The Sometimes Wise and the Often Foolish

On Hiatus

2010-04-08T16:44:00.001-04:00

So I've been unemployed going on almost ten months now. In those ten months I've had one interview, and today, I was told I didn't get that job. The problem with interviews are they give you hope. And when that hope gets stomped on, the job search feels so overwhelming all over again. Those first few months after graduation? Job searching was not nearly so depressing as it is now. I felt fine working on it week after week. Now, it feels so futile. An assistant job here, a random ass organization there. How 'bout you Americorps? Living at home was relaxing. The future looked uncertain but bright. I was still riding the "just graduated" high.

Damn I miss that high.

Meanwhile, I've been thinking. I started this blog two years ago to chronicle my study abroad experiences in Ghana. Since returning, I've written on various subjects, from current news to mundane daily life to trips down childhood memory lane. But lately, I've been uninspired. Bored. Not surprising since I haven't written anything for a month. So, I've been thinking. What do I want to do about this blog? Should it die a silent death or is there still some little creative seed to be planted? I don't know. But while I'm figuring that out, I probably won't be posting. Any suggestions or words of wisdom are welcome. Until then...check me out at http://thatssodeep.blogspot.com. Amber and I welcome followers and comments!

Oh, and I'm on twitter! =) Find me @liz_lowry

Poetry

2010-03-11T16:39:00.000-05:00

I wish I had this kinda talent. Check her out for some other poetry. The video below is kinda old, but I discovered it today.

Get Ready

2010-02-24T10:58:00.000-05:00

One blog just isn't enough.....which is why my friend Amber and I have started a new one! Visit Salt N Peppa and check it out. Bookmark, subscribe, become a follower - do whatever you gotta do. You won't want to miss the amazingness.

Never fear, though. I will still be on this blog. Perhaps even more consistently. Now I just have two outlets for my wisdom and foolishness.

My Escapism

2010-02-18T16:20:00.003-05:00

So, I hate Grey's Anatomy. I can't watch Gossip Girl even to laugh at stupid TV teenagers whose life only Paris Hilton may have led. The Bachelor irritates me. Forget Desperate Housewives.

Instead, I go for the crime/mystery/adventure shows. Psych (best show ever), NCIS, Chuck, Burn Notice. Most of you already know this, but I've been thinking....why are these the shows I watch?

Freshman year of college I watched Grey's but finally quit. It was more a bonding experience with the other girls on my floor, but eventually the bonding couldn't win over my inner retching. The ups and downs of primetime dramas are too much for me. Will Jane and Joe finally get together? Yes, they did! Dammit, he kissed his ex.

My heart can't take it. Maybe it's that I get too involved. I care too much? And the roller coaster which may be exhilarating at first, quickly becomes an old and tiring case of vertigo.

There are dramas I used to watch nearly to the end of their series. Gilmore Girls was the bomb until Rory went crazy. The West Wing appealed to the mild political junkie within me. But I always cursed 7th Heaven for its stupidity.

My crime shows like their personal dramas as well, but they are conveniently preoccupied with murder. But it's not like murder isn't a terribly emotional and tragic event. Mysteries turn death into a puzzle; family tragedy into a case for intellectual prowess. Just as Private Practice is nothing like real life, Castle isn't entirely accurate. We spend two minutes on the crying mother and the rest of the time laughing at witty one-liners and chasing red herrings, conveniently sidestepping the pain.

TV, I know, is escapism. And somehow soap operas don't allow me to escape. I need my murders. My crime. My secret spies and shootouts. Maybe it's all those Nancy Drew books. I never did like Sweet Valley High.

But, still, what does all this say about me? It must mean something.

Freedom of Speech

2010-01-22T15:21:00.005-05:00

In a 5-4 decision, the Supreme Court has ruled that corporations, viewed as individuals, may no longer be limited by Congress in their campaign spending. Thus, opening our elections to a flood of campaign ads funded by “special interests.” In an analysis segment on PBS Newshour (yeah I watch it!), Steve Simpson (Institute for Justice) argued in favor of this decision. For him, this was all about the freedom of speech: “the First Amendment was designed to affect elections, which is to allow people to speak out and influence the course of their government and the course of elections.”

The argument is that by limiting corporations' campaign contributions we are infringing on their freedom of speech. In this scenario, money equals speech. “A lot of spending by a lot of different people and groups in an election is called a debate” says Mr. Simpson.

So, does lack of money infringe on our freedom of speech? Does poverty? For our communities whose voices are not heard because survival is all they can afford, what freedom of speech do they have? If money equals speech, then how will we ensure the right of those with no money? Or will we only protect the rich and powerful?

Is that what our constitution intended? Is that the state of our democracy?

MLK Day

2010-01-18T09:00:00.001-05:00

"There is nothing wrong with power if power is used correctly...And one of the great problems of history is that the concepts of love and power have usually been contrasted as opposites - polar opposites - so that love is identified with a resignation of power, and power with a denial of love.

Now power properly understood is nothing but the ability to achieve purpose. It is the strength required to bring about social, political, and economic change.

What is needed is a realization that power without love is reckless and abusive, and love without power is sentimental and anemic. Power at its best is love implementing the demands of justice, and justice at its best is power correcting everything that stands against love."

Cigarettes, money, stupidness, etc

2009-12-02T21:40:00.008-05:00

I saw an ad at a bus stop in Chicago that asked, “How much are you willing to pay before you quit smoking?” (or something like that), and a list of prices starting from $2 and ending with $10. It's the best anti-smoking ad I've ever seen, not like those stupid anti-drug public service announcements they throw at kids. I've always wondered whether those are effective at all. I doubt it.

But this one is good. What moves people more than anything else? Money! If your health won't make you quit smoking, than money will. This is true for so many things. With the economy flailing, people are changing their minds on so many issues. Who wants to be paying for two wars when everywhere people are out of jobs? Down with Wall Street. In Chicago, nothing gets people angrier than if the government botches something and it costs our pockets. Recently, our mayor sold the city's parking meters to a private company (for less than what it was worth) which then put in crappy machines and raised the prices. People were pissed. There were rumblings that this may be what would oust our decades-long mayor - not the countless other scandals surrounding him, but the one scandal which dared to touch our pocketbook and make our life annoying. After all, we once ousted a mayor because, following a blizzard, he failed to remove the snow from streets in a timely fashion.

Money is what makes the world go round. How many times has a politician been able to stay in power primarily because the economy was going well? How long will we go on smoking before we decide we just can't afford it (not that we're rotting on the inside)? What makes us really angry?

Hey, I get it. My dwindling bank account hurts. Sometimes, though, the level to which money makes the world go round just really annoys the hell outta me. Probably because my bank account is dwindling.

But great ad. I applaud you. Now if only they'd stop with the “Don't be a loser” drunk driving campaign.

The First Ever Sometimes Wise (and often foolish) Video Blog

2009-11-16T00:34:00.002-05:00

Ronke and I talked for entirely too long (about nothing), but what else is new?

Biting Off More than I Can Chew

2009-11-05T15:41:00.013-05:00

I started this post and ended with, "Crap...this is such a HUGE topic." But, oh well, I'm posting it anyway....

This morning I read an excerpt of a book by Mayhill Fowler on Huffington Post. This excerpt describes her theory about what was going on in Obama's head when he said the not-so-great statement (way back on the campaign trail), "It's not surprising then that they get bitter and they cling to guns or religion or antipathy toward people who aren't like them or anti-immigrant sentiment."

Whoops. Probably not the best choice of words. Doesn't make a great soundbite. But I'm not writing to debate the statement. I was more interested in how Fowler discusses Obama and his relationship with "Middle America" and "ordinary Americans in the heartland."

I'm always amused by the phrase, "ordinary Americans." It can be a mild phrase that tries to unite and address common problems, or it can be divisive. I always thought that when Sarah Palin used the phrase, telling small towns "this is america," it was used to paint Obama as "other" and remind us white "ordinary" folk that we need a government for US. But that may just be me.

This seems to be the debate about every candidate: do they connect with ordinary Americans? John Kerry was an elite. Bush was a down-home boy. McCain was a hero. Hillary was a woman. Who connected most to ordinary Americans?

But who are ordinary Americans? Small towns? Cities? Farmers? Are the folks in San Francisco least ordinary? Are the folks in Iowa more ordinary?

Personally, I have no idea what small town or farm life is like. I watch kids at state fairs, fascinated because I wonder what it's like to grow up comfortable around horses, goats and cows. I probably have all kinds of ideas about what it would be like, and they're probably all wrong. And they no doubt have all kinds of ideas about inner-city life, and they're all wrong.

So which of us should a candidate appeal to?

It all begs the question, who are ordinary Americans? What is it about our love affair with "Middle America" that makes us feel that it is somehow the purest form of Americanness? What is "American"?

Southern cities. East Coast small towns. West Coast farms. Mid-west college towns. Rural black folks. Small town Latinos. Asian suburbanites. White city-dwellers.

Muslim. Christian. Jewish. Agnostic. Atheist. Buddhist. Hindu.

High School Dropouts. Doctoral candidates. Factory workers. Ivy Leaguers. Community College students. Gas Station Attendants. Teachers. State Representatives.

Race and class and geography all intertwined into our perceptions....who are the "ordinary Americans?"

And who is not?

There's a Blessing in the Storm

2009-10-30T13:31:00.005-04:00

So after my last post I've wanted to tell myself "enough is enough," except it's never that easy. But I will add to my previous post with a song that I'm trying to keep in my mind and heart. Maybe somebody else could use it too.

Life Update

2009-10-28T17:39:00.003-04:00

Warning: Do not reply to this post by telling me, "Everything will be okay Liz!" I know everything will be okay, but it may not be okay for you after telling me that. Don't worry, I'm smiling, but I'm also serious.

So, here's the deal: I've been depressed. Legit, down in the pit, went to sleep depressed and woke up depressed, don't wanna talk depressed. That was me a week and a half ago. I'm better this week, but certain things can easily set me off. Two days ago I was told I seemed so "nonchalant" about my job situation, followed by "what are you trying to do?" and I wanted to hit the person. The rest of the day I was anything but cheerful.

