeping your hair natural or in an afro.
I feel like it's not so different for white people. If she read this, she'd probably call me out and I'd end up in tears. I'm not trying to say I could come anywhere close to understanding her experience as a black woman. I can't. I am not one. But I understand what it is like to be a woman with unruly, big hair, that doesn't want to be tamed and put into an iron. I understand what it's like to be a woman that made the choice to remain "natural" and not conform.
It's hard.
I remember in college,
I thought this was very interesting. If I went out, to a club, or a party, or wherever, I would see all of these girls with obviously straightened hair, so painfully insecure, trying so desperately to fit in. The ones who were confident were few and far between. You could spot them, because they didn't look like their hair, or any part about them was forced. I remember this one girl who was older than me and really, ridiculously talented as a singer. She had super straight hair. I think it was natural, but I don't know. What I do know, is that it didn't matter, because she was confident, and pretty, and natural, and didn't look like she spent hours in front of a mirror trying to obtain a state of perfection.
I'm not saying that women who straighten their hair are not beautiful. Many of them are. I just know, for me, when I tried to straighten my hair, when I was younger, I felt like a fraud. My hair would always give me away.
The other day someone said that for teaching interviews you should always wear a suit, minimal jewelry, and straighten your hair. Well, that sucks. I guess I'm a horrible teacher, because I don't do any of that. I know, don't rock the boat, don't be different, just say yes, and you'll get hired.
You know what? I don't want a job from a school if all they are buying is the image of a plain and boring individual.
I have curly hair, and sometimes I want to shave my head. Not because I hate it, I don't, rather because it gets hot under the hair, and the hair gets frizzy. But do I hate my hair. No. It is a part of me. When I straighten it, it looks like another person. I'm not meant to look like that person. I'm meant to look like me.
And as for my tutee, she is a sweet, funny, young Chinese girl, who is pretty in her own right. She was telling me that she always had straight hair, but she saw all these girls in school straighten theirs, so she started to, but now she regrets it, because it's not soft and natural anymore. I don't know if it's really about it not being soft, I think she wishes she could be innocent like she used to be, when she kept her hair naturally straight. I think a lot of us wish we could unlearn insecurity and wanting to change our appearance. But I don't know if it's possible to unlearn something. I think you just have to learn something new, and use that new knowledge to help free yourself of the burdens you have now.
I think the moments when we, as people, realize that we are not so different, that all of us struggle, are the really clear ones. Lots of women don't like their natural hair. Lots of women don't like their natural skin. You can change it, or you can grow into it. That kind of growing takes maturity and patience, and can be very trying. But I think I'd rather grow into my hair, than spend three hours every morning attempting to straighten it.
It's this amazing piece about black women and the subculture of their hair, and dealing with it, and the many different codes and social cues that are intertwined in that. The essay discusses when Hooks was a little girl, always wanting to have her hair straightened with the rest of the girls, in the kitchen, where the women would gossip and have fun. Hooks saw it as a ritual, part of becoming a woman. Then she talked about straightening black hair, and what it does, to one's sense of self. She talked about the idea that keeping one's hair "natural" means you are rebelling against society, and the conformists that are looming, and that you are not feminine. You are showing your blackness and pride and spirit by keeping your hair natural or in an afro.
I feel like it's not so different for white people. If she read this, she'd probably call me out and I'd end up in tears. I'm not trying to say I could come anywhere close to understanding her experience as a black woman. I can't. I am not one. But I understand what it is like to be a woman with unruly, big hair, that doesn't want to be tamed and put into an iron. I understand what it's like to be a woman that made the choice to remain "natural" and not conform.
It's hard.
I remember in college,
I thought this was very interesting. If I went out, to a club, or a party, or wherever, I would see all of these girls with obviously straightened hair, so painfully insecure, trying so desperately to fit in. The ones who were confident were few and far between. You could spot them, because they didn't look like their hair, or any part about them was forced. I remember this one girl who was older than me and really, ridiculously talented as a singer. She had super straight hair. I think it was natural, but I don't know. What I do know, is that it didn't matter, because she was confident, and pretty, and natural, and didn't look like she spent hours in front of a mirror trying to obtain a state of perfection.
I'm not saying that women who straighten their hair are not beautiful. Many of them are. I just know, for me, when I tried to straighten my hair, when I was younger, I felt like a fraud. My hair would always give me away.
The other day someone said that for teaching interviews you should always wear a suit, minimal jewelry, and straighten your hair. Well, that sucks. I guess I'm a horrible teacher, because I don't do any of that. I know, don't rock the boat, don't be different, just say yes, and you'll get hired.
You know what? I don't want a job from a school if all they are buying is the image of a plain and boring individual.
I have curly hair, and sometimes I want to shave my head. Not because I hate it, I don't, rather because it gets hot under the hair, and the hair gets frizzy. But do I hate my hair. No. It is a part of me. When I straighten it, it looks like another person. I'm not meant to look like that person. I'm meant to look like me.
And as for my tutee, she is a sweet, funny, young Chinese girl, who is pretty in her own right. She was telling me that she always had straight hair, but she saw all these girls in school straighten theirs, so she started to, but now she regrets it, because it's not soft and natural anymore. I don't know if it's really about it not being soft, I think she wishes she could be innocent like she used to be, when she kept her hair naturally straight. I think a lot of us wish we could unlearn insecurity and wanting to change our appearance. But I don't know if it's possible to unlearn something. I think you just have to learn something new, and use that new knowledge to help free yourself of the burdens you have now.
I think the moments when we, as people, realize that we are not so different, that all of us struggle, are the really clear ones. Lots of women don't like their natural hair. Lots of women don't like their natural skin. You can change it, or you can grow into it. That kind of growing takes maturity and patience, and can be very trying. But I think I'd rather grow into my hair, than spend three hours every morning attempting to straighten it.
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