So why have I been depressed? Well, I don't have a job and I haven't gotten close to obtaining one. The longer I don't have one, the less I know what kind of job I want. And the uncertainty is stifling. I'd love to just go to grad school, but I don't know what I want to study. Uncertainty again. And although I love my family, living at home without a daily 9-5 is hard. My parents are trying to help; first step is to buy me a dresser since I'm living out of clothes piles.

So its kinda rough right now. I don't want my grandmother to ask me again, "Have you got a job?" and shake her head at the answer or tell me I can go to Maine for the summer. I'm tired of advice. I want my own space and my months to not stretch out in endless quantity. I want clarity.

Now, after writing that particularly "pity me" bit of blogging, I acknowledge post-graduate life is hard for most of us. Writing is just cathartic to me, and I'm letting it all (or most) hang out. So on to cheerfulness. After a particularly dark week, I'm looking to reevaluate. I'm searching for new places to volunteer, considering taking writing classes, and close to grabbing part-time Starbucks or Borders applications. I am leading a bible study for high school students at my church. I'm also doing a bible study by phone with a friend, which is great cuz then we talk every week! And, I think I'm gonna get a haircut this week. A new hair style always makes you feel better. And here I am blogging again.

So that is my life update. You may or may not have been curious, but there it is!

The Single Story

2009-10-10T13:21:00.004-04:00

Oh, Childhood.

2009-09-29T16:06:00.005-04:00

There is an American Girl store in downtown Chicago, more specifically, around Watertower. When walking along the Magnificent Mile on a Saturday morning, little girls are seen carrying dolls wearing matching outfits and their mothers carrying big red bags filled with accessories (I assume). Once I saw a mother and daughter exit the American Girl store and step directly into a limousine waiting for them. When I was little, I thought every limo contained someone famous. Apparently not.

I admit it. I slightly despise the American Girl store. It is unfair to judge the little girls prancing around Chicago with their dolls (I may even be a little bitter), but I can't stop my slight shudder. I don't understand paying $95 for a doll and so much more on outfits and trunks and dressers. The store even has a doll hair salon. What happened to doing horrific things to a doll's hair yourself? I read today that the most recent American Girl doll is Gwen, a homeless girl living out of her mother's car. For $95, I can provide my daughter valuable lessons on poverty, social stratification and our current housing crisis. Or can I?

I read some of the books when I was little. I was never desperate to read them all. I do like the idea, writing books about girls from different historical periods. I wish the lineup was more diverse, but I guess they're trying. Kinda. So the idea is a good one. But from it comes a waste of consumerism and indulgence. My daughters can read American Girl books and play with their $10 doll that they've shaved bald and be perfectly fine. (And so can my boys. If I read Hardy Boys books, they can read books with strong female protagonists. Yes, I will be that mother.)

My parents laughed at the idea of getting me an expensive doll with matching eyes, hair and skin color (yes, I looked at the American Girl catalog and their "just like you" dolls). As if there weren't enough white, blonde, blue-eyed dolls out there, I had to order a special one? I wasn't too disappointed. I played with dolls, but I was never attached to a particular one. None of them had a name. My teddy bear stayed on the shelf because I didn't get the point of sleeping with it under my arm. It always fell on the floor. My playtime usually involved great adventures. I often wanted to be lost in a jungle somewhere or aboard a ship with pirates. Our bunk bed was great for this.

Some American Girl books were read, but for the first few years, it was Nancy Drew, Nancy Drew, Nancy Drew. With some HB thrown in here and there. Kirsten, the Swedish immigrant, may be learning life lessons, but I wanted scheming villains, hidden passageways, and chases on foot and by car. I was never into Goosebumps, which everybody loved. I didn't find giant saber-toothed hamsters scary. But Fear Street was creepy. I could get scared of a psycho who killed people and then turned them into wax statues. Eventually, I broadened my scope, reading the better stuff: Roll of Thunder, Hear my Cry, A Handful of Thieves, A Wrinkle in Time, MC Higgins the Great, The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle.

Man, I miss those books. Sometimes I wish I could go back and reread them with the same excitement and fervor. Nancy Drew is no longer interesting except as a memory. But she's still here with me. And I never had her doll. Everything I remember so fondly was basic: a book, a toy and an imagination. No $95 doll with matching accessories and a play set. Sometimes the best toy is a cardboard box. For real. It makes a great fort. Just like a bunk bed.

What's Race Got to Do with It?

2009-09-16T18:19:00.004-04:00

Jimmy Carter said it. News folks freaked. Everybody's wondering, "What's race got to do with it?"

After all, we live in a post-racial world, right?

Well, that's a load of crap. I always loved it when people cited to me the success of Oprah or Bill Cosby to show that racism was no longer an issue. And now that we have our first black president, Obama has been pulled out to prove the new era of American society. It does show we have come a long way, but it shouldn't end the conversation.

A poster of Obama as a witch doctor is racist, plain and simple, but the question of racism and race in politics is not only about racist images and epithets. When Glenn Beck announces that Obama "hates white people," he's appealing to fears that are racially motivated. When Rush Limbaugh uses the beating of a white boy as a metaphor of Obama's policies, he's freaking everybody out because the black man is tearing down our way of life.

I can't definitively say that Joe Wilson's shout "You lie!" was tied to race or racism. I do wonder if he would ever feel so free to yell if it was during the speech of a white president. Someone said he didn't have a filter between his mind and his mouth. My question is, why not? And the answer could be because that filter vanished when race began to cloud the usual respect given to a President. We'll never know for sure, but I believe it probably is the answer.

And I see all this tied to the fears surrounding Obama and his healthcare policies. Everybody's scared. Obama's socialist. He's fascist. He's communist. He's all three (not sure how). He's not a citizen (have you seen his birth certificate?). He's an "Indonesian Muslim" and "welfare thug" (ooooh daaaaaaamn). He is anti-American.

At the heart of all these fears is that Obama is not one of us. He is not like us. And us is usually white people. And its those fears that scare me.

People can disagree with Obama's policies. Duh. And not every angry rant about Obama is racially motivated. But let's be honest, there is an undercurrent here, as there was during the primary and the election.

Below is a video of Melissa Harris-Lacewell, whom I love, breaking it down better than I ever could. Watch it and let me know what you think. Drop a comment.

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

I like to MOVE IT, MOVE IT!

2009-08-16T14:54:00.006-04:00

"One, two, three, hit the car door. One, two, three, hit the car door."

My sister is very clever when teaching me how to dance bachata. I went to visit Joanna last week, and we had a dance party in her living room. Complete with swingin hips and a few "you have got be me kidding me"s slipping from my mouth. We danced bachata, salsa and merengue, all in an attempt to prepare me for a salsa club the next night.

Let me tell you, I was freaked out. The idea of walking into this place, getting asked to dance and then trying not to step on his feet freaked the hell outta me. Joanna kept telling me, "Don't feel like you have to go. I don't want you to go if you won't have fun."

This is my thing - Many things make me nervous. Job interviews. Knife fights in movies. Riding in the car with Ronke. These things make me nervous, but they must be done (a good action movie will include at least one scene with a sharp object, and I will cringe). I knew I would have fun dancing, I just had to force myself to go. There's a life lesson here somewhere - work through your fears or some crap like that. So I got my smile out, made Joanna dance with me first for practice, and then handed her off to be whisked away.

At first, while on the sidelines, I was determined not to dance. I put on my stoic face. I was not ready to humiliate myself. But then this little dude (he really was little) asked me to dance. I grimaced and replied, "I'm not very good." He answered by taking my hand and directing me to the floor....

And from there, I relaxed. Gradually. A couple more dances and some more lessons from some other guys on turns and "feeling the music," I was doing okay.

I just kept repeating my mantra, "Do not be your mother's ironing board."* And it was fun.

So anybody wanna dance? I am a salsa machine.

*In case you missed it, that's from Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights (altho not a direct quotation). I watched it for motivation. Great soundtrack too.

Hearing

2009-06-09T23:26:00.012-04:00

One day, as my brother and I walked home, gunshots rang out. I was eleven years old. Justin pushed me down behind a car before I even registered what sounds I was hearing. A man ran past us on the other side of the street. A couple blocks away, the sound of squealing tires drew our attention to whom and from where the shots were being fired.

Sitting here on my bed, that memory returned to me. I just heard two slow pops from somewhere nearby. Possibly shots. Maybe not. The sirens a minute later could have been for those sounds or could have been for something else.

One of my kids last summer cried when telling me that someone she knew was shot the day before. Sometime around Thanksgiving last year a kid I once taught in Sunday School, now 15 years old, was shot.

I'm not sure why I'm writing this. I became acutely aware of sound and so I write. It's not unusual to hear stories of gun violence - to know that such a reality exists in our cities. Hollywood has too often helped us with that. It becomes a form of entertainment to watch young people struggle and survive and "rise."

But there's somebody whose finger is on that trigger. And someone standing on that corner. Good and bad. Supported and loved. Hated and abused. There is fear in the finger. And hardness in the limbs. Children grow, and the innocence our society once believed they had vanishes.

But it is not a loss of childhood or a loss of innocence. Innocence is not a part of anyone's childhood. We each live in our own reality and grow up in the traps and snares which that reality brings.

But why must those kids know that sound? Why must their reality teach them that fear? And why, when they turn adults, do we scorn and shake our heads in disbelief at the violence some may perpetuate, having never ourselves helped and supported those who did "rise" above?

When will guns no longer be on my streets?

I hear sirens again.

The Post-Graduate Stupor and Other Thoughts

2009-05-27T15:35:00.002-04:00

I disappeared, I know. Finals came. Graduation erupted. Laziness overwhelmed me. The writing suffered and my thoughts stupefied.

As an unemployed college graduate, I'm freakin out. And restless. I can't seem to relax. Even when I'm just sitting around surfing the internet. I start wondering when I'm going to find a job. What kind of job will it be? What kind of job do I want? My restlessness has effects. I start fiddling with my blog, and changing the layout for the third time. I make plans for myself that I don't do because I'm so freaked out I don't want to think, and then I freak out more because nothing got done. I'm so used to my house being a place where I just lie around and eat. Now, I'm facing the possibility that it will be my residence indefinitely while I try to work and volunteer and have some purpose other than lying around and eating.

My biggest problem is I don't know what I want to do. And I feel as if any decision I make has the weight of the world on it, as if it will determine the rest of my life. That's not true of course. It doesn't hold the weight of my world or any other. My next step is just one in a million of decisions and experiences that I will have. But that doesn't change the fact that it feels damn scary. So for now I'm just trying to do a variety of things that will fill my time and keep me happy.

One such thing is community organizing. I am volunteering for an organization on the South Side of Chicago. My church is a member of their network and they are currently working on two issues, green jobs and transportation. They have also done work on equity in education, a long-standing battle that I remember signing petitions for in 5th grade. Illinois is still at the bottom of the list for equity in education. Talk about failure of government.

So far I have found most amusing the comments made in a staff meeting which reveal the workings of Chicago. Such as, "I don't think they go for that up there. Not like Chicago." People are often surprised by some of my attitudes towards Chicago politics and corruption. I'm a champion for justice and a fighter of misused power, but I still hesitate to call my mayor corrupt (he's never been caught, just the people around him), and I don't bat an eyelash when an alderman, or representative, or governor is found out and thrown in jail.

Don't get me wrong. Corruption hurts our city. It's all about manipulation of power. But having grown up here, corruption of the "get things done" variety doesn't seem terrible. (hmmm...I think I'm digging myself in a hole.) I find a paradox within myself: an anger that power is abused and misused and a Chicago sensibility that expects abuse and misuse. I'm used to politicians, both weasles and champions, and the journalists that make a living renouncing them, and the voters that reelect them. "I'll scratch your back, you scratch mine" is how things work. You don't call it illegal until you're caught. (For the record, though, selling a senate seat is illegal whether you're caught or not. Any Chicagoan would tell you that.)

So I'm interested in being involved in community organizing, a tool that is both effective and well-respected in Chicago. What do you do in this political climate to fight for the needs of your community? You organize. You make your community so damn visible and loud that politicians must answer. And if they don't, you organize to elect somebody else. Hopefully the threat alone will work.

So there you are. With time on my hands and a cup of coffee, I can write about Chicago politics. The "machine" that churns and churns. Even so, we're tough people. Just look at our weather. We'll beat the system yet.

Now, if only I could just find a job.

P.S. - This layout will change again. You can count on it.

Poetry: Tourist Show at a Slave Castle

2009-04-27T18:02:00.001-04:00

Hot and heavy night,

sweat dripping from foreheads and arms,

a sea of foreign limbs swarm through

the white walls of a fortress

facing the waters. The cannons sit as empty shells,

reminders of violence and fear. Above dungeons deep below,

the people sit on plastic chairs, each equally

spaced apart, where once captives sold and ships

boarded left for much harsher lands.

The band cries out, “Take me home to Memphis,”

as the drunken voices of young men

echo forward.

Be

2009-04-23T11:36:00.005-04:00

Recently, moments have been bringing me tears. My eyes well up and my heart seems to tighten in my chest so that I don't want to feel it, whatever it may be.

Choosing between Chicago and Washington DC. Watching a scene from "Freedom Writers." Reading a friend's blog. Reading a woman's story recalling a racist encounter. Writing poetry. Feeling a rush of anger and frustration over the same shit I've been thinking about for a year (or four).

All reminders that life sometimes breaks my heart.

Choices. Violence. Death. Hurt. Just as a really great laugh reaches deep into your belly, so does pain. Two sides of the spectrum that seem to take control of your body. I see lines of division. I fear uncertainty. I mourn lives lost physically or emotionally. I ache knowing that injustice, a word thrown around in classrooms and theoretical discussions, cuts deep wounds that my tears can not heal. I feel the weight of power and powerlessness.

I remember moments.

I know where to find joy and new life. I know there is a place to cast my cares. But today I want to cry. I want to know and feel and remember. I want to be human. I want to be broken over those things that leave us disconnected from each other. I want to weep.

Confessions

2009-04-09T20:10:00.005-04:00

First, I think it should be known that when I was 8 I had a crush on Luke Skywalker. I HAVE NO IDEA WHY. And I am ashamed. Harrison Ford, aka Han Solo, is so much cooler.

Second, I always wanted to grow up to be a woman who could kick ass, long before I knew what it meant to kick ass. On the flip side, I always championed the triumph of non-violent action and peacemaking. And hit my piano teacher. I'm not sure how I worked all that out. I suppose you could say I turned out to be a mildly aggressive peacemaker.

Third, I fed dog food to the mice in my house. The mice my parents worked so hard to exterminate. They only learned of this a few years ago when they could no longer kill me without obtaining a few wounds themselves.

Fourth, I blog because I never want to do my work and clutch desperately to the idea that maybe just maybe somebody out there actually thinks I have something to say and that I say it well.

Fifth, I'm bored.

Welcome to my Thoughts

2009-04-07T12:00:00.006-04:00

I think it's interesting to pause and take note of the conversations you sometimes have with yourself. I was on the train the other day, observing a woman and her daughter who realized they were on the wrong train. They would have to take the train back in the other direction to get on the right one. Two men were trying to help them. My thoughts went something like this:

"What are they telling her? I don't even understand....oh, they're trying to tell her to go up the escalator to get to the other side. I'm sure she could figure that out. Where's she from? Somewhere in the South. She talks really loud. They are not really very clear. They should just stop trying to explain. Well, she's getting off....and still talking. I wonder if she'll figure it all out. Wait....crap! What stop is this? Is this L'Enfant? I can't see the sign...where is the sign?? Wait, I think it is!"

"Please step back. The doors are about to close."

"Crap. This is definitely L'Enfant."

And so because I was talking to myself (not out loud thankfully) and too interested in this woman's dilemma, I ended up missing my stop. And so I had to grab the train going the other way....just like her.

As I got off at my correct stop, I walked to catch my next train. My thoughts went something like this:

"Oh good, that's not my train. It's on the left side. And remember you're coming from the other direction....so wait, that is my train! Crap! Run!"

I'm not allowed to talk to myself anymore.

Prose Poetry: To the Heights

2009-04-01T21:53:00.003-04:00

This is the city of politics and poverty. A city of past, present and...future?

Up the protesting escalator, to gray concrete and lost newspapers flying a fitful dance; and there, announcing its cheerful presence to the neighborhood: Five Guys, burger chain extraordinaire.

It wasn't enough that they put Ruby Tuesday's in the hood.

Organic fair-trade lattes and vegan muffins now available for your enjoyment. Starbucks. Target. Bank of America. The sweetness of capitalism.

It is diversity. It is progress. It is so close to feeling swallowed whole.

Step off the yellow brick road paved for (who?) and trace the fingerprints of not yet former years.

Ten years ago, they built a metro line to a burned-out, run-down, forgotten all but in the news, corner of the city. A young white just-out-of-college professional moved in...and there went the neighborhood.

Will I be that too?

An Addendum and All My Single Ladies!

2009-03-19T16:04:00.003-04:00

So in case anyone is fearful that I will be writing about hair and other random topics from now on, fear not. I do not write about them because I am seeking after thousands of fans (or a few hundred). My comments on blogs are only to be taken half seriously. I envy wit (and Redacted is very witty) but am not necessarily willing to drop all discussions of racism, sexism, colonialism and every other "ism" I've ever written about. But, this blog is after all called "the Sometimes Wise and the Often Foolish," and I will be foolish on it, just as I am in life.

I've been thinking lately (gasp!) about being single. Writing as a woman, it can be a hard thing to be single. It feels like dry season. We like love, but we ain't got it. We watch friends and relatives in relationships and wonder, where's ours?

I'm writing because I'm both envious and tired. I have been in dry season for a LONG time, and I'm tired of wondering. Ladies, doesn't it seem like the question we always ask ourselves is: "is it my fault?" I was thinking about that question, such a dangerous question. Why do we ask it? Sometimes it can be a good question to ask. After all, if you are in and out of bad relationships maybe you should ask whether you make good choices. But if you're just in dry season, is that really a helpful question?

On a personal note, it's one that I often ask. Is it my fault? Should I be friendlier, more open, more appealing? Should I flirt? Should I be more available? Should I? Should I ? Should I? Even more dangerous, is something wrong with me? Women don't always like to admit they're thinking that but they are. And it's great that some man wrote "He's just not that into you," but what every woman asks is "why?"

Why is he not into me? Why doesn't he like me anymore? Is something wrong with ME?

Well, dammit, I'm tired of that question. Because what is our alternative? We get advice from every angle. We women sit around and talk about it. We hear everything: You should smile a lot. Show you're interested! Watch your body language. Go out more often. Be YOU! Don't call him, wait for him to call you. Don't wait for him to call you. Make eye contact. Flirt, but don't flirt too much. Flirt a lot! Go out with singles. Go out with couples. Go to church. Go to singles group. Be open. Be...

Get my point? There's a lot of advice, and a lot of books, and a lot of movies. And in the end, we're still single, just confused. At the heart of the matter is desire. We WANT a relationship and so we try to find out what's keeping us from having that relationship. But is all this advice and all these romantic stories and all these how-to books really going to help us? Do I really want to meet a guy and immediately start wondering if he's boyfriend/husband material and if I'm smiling at him enough or flirting enough or being sweet or being encouraging? It's not as if none of those questions aren't good, but when it becomes a project or a goal, haven't we lost sight of ourselves?

We're single! Let's celebrate that! We may be 22 or 26 or 30, but we get the privilege of being single. So you wanna know whether it's your fault you're single? Look at the other areas of your life. Are they good? Are they blessed? If they are, then why should this area be any less blessed? And if they aren't, well is having a boyfriend really a high priority? I think our biggest problem is we don't know what the blessing is in being single, because every magazine, every book, and every movie tells us how fantastic relationships are! So we need to find the blessing. We need to ask ourselves, why is being single good for me? Singlehood, make it work for you!

Because when we start to wonder if it's our fault, we quickly begin to value ourselves less. Yes, we want to love someone and be loved, but we are beautiful smart courageous women who are no less so because we are single.

Further, I think we need to put our trust in God. Yes, there are no fairy tales, but there is a far greater love that knows my desires and knows my limitations. God will prepare me for a relationship. I want to be ME, an imperfect ME, but nonetheless relying on my Savior who knows my heart. A how-to book isn't gonna help me with that.

And this blog is starting to sound like one of those how-to or self-help books. The point is, be you and know your value. Cheesy, but true. Do you need to change things about how you act or think? Do it because you realize it will help YOU, not because you think it will help you find a man. And don't accept any prescription for the cure of singlehood.

You may be thinking, "well that's just great Liz, but you're basically giving me a prescription." Ok, I admit it. That's kinda what it is. But mostly I'm just trying to say that we are complicated women with complicated lives, and if we're going to worry about ourselves, let it be because we value our sanity and our well-being, and not because we seek some goal. Relationships are great! But while we don't got one, let's not turn into a burden, but make it a blessing!

I'm basically writing all this because I need to figure it out for myself. It's really about me. I got my days when being single just doesn't seem all that rosy. I just I think I gotta remember that I shouldn't accept some of the lies we're fed and that we feed ourselves. Singlehood rocks ya'll even when it sucks.

And if this is too self-helpish, forgive me. I'm just trying to work it out.

(To all my single male readers: I'm speaking to women because that's what I know, but take what you will from it. If there weren't any single men, all us single women would have no hope!)

(To my readers in relationships: Love on us single people!)

An Attempt to Be Brilliant

2009-03-10T14:22:00.004-04:00

The problem with reading other people's blogs is you feel miserable about how clearly yours does not measure up. I am always impressed by bloggers ability to write about the most random mundane things and make it interesting, so much so that strangers follow it. How does one create such a following? They probably don't write about too many serious topics (hmmm, I need to stop doing that) and they're just good writers (note, I will not pause here for reflection so please don't burst my bubble). I like to believe my blog is an exciting place, but my roommate broke my heart the other day by telling me her favorite blog is Redacted. Damn you Dan. He's one of those people with strangers following his every thought. And he does write about random topics, such as the Bachelor (which by the way was RIDICULOUS. Melissa, you go girl! Molly, you're an idiot!).

So, today I am going to be random. I am going to write about the most mundane of topics: hair. And I want to know whether you feel I fail miserably or am the most brilliant and prolific of writers. If it's the former, however, I will disown you.

So, hair. I cut my hair again. It cost me $40 plus an eight dollar tip. That in itself is painful, but my trips to the salon are also usually painfully amusing. I know very little about my hair. After all, until I was 14, I never cut it, but let it grow down my back in frizzy waves. All I needed was a flower tucked behind my ear (plus the bell bottoms I once owned) and I would have been a hippie.

The point is I don't know anything about hair. I never owned a straightener until last year, and I still don't own a hair dryer. When the hair stylist asks me what I want I usually mutter, "Oh around this length, layered." And then I'm asked what kind of layers, and I pause because I didn't know there were types.

My trip to the salon on Friday was no less awkward. I had a better idea of what I wanted, so I was feeling good about myself, but nonetheless I get questions that reveal how little thought I put into this.

"Did your last haircut give you a lot of volume?"

I pause. Think, think. Yes! I can answer that one. It did. My confidence is boosted.

"So is volume what you look for?"

Am I supposed to be looking for something? Sure? I like volume.

How long do you want your bangs?

No idea. Not too long, but not too short?

And then my confidence deflates. I've been trying so hard. Last time, I shrugged when asked where I part my hair. This time I knew! And now you have to go and ask me about volume and bangs. This is painful. I feel as if I've failed as a girl. Supposedly, this language should come naturally to me. Instead, I stumble over my words and look terrified.

(Now at this point in the blog, if it's going to be a clever post, I must somehow tie hair to broader philosophies on life, or at least make some clever joke to end it all.)

And so, salons make me uneasy. Salons are filled with women who know more about the craft of beauty than I (along with the occasional man who just by the fact that he's in a hair salon means he cares more than me). They take my money in large quantities, telling me I need to come back in 6-8 weeks. I don't even want to count up the cost in a year. The truth is I will always ask for the low-maintenance hairdo, continue to borrow my roommate's dryer, and be the person that just shouts, "experiment on me! I don't know anything!" If some day I have a daughter, I hope that she doesn't expect more than a ponytail, because I don't know how to french braid.

(Okay, so it's not a slam dunk finish, but work with me here...it's about HAIR!)

Prose: "The Color of Love"

2009-03-06T18:26:00.004-05:00

There's a whole lot of bullshit in this place. Guess there always was. Guess I shoulda seen it. The way flowers just shriveled up and died; deep red petals that browned and turned to dust. What was that line from Tennessee? Mendacity. It smells like mendacity in here. I just wish I had known it before. I could've washed my hands clean then. Too late now.

Happy Valentine's Day, Sweetheart.

There never was enough chocolate or kisses or cards for her. She told me she loved me and I believed her. Why? Was there a sign to the contrary? Did she cross her fingers behind her back? I remember the day we decided to move here. She got a new haircut. Every time she bent to pick up a box her hair would fall across her face, hiding her eyes. We stood in the kitchen and drank a beer - proud new home owners. She threw her hands around my neck and told me I was the best thing that ever happened to her. I should have known right then. No one says that. I should have known that something was wrong, that life as I saw it wasn't the way it was. But we were so happy. Happy. Didn't she understand that? Wasn't she happy? Wasn't all of it good?

If she had just not lied, there never would have been as much a mess as there is now, and we could have just ended it like they do in the movies, with humor and very little pain. She could have done it that way.

What am I saying? It wasn't like the movies. There are no laughs here. And I'm not some kind of hero. I'm an idiot. Damn it. I paid for the house. I bought her what she wanted. What did she give me? Sex and lies. No love. Damn it, I sound pathetic. She pushed me to this point. I need to distance myself. I am too close. Too close. I need to send my thoughts away from her. She's dead to me. I didn't understand that death was so personal though.

I don't even care. Half of what I'm thinking doesn't even make sense. It's over. She screwed up. She screwed around is what she did. And now that's done. I don't even care.

Fuck. Yes, I do. She was tainted. Tainted. What was I supposed to do with that? Lies. Mendacity. Bullshit. You can't move on from that. And now my thoughts are giving me whiplash. She's done. Used. Dried up and gone.

Snap out of it. Focus. I can't. You got to. You gotta clean up. But all I can see is red. Red on my hands and my jacket. There's red all over her face. Red like the roses I bought her. Red. The color of love.

I gotta clean up. Damn, I loved her. She never should have lied.

The Room Upstairs

2009-02-24T13:05:00.002-05:00

Potheads live above us. We know this because the sweet tangy smell of weed drifts into our room through the vents. Perhaps not drifts, but pours. And not just a couple times a month, or even a couple times a week, but it may be a couple times a day if they're really on a roll. Last Wednesday, they lit up at least three times. My roommate Kate and I have both pondered if you can get high off of second-hand pot smoke. If that's the case, it may explain a few things. Well, it may explain a few things about Kate (love you!).

Girls live above us. This may seem surprising since the unfortunate fact is that I hear potheads and I think boys. Not that women don't partake, but I never imagine them partaking quite so much. They are also the same people who flick cigarette butts out their window, landing on our window sill in little clusters of ash. I mean, honestly, we're seniors (I suppose they may be juniors). It's not as if this is our first year of college and we are so intoxicated by freedom that we go off to crazyland where we do everything that's on the naughty list. That's great that you like some recreational happy drugs, but three times in one day? On a weekday? At 5pm? Grow up and partake of life. And let me live without a headache.

(Or at least pass me the joint so I won't sound so bitter. J/K Mama!)

Prose: "Senses"

2009-02-17T11:40:00.004-05:00

I can hear the drip drip, spreading from a tiny plastic bag hanging above my head, down through the tubes offering themselves as extensions of my body. I hear the drip drip but I wonder if its only time, because even though I complain of the incessant noise, the nurse tells me again and again, in an exasperated sigh, “No, the IV doesn’t make a sound.” But I hear the drip drip. I hear it over the soap operas and the loud obnoxious voices of doctors, examining and processing their patients.

I hear their whispers too. Just beyond my door. I strain my head to hear them. I want to see myself through their eyes. I have lived too long with myself.

“She seems to be doing about the same.”

“The nurse says she wouldn’t stop screaming. They had to restrain her.”

“Any longer and she may have…”

I close my ears. I shut my eyes. I don’t want to live with them either. They speak reassuring words over my head, and I spit them back out. They are poison to me.

I want to fly. I remember learning, one foot before the other, stepping over my window sill, and stopped only by the rose bushes my mother so lovingly pruned. If the earth had opened up, I could have kept flying. My mother told me I could have broken my neck.

And now one of those white blobs is standing at my side, smelling of cheap aftershave. His hand touches me, placing pressure on my arm, as he begs me to open my eyes. I do, even though I know what’s there.

“How are we feeling today? Any better?”

Pretentious ass.

“I think I’m seeing a little more color in those cheeks. Maybe we can get you up walking around pretty soon.”

“I don’t want to walk,” I tell him. I see his eyes shift. He tries to hide his hesitation, but I see it.

“Of course you do. You don’t want to be in this bed any longer than you need to be, do you?”

The nurse smiles at me. I almost like her.

My hand stretches out to the bed railing, grasping at the side, feeling the burn of the sheets against my skin. Soon the other doctor will come in to ask me about my feelings. And I will lie again. Or refuse to speak. Or cry with too many words filling my mouth.

My room has light tan walls with meaningless paintings and uplifting quotes that really only taunt. What are mere words on a wall to me lying in this bed where I am not meant to be? It makes me laugh to read them.

The other doctor is here now.

“How are you feeling?” He always asks questions. He asks for memories, my private stories that once travelling from my mind to my voice and then to his ears lose all substance of what they truly were and now only become what he perceives. And in that twisted state, I feel more vulnerable.

I just want to be left alone. I don’t want to hear. In these sessions, I hear my voice. It is so grating, so self-obsessed, so self-loathing. I hear how other people hear it. They hate it, too. Before this room, my mother kept telling me to snap out of it. I couldn’t. I tried. Lord knows I did. I couldn’t. I wanted to. I want to. I can’t. More pressing is my need to scratch and claw at my skin, remove it from my bone and leave it scattered, somewhere other than me. I want to scream and scream and scream. But my voice can’t get loud enough, or angry enough, or something – something inside me that just won’t escape. My body is a cage for a monster inside. If I can’t let it out, I must kill it.

And then I hear the drip drip again. And for just a second it draws me out of my self.

Prose: "Choices"

2009-02-10T11:17:00.004-05:00

"If you had to pick between GDs or Stones, which would you choose?" she asked. We were standing in the bathroom, trying to waste class time. There was little space to stand, but we crowded around the sinks and stared at the writings on the stalls, canvases for cuss words forbidden, anger unexpressed, crushes returned and unreturned.

"Neither. I won't join neither," I announced with strong conviction.

"You have to. Someone puts a gun to your head and tells you you have to choose."

"Then I'll die."

Somehow, my eleven-year-old mind believed so strongly that it was wrong to join a gang, death was the only moral choice. Years later I'd realize that if someone put a gun to my head, I would ask them, "Which are you?" and choose accordingly. And years after that I'd realize no one would ever put a gun to my head, but sometimes that doesn't matter.

Our fifth-grade class didn't often talk about whether to be GDs or Stones, but most came down one way or the other, even if they would never join. Michael came down as a GD. He usually hung out with his cousin at the high school down the street. He was the tallest in our class. The teacher was so short he could rest his arm on her shoulder, and ask her, "Ms. Thompson, do you have a boyfriend?" Her slight frame would stiffen, just enough so Michael knew he had gotten a reaction. Then he would grin.

He had a great smile - teasing, inviting you to laugh with him even if he was laughing at you. Laughter is the only memory I have of him from high school. Standing outside as my dad drove up in the same bright red Honda that he had always teased me about years before. The same car, the same joke. I laughed, too.

At graduation, I never saw him. He wasn't there.

It wasn't until four years later, as I got off the bus, turning the corner, rushing to beat the falling sun, that I saw Michael again.

He sat in the passenger seat of a car parked on 73rd. We stared for a few minutes, surprised at such a meeting.

"So how you doing Alex?"

"I'm ok. Just on my way home."

"Yeah? So you still live around here?"

"Yeah. Yeah I do."

I shifted. It was an empty conversation - two people bound by childhood and memories, but whose lives cannot suddenly be drawn together as adults. It was good to see him, but there was nothing to say. I searched for words.

"So what you up to now?"

He paused. "Oh, shit...shit." His arm extended, waved, pointing out to the street.

I nodded. He didn't ask me what I was doing. I didn't ask what shit.

"Well, I better get going. It was good to see you. I'll see you around."

"No doubt." He smiled.

I walked on, bracing against a chill the winter wind suddenly pressed against me. I turned briefly, thinking back to that day in the bathroom, back to fifth grade. I waved again. He always did have a good smile.

Stage Two: President Barack Obama

2009-01-21T13:42:00.006-05:00

God of our weary years
God of our silent tears
Thou Who hast brought us thus far on the way
Thou Who hast by thy might led us into the light
Keep us forever in the path, we pray.

When these words, taken from the song "Lift Every Voice and Sing," were spoken by the Rev. Lowery, it was the first time during the entire inauguration that I teared up. The day was more marked by cheering, singing and dancing than by tears, but those words cut quick and fast. Rev. Lowery, a pastor and Civil Rights leader, knows those words fuller than I can ever imagine, but I sing them with him and celebrate this moment.

The day began early. We went to bed at two. We got up at 4:30, and we left by 5:30. Streams of people were working their way to the mall, and we managed to find a spot directly in front of a screen, between the Capitol and the Washington Monument, providing a fabulous view. Our group of nine staked out a stretch of ground, and proceeded to stand for 5 hours until the ceremonies began.

Priority: keep warm.
Our Methods:
1) Huddling together in a tight circle while marching in place. Our goal was to be penguins.
2) Singing. Our songs of choice were Lean on Me, Kumbaya, and Ain't No Mountain High Enough.
3) Dancing. The best way to get that blood circulating!

Thousands came out to see Obama sworn in, and it is no surprise that this is perhaps one of the most diverse crowds to come to inauguration. We cheered; we celebrated; we hugged. Even so, after all the celebrations, there is, however, a quiet stillness within, full of awe and wonder, recalling words from "Lift Every Voice and Sing:"

Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us.
Sing a song full of the hope that the presence has brought us.
Facing the rising sun as our new day begun
Let us march on till victory is won.

MLK Day

2009-01-19T08:06:00.003-05:00

"Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people will get to the promised land. And I'm happy, tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord."

Inauguration Stage One

2009-01-18T18:30:00.004-05:00

Is there a trend here? My last post, many months ago, was about Obama on election night. And my next one is on his inauguration. I guess there was nothing else exciting about my life during the months between.

Today I thoroughly enjoyed celebrating amongst thousands at the concert at Lincoln Memorial. I was surrounded by a great group of people. Behind me was an older African-American man who cracked jokes during the whole event, shouting out random names of celebrities that should come out next (Spike Lee!). Next to him stood a young woman screaming, "I love you Denzel! I love you Jamie!" There were the two middle-aged white women reminiscing about Billy Joel and Led Zeppelin concerts (Neil Diamond was mentioned as well) and who knew all the words to "American Pie" but didn't know who John Legend was. There was also the young African-American woman screaming as Jamie Foxx shouted out "Chicago stand up!!" She shouted right back, "We're standing!" With her were two boys too short to see anything and too young to find this group of old people shouting and dancing as interesting at all. In the middle were my roommate Lauren and I - short, cold and singing "Lean on Me."

I am excited. I have 7 (possibly 8) people coming down to take advantage of my residence in DC. I am so happy they are coming so I can celebrate with a group as thrilled as I am - my father, my sister, my friends. We're here to see history - that buzz word that feels cliche but is nonetheless true and important. History baby. Obama!

How Far We've Come

2008-11-06T09:44:00.005-05:00

Tuesday night was a good night. Not only have I been waiting for the last eight years to end, but a first in history was made. It was an exclamation point on centuries of struggle. For the first time in American history, our country will be led by a black president, and represented by a black first family. For the world, a superpower will be led by a man of color. President- elect Barack Obama.

I am in awe. Forty years after the Modern Civil Rights movement, four generations after slavery, we have come to this shattering moment. It affects every generation, from the grandparents that fought Jim Crow laws to the children born into a world where they will never know history without a black president. I think of the image that America must now face for four years, an image that breaks all stereotypes of black men, black women, and black families.

On Tuesday night, I cried. I cried because of how far we've come and for those who have been on this journey for a long time, and I cried for the children whose journeys are just beginning.

I feel blessed to see this moment, and to feel its overwhelming power. I also realize the burden which this places on Barack Obama and his family. I pray for strength and safety for their family. It isn't over yet, but I thank God for bringing us a mighty long way.

From the News:

One of my favorite Chicago Columnists wrote about her emotions after Obama's election. See it here.

VOTE!

2008-11-04T08:48:00.004-05:00

Don't Stare

2008-10-12T18:28:00.000-04:00

While taking a taxi with my co-workers, we drove past a man dancing in the middle of the street (amidst 4 lanes of traffic). I noted his presence, and then my thoughts passed on. However, one co-worker, from Denmark, exclaimed, "Am I the only one who sees this man? What is he doing?" The rest of us kind of mumbled..."Dancing in the street." "Ohhh...is this common in America? Am I the only one who finds it strange?"

Well....nooo. It's not common. What is common is that any time someone's actions are weird and out of the "ordinary", we ignore it. We avert our eyes. We pretend we don't actually notice it. If we're with friends, we may giggle once we've passed. Every once in a while, someone will ask, "What is that man doing?" And there may be laughter.

Is it because we wholeheartedly believe, "Hey, do your thing!" or because we just don't care. Or is it because we don't want to notice it. Dancing in the middle of traffic is an action that demands our attention, but we ignore it. We see, we chuckle, and we look the other way. We don't want to know why he is dancing. There is, afterall, something not right with him.

It was a simple question to ask, "why is he dancing in the street?" I don't know. Why is our response to either roll our eyes or not comment at all? As if we didn't even notice. I wonder about all the times I never look someone in the eye on the street; I ignore odd actions; I smile but brush aside the homeless person; I put on my ipod because I'd prefer to be in my personal world. When someone starts a conversation with me on the metro - it's true - I am sometimes annoyed. I'd rather sit there and stare into the darkness of the tunnel.

Nothing is wrong with liking a moment to yourself. But when does that turn into a life determined by the moments where eye contact is never made and conversations never continued? I doubt I will ever ask the man, "why?" But he will continue, with or without me. And I will remain in my private world, never knowing why he danced.

Boundary Issues: My Therapist, her Housekeeper, Immigration and Me

2008-10-01T21:19:00.003-04:00

From the Washington Post
By Michele Serros
Sunday, September 28, 2008

A friend had warned me about having sessions in a therapist's own home. "It can be too personal, unprofessional," she said, relating her own experience. "Every time I noticed a new vase or floor rug, I wondered if I'd paid for it."

But from appearances alone, my new therapist didn't seem to be in desperate need of my postdated checks. Displayed on the walls of her garden-level home office were her and her husband's multiple Ivy League degrees; original, signed lithographs; and family photos documenting graduations and European vacations: three generations portrayed in celebration and cable-knit sweaters. My therapist wore silk blouses, stylish gauchos and knee-high boots to our sessions; a sizable diamond ring weighed down her left hand.

I, meanwhile, arrived in baggy sweats and hastily chosen T-shirts, there to talk about a life that couldn't have seemed more of a contrast: my grudge-holding, working-class Mexican American family (who can't share a holiday meal, let alone an entire trip); the nine years it took me to graduate from college; the ring finger recently bared by divorce. During our first few sessions, as I struggled with particular pieces of dysfunction, I worried about whether this woman, my therapist, could possibly understand where I was coming from and whether she'd judge my entire ethnic group by the stories I was sharing with her.

Some of my family, particularly the tías and great-tías, wondered why I even bothered with therapy. You don't tell people your business, they claimed, and you certainly don't share your secrets with them. After all, isn't that what family is for?

But there was no way I was going to expose my issues to any of my chatty cousins or las señoras homebound who lived to update grapevine gossip. Besides, over eight months, I found my therapist to be attentive and thorough. She took reams of notes and always asked questions, a lot of questions.

"Why the sadness?"
"Why the anger?"
"What are you feeling now?"

Many times during our sessions, I could hear movement in her home, dishes being washed, the room above us being vacuumed. Sometimes I detected the faint sound of a Spanish-language radio station. "Don't mind the noise," she'd say. "It's only my housekeeper."

I never saw that housekeeper, but I assumed she was brown, like me. I wondered if, looking out an upstairs window, she ever noticed me arriving or leaving, and what she'd think about another brown woman, like her, paying for someone to listen to her problems. After all, isn't that what family is for?

Then one lazy afternoon, as I clicked the TV remote from one daytime talk show to another, the phone rang. I was surprised to see my therapist's name and number appear on the caller ID and immediately glanced over at the kitchen calendar. No, I hadn't forgotten a session. I answered.
It was my therapist, sounding frantic. Her housekeeper was in trouble.

"She got picked up last night by Immigration," my therapist said. "My husband and I don't know what to do. This is a completely different world to us. She's been with us for nearly 10 years, but we've never experienced something like this before."

My heart dropped. What made her think that I had? Yes, I'm Mexican American, fourth-generation to be exact, but dealing with immigration sweeps is not a part of my life, either. Regardless, I set defensiveness aside and agreed to help her.

"I'll make some calls," I promised. "But anyone I talk to is going to need to know a few things. Does your housekeeper have all her papers in order? She has papers, right?"
"Oh," she exhaled. "I don't know. She never tells us anything."

This from a professional who earns a living through diligent observation and inquiry. Was she that naive? Was she faking it? How could someone with so many fancy degrees not know how to find the appropriate help? And how could she know I wasn't pro-wall, as I've been surprised to find many Latinos are, discreetly?

After getting off the phone with her, I started making calls to acquaintances who worked at immigrant assistance organizations and low-cost legal clinics. I was calling about "a friend's housekeeper," I told them awkwardly. I also tried to remember a time when I might have shared my feelings on immigration with my therapist, but I couldn't remember a one. I could only assume that the reason she'd chosen to cross our border was that, housekeeper aside, I was the only brown person in her life.

At our next session, my therapist started off by asking follow-up questions about the organizations I'd suggested to her over the phone. She wanted to know more about their procedure, more about what to do. I shared my limited knowledge as I watched the clock chip away at my allotted 50 minutes.

Later, another friend would joke about the situation, suggesting that I should have billed for my time. But I had a few other concerns: Why the sadness? Why the anger? What am I feeling now?
I'm still sorting out the issue with my new therapist.

Pause.

2008-07-19T13:48:00.003-04:00

I had a moment yesterday. A terrifying moment. One of my kids asked me, "You know that movie, The Twin Towers? Did all that really happen?" Another kid replied, "Yeah that happened. Planes went in the building..." I was busy sitting there wondering how they were so sketchy on the details. After all, everyone knows where they were on Sept 11, and we've been living with the consequences of it ever since. And then, suddenly it came to me..."How old were you in 2001?"

"I was three."

I nearly fell out the chair. Three!! Are you kidding me???!! And suddenly I knew I was old and getting older. The events I remember so clearly, and which I expect everyone to remember, is history to these kids. They weren't even around for the Clinton years!

For those of you over thirty, you're probably thinking, "Whatever, Liz. You don't remember the Soviet Union. You're twenty-one. Barely anything." True...but let me have my moment. My future flashed before my eyes and I was old. In pictures with the kids, I look like a mom. A young mom, but the generational difference is still there.

This moment, however, doesn't help that I sometimes feel terribly young and not put together. People ask me what I'm going to do after I graduate and my answer always is, "I have no idea." Slowly I'm starting to realize that I have only one year - not long at all - to change that answer before I start drifting in the real world.

Like I said, it was a terrifying moment. And I'm still trying to recover. But I know I never will - after all, I'll keep getting older and fifth graders will stay the same age.

Summer Days

2008-07-16T20:15:00.003-04:00

Ummm wow. It has been a month since I last wrote a post. I suppose I just got tired of the internet. I've failed to keep up on facebook. I think I need to reply to some emails...if I can find them. And now I'm looking at my last post and thinking, "May? Really??"

It isn't as if I've been terribly busy. I've been wondering what my purpose is in life, but then I usually wonder about that. I've read a few books. Watched a couple movies (or more). And for the last four weeks I have been working at my church at our Summer After-School Program. I love these kids. They drive me crazy, but I love them. Even if they dunked me in the water eight times today (Malcolm counted).

For a short time, however, I wondered why I wasn't doing more with my summer. Why didn't I have an amazing internship? Or at least a job that paid better than the one I got? Why wasn't I doing something AMAZING? Something to ooooh and aaaaaah over...

But I needed to let that go. When a fourth grader can't do subtraction, it is a big deal if I can help her. Nothing broke my heart more than when she told me, through tears, that her friend had been shot the day before. And nothing makes me feel so good than when a fifth grader asks if she can read to me. Or a kid proudly shows me the essay they wrote. And so when they dunk me in the water (Get Ms. Elizabeth! Get her!), I'm glad I'm having fun this summer and I can take a few down with me, if I'm gonna go down at all. And I can't wonder if I should've done something else, because these kids need my ALL. The only way for me to get somethin out of this summer is if they get somethin out of it too.

So that's what I've been doin. Gettin paid to hang out with kids. Life is good.

How to Tell a Story

2008-05-26T13:39:00.006-04:00

A couple days after returning from Ghana, I stared at the toilet bowl in our bathroom for a long time, wondering whether it was supposed to be that full of water, and then carefully watched it flush just to make sure...

It's been almost two weeks since I've been home in these United States of America, and if I pause to consider the past four months, it seems so strange to be here and not in Ghana. I thought I'd take the next few blog posts to reflect on the subjects I've been thinking about while I was in Ghana and since I've been back.

As I lived in Ghana, I was consistently aware of the images and stereotypes that we, as Americans, receive about Africa. And because of this, I have tried to be careful about the stories I share on this blog - I think our group of students has a responsibility to be critical of the things we choose to share and the pictures we choose to take. What stories do we want to tell and why? Because all of us took baggage with us when we went to Ghana.

I've noticed a couple things since I've been back. One, many of our images of African nations are violent, but what hit me in the face when I returned to America was turning on the news, and having murder after murder appear on the screen. In fact, I returned to Chicago following a couple of days of deadly shootings. And one question my host mom asked me about America, was why do kids go into their schools and start shooting? She couldn't understand it. A day after she asked me, I heard about the shooting at Northern Illinois University. Do we even understand the violence in our own country, let alone someone else's?

A couple days ago I read an article about a girl from Kenya who graduated from college in America. The journalist described how she grew up in a "mud hut" and escaped early marriage where she would be exchanged for cows and goats and chickens. Clearly, the reporter thought she had escaped the "barbaric" for a better life in the United States (and who do we always assume is barbaric?). Instead, I wonder why mud huts conjure up such negative thoughts, and why the journalist didn't bother to use the term "brideswealth" to explain the gift of cows and goats and chickens, and to understand the reason behind the system (because there is one!). Sure, such an exchange would be strange in the US and would probably be offensive, but then, we aren't talking about the US, are we? The reporter was sure to end his article with female genital mutilation. It rounded out the picture he wanted to paint: She had escaped a strange, poor, and unpromising country. It was a description of obstacles with little understanding or depth.

I know - I'm beginning to rant. But these are the things I've been aware of. How do we perceive African nations? What images do we see? It's a hard thing to escape. I've tried to be critical of my own interactions in Ghana - what assumptions am I making? Did I project onto people the stereotypes I've learned?

I'm rambling about all this because I hope this blog has not just been a place to reinforce these images. I hope I have been successful in critically examining myself, and I hope you can critically read my stories as well. Call me out on them! And if I don't explain enough, tell me. Because in the end, if unchecked, we turn Africa into "other." And so we fail to truly see ourselves.

Back in the States

2008-05-15T16:49:00.004-04:00

Here I am - back in the United States of America. After a 7 hour flight to London, another 7 hour flight to New York, a 5 hour layover, and a 2 hour flight to Chicago, I finally made it. So far I've just been hanging out in my pajamas. I managed to wake up at 4 this morning and get up at 7 because I was too awake - that's jet lag for you.

I'm glad to be home, and to see people. I'm also cold. I was hoping for 70 degree weather people! Right now I'm wearing a sweatshirt, and hiding under a blanket. It's strange to be back - Ghana feels like a dream. I am going to miss so much. My family. Buying anything I need off the street. Fresh fruit and fresh bread. Using my newly acquired bargaining skills. Chatting with random people. Speaking Fante, and having someone grin and exclaim, " 'ey! Etse Fante?"

The past four months have been amazing. I have grown so much and learned so much. It's no easy thing to sum up, but I hope this blog has been a little window into my experience. Four months from now, I'll be learning new things from this experience, and discovering other ways it has changed me. I hope I return to Ghana someday. I don't want that to be the last time. And I want to travel more. The world is too big to stay in one place, if it can be helped.

So I'm back. I'm drinking out of the tap again, and in shock over the speed of the internet. I'm adjusting myself to looking out of the window and not seeing the the sun, shining over dusty red roads with goats and chickens and dogs. It really is like a dream.

And I guess I'll now have to change the title of this blog.

Counting Down

2008-04-29T11:15:00.003-04:00

I woke up this morning thinking about macaroni and cheese. Such a beautiful thought to wake up to, except that it was followed by remembering that I had to get out of bed and go to an interview. And that there was no mac&cheese to be had.

Two weeks from today I'll be on a plane headed back to the US! Seems so crazy. I can't believe that I'll be able to say, "I lived in Ghana for four months." I'm homesick, but I also have moments of "Wow. I'm gonna miss Ghana!" And I will. Its strange to think that I have no idea when I'll come back, or if I ever will. But I'll always have this experience - as corny as that sounds.

As for ISP, it is going "fair." Susu savings is a difficult topic - I would, of course, choose the one that has to do with economics. I think its interesting, but I'm also afraid that I won't be thorough in my paper. I have limited resources, limited time, and people don't walk around with signs that say, "I use Susu Savings, please come talk to me," which would be really helpful. On top of that, I realized halfway through the month that there was a different topic I wish I had done (I'd explain it, but its difficult to explain, and so much easier to talk about in person). None of this is to sound too depressing, because Susu is a good topic, and I've learned a lot, and there are so many questions I have about economics in developing countries (especially microfinancing). Now I just have to write the actual paper - not looking forward to that. It's due in a week!

Accra and ISP

2008-04-22T10:13:00.005-04:00

For the past few days I've been trekking around Accra, the capital of Ghana. The first time I went, with the group, I realized how small Cape Coast really is. Its a town. Accra is a city. Big, bustling, and so easy to get lost in, Accra makes me miss Chicago. It makes me wish I brought clothes I really like (while at the University of Ghana, the girls were dressed so much better than I ever am). It also makes me wish I had the time, and the energy, to learn how to get around.

Accra mall is one place that is hard to take though. Bright, shiny and new, it is full of expensive stores, including a grocery store. Its a mall, like any US mall, except one thing - its clearly a status symbol. To go to the mall, be dressed fashionably. You are more than likely very wealthy. It was unsettling to walk through, because in the midst of this status, I realized that I was included. As a foreigner, I am identified with a status that I would never identify with in the US. I belong to this mall.

I don't know if I can describe it beyond those few words, but I can at least share an amusing story. As my friend and I got up to leave a fast food place, my flip-flop broke. These are the flip-flops that I have been saying I needed to throw out (for the past two weeks). Wearing them was like being barefoot. But, alas, I didn't throw them out, and they broke in the middle of Accra Mall. This is made worse because flip-flops are usually considered house shoes. I usually wear them anyway - but to have them break in the mall! I was mortified - well, not really. I was mostly laughing hysterically as I stealthily found my way to a store, sliding my foot across the floor, past girls in skinny jeans and heels. I found another pair of flip-flops, and paid 9 cedis for them, more than I ever would in the market (or what I'd be willing to pay in the US for that matter).

So what is Accra like? It is a city - different from other cities, but similar as well. It is filled with friendly people and shady characters. And it is more than I could know in the few days that I've been here.

Tomorrow I travel back to Cape Coast, and from there to Komenda. Two more weeks are left of ISP. For those of you who don't know, ISP is an independant research paper that I have a month to complete. My topic is Susu Savings, an informal method of saving. So far, things are moving slowly as I'm gathering interviews. My hope is that it will all pick up in Komenda, though. Here's to hoping!

A Quick (or long) Update in Pictures

2008-04-07T11:56:00.008-04:00

Because Kate has been showing off all her pretty pictures (I love u Kate!), I decided that I should try this internet again, and put up my own as well. As you can see, I only managed three. Spending ten/fifteen minutes on each one is not my idea of fun. And with internet here, time literally is money. Anyway, these are from our trip to Accra (the capital of Ghana) and Benin (two countries east of us):

Ganvie Village in Benin: Yes! it is a village on water. The village moved to water in order to escape slave raids. It has a population of 22,000. In our boat, we could see areas of water sectioned off by plants (like palms) - these areas are used to farm fish and are owned by individuals or families.

A view from Shai Hills (near Accra). We climbed through a cave and to the top to get this view.

It isn't fake. I have a snake around my neck. Not any snake, but a python. This was taken in the Temple of Pythons in Ouidah, Benin. The traditional religion of Ouidah believes that the python is a medium of the spirit world. The Temple has many pythons (I have more pictures). How do they eat you may ask? No one feeds them. The gate is left open at night and the pythons slip out for a meal on the town. The next day, if anyone comes across a python, they pick it up and bring it back to the temple. We saw a little boy walk calmly into the temple returning a python he found.

With a little more thought, I'll soon blog about my experiences in Accra and Benin - so you can wait anxiously for that. Accra, the big city, and Benin, another country! I may even mention passing through Togo....but that can be summed up by the t-shirts so many in our group want to make: "I Peed in Togo."

A Good Quote

2008-03-20T10:44:00.001-04:00

From a lecture:

"All education is indoctrination. The best education is the indoctrination that makes you aware of indoctrination."

Me Spewing Out Random Thoughts

2008-03-17T12:27:00.006-04:00

So you are lucky to get this post. Yesterday I was about to publish it when my browser suddenly seemed to be shrinking, I smelled something funny, and looked up to find that my monitor had smoke pouring out of it. The computer had to be turned off quickly. I thought I'd lost my post, but thanks to this beautiful website, it was saved just in time. So here it is, thru the fire and back:

Luckily, the past few days have passed by without any animal incidents. Although, the family cat really wants to be friends, and all I can think about is that it has probably traveled thru the gutter, or who knows where. But she’s so cute, and I’m pretty sure that at some point I will cave and pet her. She’s already got me to pet her with my sandals – it’s only a matter of time.

We have very little strenuous academic work to do while we’re here (minus our Independent Study Project), but we do occasionally have a paper to write. This Thursday one of our research papers is due, on any topic of our choice, and I’ve decided to do mine on art. I’ve never taken an Art History class, but I’ve been to enough museums and read/observed enough to know that our understanding has been distinctly westernized (well, let me be a little cautious, this is what I think – if you know more about art history, please feel free to correct me). We talk about African art in terms of traditional and contemporary, but we spend extensive time studying European art in terms of “periods” and “styles.” I hear very little about “traditional” European art. What does “traditional” even really mean? What makes it traditional? What defines “art” and how is it valued? What we find aesthetically pleasing and the language we use to describe these expressions have all been culturally defined (to use that catch phrase). So how can I describe African art? How do I avoid considering one piece as a “masterpiece” and another as “traditional,” when both may have been created at the same time, but with different purposes and as different aesthetic expressions? Western art has “traditionally” been realistic while African art has been abstract. Even Picasso borrowed his ideas from African art.

These sorts of questions lead me to simply consider "westernization." The more I examine it, the more I see a tightly woven knot. Attempt to loosen one end, and you may tighten another end. Or you may not even be able to see where one string starts and another begins. One of the most dangerous aspects of "westernization" is its ability to hide in our language and our interpretations of knowledge and history. Where do we untie the knot?

Northern Trip and Stories

2008-03-10T11:42:00.004-04:00

In a total of ten days, our group managed to travel across Ghana, specifically in the North, as far as the border of Burkina Faso. The highlights:

Bonwire: Our first stop was at the home of Kente, where we were able to buy Kente cloth from the weavers at their cheapest prices. And before everyone gets excited, thinking maybe that Kente cloth will be their gift, I have to apologize. It was an intense experience and I ended up leaving with less than I had intended on buying. Immediately sellers were grabbing and telling you to buy this or that, and "sister, sister, I will give you good price." Browsing was not an option; given time to think about things was not an option. And so I came back with very little Kente, which I am disappointed about.

Gwollu: This village borders Burkina Faso where people cross the "border" all the time to sell goods and visit people. We spoke with the elders of the village who explained their history. When slave raids started occuring, the people of Gwollu and surrounding villages decided to build a wall around the village. A second wall was later built to protect both the village and their water sources. Holes were put in the wall for the people to defend themselves against the raiders.

Sankana: This village also protected itself from slave raiders. Caves were used to hide people, and certaing rocks were outlooks for warriors to stand watch. These are places that strangers cannot visit without the permission of the Elders. They are considered sacred.

Mole Game Park: I saw an elephant! Up close and personal. And crocodiles. Very cool, and I'll be sure to pass around the pictures (also see story below).

We also visited Kumasi, Tamale and Wa. As a whole, this trip was very thought-provoking. First, the history of resistance to the slave trade in West Africa is not talked about very often. How often do we hear these stories? But they are there, and many villages pass down the history of this resistance and hold festivals at certain sacred sites. Second, in Sankana, the Elders stated that they did not know what happened to those captured. They had no idea what happened once they were taken from the village. And our professor, Uncle Eric, told us, "Who would tell them? To what purpose? The wound is too deep and many people are still angry."

My mind has been teeming with how to understand all of this. For some of these villages, they connect these slave raids only to other African groups (because they are the ones who did the raiding) and do not know about the rest of the history. But how do you tell them? What context can they put it in? How do they understand the injustices of wealthy nations? For them, it ended when the slave raids ended (and then moved on to colonization); for us, it began as soon as people left African shores. How is this disconnect bridged?

And yet it is bridged, and can be bridged. Because at the same time, many Ghanaians see the African diaspora as their brothers and sisters. And Ghana places an emphasis on "returning home." Slowly, as children grow up in schools, a new generation will know the history (but that brings up another question - how much is being taught?) I am trying to understand the balancing act between the common struggle and oppression of people and their unique experiences and histories. My thoughts on it are even more than I can write on paper.

Some Humorous Stories:

Story Number 1 (not from the Northern trip):

There's no such thing as too many people in a taxi. A few weeks ago, two friends and I took the cab ride of our lives. Imagine this:

There are four of us in the backseat where I am forced to sit on a friend's lap, hunched over because the ceiling is too low. There are two people sitting in the passenger seat. So far there's six people plus the driver. We set off, and as we're driving (around 60 or 70 miles an hour), I turn my head as best I can, and find that two guys are hangin out the trunk. That's right - they're hangin out the trunk. Eight people plus the driver.

And then there's the clanking noise coming from the rear left side. I hold tight to the driver's seat, and I'm wondering, "Am I the only one who smells fumes?" And that's when I start praying.

We suddenly stop. The driver gets out; the two trunk boys hop down, and they start speaking in Fante while staring at the wheel. The driver whacks the tire a few times. And this time the two guys change seats. One gets into the drivers seat with the driver. The other decides to sit on the hood of the car. Does the driver decide to slow down because of this? No, no. We still speed over hills and around curves. Ten minutes later we fall out of car in complete wonder. And then we pay the driver - for packing us in and scaring us half to death.

Story Number 2 (from the trip):

As I already wrote, we visited Mole Game Park and saw all sorts of animals. The elephant was of course the favorite, but the real story is all about the baboons.

Before we went on our walking tour, we'd already seen many baboons. They strolled past our rooms, along with the warthogs, with complete ease. I walked out of my door one day and there was a baboon - two feet away. The presence of these animals caused much discussion between us. Julius had already relayed the story of some monkeys who went crazy on their owner by maiming and castrating him, and in Julius' words, "It was the attack of the apes.....and they won." So these sorts of stories were in our minds as we were told that we would be touring the park on foot.

On our way to meet our tour guide (keep in mind the tour hasn't started) we pass an area right by our rooms and see about twenty baboons. Everyone starts repeating again, "Is this safe?" Suddenly two baboons start screeching at each other, and then all twenty baboons are screeching at each other. Julius is standing right behind me, and the last words I hear from him are, "I am not even kidding you. I am not even kidding you," when suddenly, all twenty baboons come charging straight at us (and I mean straight), screeching and fighting each other. You hear a collective, "Oh Shit!" and then people start running. Julius ran faster then anyone, with Myles at his heels, straight back to the bus, where they found another baboon waiting, and so started running again. By far, one of the funniest moments....if people weren't terrified.

You may ask what I did? Well, I turned to start running, and then thought, "I'm probably better off standing still," and so I turned back around and snapped a picture. That's right - Liz is either absolutely crazy or has her wits about her.

Story Number Three:

This one is Liz v. Chimp, and I think the Chimp won. In Kumasi, a couple of us visited the zoo (which sadly keeps the animals in very small cages), and I was very excited to visit the chimps. One Chimp in particular started posing for me right away. I snapped pictures and talked to him while he hung from the bars and did flips. Finally, he stuck his hand out, wanting his prize banana. People apparently often feed the chimps. I, however, had no banana, but continued taking pictures of him and his family.

So he threw a rock at me.

And thankfully missed. This time I started taking pictures of another chimp, and didn't pay any attention to the one who was now getting angry. He went off to his little corner, came back with a mouthful of water, and as I was snapping a picture, shot it through the bars across the fence and right on my head. I was showered. And as I'm laughing, because I find this hysterical, I look over at him and the fool is smiling. Dude was smiling! He knew he had gotten me good.

But I still didn't give him a banana, so as a parting gift, he threw an orange peel at me.

Difficult to Absorb

2008-02-29T09:01:00.003-05:00

I have yet to tackle this topic/experience because I wanted to really think about what I was going to write. The topic of my program in Ghana is "History and Cultures of the African Diaspora," and a large part of its focus is on the Atlantic Slave Trade. Heavy stuff, and as many of you know, of great interest to me. Two weeks ago we visited Elmina Castle, a former slave castle, and Assin Manso, the last stop for captives before they reached Elmina and left the shores of Africa.

One of the most difficult moments for me was actually entering the castle, preparing myself, and feeling the full weight of the history that resides in the memory of those walls. The tour started with the bottom level of the castle - the dungeons, beginning with the female slave dungeon. With no windows and walls gray and green from mold, the tour guide explained how women were packed in, left to relieve themselves in their living space for at least 3 months, and frequently told to stand before the governor so he could choose one woman to rape. Soldiers often took the same liberty as well.

Following the dungeons, we bent far and went into darker places to reach "the Door of No Return." This is a skinny opening for one individual to pass through and board the slave ship. It is now called "the Door of Return" because the bodies of two slaves were brought back through it and laid to rest at Assin Manso.

At the very top of the castle is the governor's chambers - massive and breezy with windows. Next to his rooms is the church, with a plaque from the psalms: "For the Lord has chosen Zion, he has desired it for his dwelling" (Psalm 132:13). At the base of this menacing structure are the slave dungeons, and at its top is the church. It is proof of humanity's ability to cover its sins with a veil of "righteousness." Father, forgive us.

As I walked through, I thought, "Wouldn't it be a miracle if every American was required to walk throught this place?" It is amazing to be in Ghana and be critically thinking about the impact of slavery on West Africa. The traces of its memory are everywhere: past structures, festivals, storytelling, and villages. I had one child cry as his mom tried to bring him to me - he was afraid I would take him to America with me. That's an extreme case (most children flock) but no less disturbing. I am a ghost story.

The history of slavery is a wound that cuts deep on almost every continent. From these visits, I am reminded of how important facing that history is.

Randomness

2008-02-16T11:23:00.002-05:00

What I Do

It is nearly impossible to sleep past 7AM here. The sun is shining, the dogs barking, the roosters crowing, the kids yelling and calling to each other (I live by a school) - this town really does wake up together. I never really need an alarm clock. I use it to tell me when I have to get up, but never to wake up.

By 8AM, I'm out the door. The walk to school is about 20 minutes. The route I usually take sends me past a long line of shops and stands, avoiding contact with the various chickens in my path. I don't mind the dogs and goats, but I don't trust those chickens. The precarious moment is crossing the street while avoiding speeding cars....and they do speed. I haven't seen a taxi with a working speedometer.

At some point I hear a kid call out, "obruni!" which means I should turn and wave. Obruni means white person, but it is used generally as foreigner. The kids love to chant, "obruni!/how are you?/i'm fine./thank you!" If I'm daring I might call out, "bibinee!/wo hotse den?/mo ho ye./me da ase." They're cute kids.

At 8:30, Fante class begins and doesn't end until 12:30. Fortunately we get a half-hour break. This is when I take 2 packets of instant coffee and 3 spoonfuls of Milo, a chocolate drink powder, and make myself a mocha.

So by 12:30 we all stand around trying to decide what to do and nearly always decide to go into town to the market. First stop, internet cafe. And then wandering plus some food. And then back to class for a lecture (more about this in a later post).

What I Miss

1) A good cup of coffee.

2) Washing machines. I've learned how to wash my clothes, and like a wimp, I mourn the loss of General Electric. I'm such a pathetic American that my hands were chafed and stinging by the time I was finished.

3) My music. What the heck is wrong with me? Why did I not pay attention to what's on my ipod? I have a whole album of Counting Crows, and not my Jill Scott albums. When do I listen to Counting Crows? And two albums of U2? I'd much rather have my Fred Hammond.

4) My laptop....oh to have the internet at my fingertips!

5)Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream

6) All my peeps! I love you!

All in a Day's Work

2008-02-13T09:05:00.002-05:00

First, it started with the sewers. Many of us have often whispered about our greates nightmare - what if we fell in one of the sewers? Open sewers line the road throughout Cape Coast. Trash, waste and little boys who pee in it make this water "toxic." Everything we've been innoculated for and everything we haven't is in there. Its pretty nasty.

Well, yesterday, one of our own did fall in. A few of us were walking, stopped briefly, and she tripped and fell. Needless to say, she was traumatized. We got her out, pulled out our water bottles to rinse her off, and just kept telling her, "It's ok, you're fine, you're fine, it's ok." She was crying and we were doing our best to calm her. Went and bought new flip-flops and purell-ed her legs. It was worst nightmare realized. But I say, its gonna make a good story in a few months.

On a lighter note, the day ended with me talking to a man and woman on my way home. After a few minutes of speaking in Fante (getting the woman all excited that I knew a very very little - wo hotse den?) we diverted back to English....and the final minutes went something like this:

Man: (something in Fante)
Me: What? (Woman smiles....)
Man: Are you married?
Me: No (laughing)
Man: I want to marry you.
Me: Uhhhh...I don't think so.
Woman: Why not? You don't like him?
Me: Ummm...I just met him. (look from him to her....are they serious?)
Woman: What? You think he is my husband? He is my brother!
Me: No, No...
Man: I want to marry you...
Me: (Smiling awkwardly) I don't think so.
Woman: You don't like him?
Me: I just met him!
Woman: So? You have to begin a relationship somewhere.
Me: So I begin at marriage?

This continued for a little bit longer - I'm not even sure how it ended. I may have been engaged. Although later, I wondered if I could've just said "thank you." I mean technically he didn't ask me.....

But to all future proposers, get in line!

On the Subject of Ghanaian TV and other thoughts

2008-02-08T07:48:00.000-05:00

First, almost every commercial is about football. literally. i think i've seen two that aren't. Just so you understand, football is BIG (and unfortunately we lost last night, but we won't talk about that). Second, there's a lot of American tv...MTV, Heroes, Lost, etc. I came all the way to Ghana to watch Heroes for the first time. And believe it or not, there are Spanish Soaps. I kid you not. Dubbed in english. It's fantastic.

There's also a lot of information type shows. Shows about health...explaining diseases and disease prevention. And these shows can be graphic...pics that are for educational purposes but would never show on American tvs (which will show a lot of other crap that is definitely not educational). There's even a little infomercial on the need for punctuality...which I saw following an explanation by a professor that Ghanaians are relaxed about time (as she said...clocks and time are things that have been imposed on us recently).

And then there are African movies. Including Nigerian ones. Yeeeeaaaah!! And did i mention football?

And answers to posted questions:
What am i wearing? Shirts and skirts. My wardrobe has been fine. Tomorrow I'm buying fabric though, and getting some dresses made!!! WOOHOO!

Internet and video games? Well...most people don't have a computer in their home. I go to an internet cafe thats pretty cheap, and fairly reliable. Video games? Don't know of any. If there are, i'm sure they have to do with football. but i've seen people on both youtube and facebook.

Horror Story of the week (and perhaps life):
I woke up at 1AM last night, and felt something on my neck...without much thought, my hand flicked it off and then i became conscious to the fact that something had been crawling on me. Grabbed the flashlight, looked for it, and discovered a giant cockroach.

No words can express. I curled up into a little ball, asked God to please put up some barrier, and put on my ipod. Ronke, I think even this beats ur mouse story.

My question is: was it crawling up or down?

Superbowl Sunday in Ghana

2008-02-04T08:40:00.000-05:00

The Oprah magazine went over big. My host mother, Auntie Mary, sat down, picked up her glasses and read what Oprah had so wisely written. The calendar got a smile, and the rest of my gifts (a Chicago mug and Time Magazine) got a "Mmmmmm" This seems to be a tonal Ghanaian version of "uh-huh." Well, almost. At least in transactions. Haven't yet figured out what it means for gifts.

Other news from Ghana (and the biggest): Ghana beat Nigeria in the quarterfinals of the African Cup (football). The town went crazy. Every time Ghana made a goal, eruptions of yells and banging could be heard EVERYWHERE. Including inside my house. It was very exciting.

I am starting to get a little familiar with where I'm at. Taxis honk constantly at us hoping to get customers. It takes us a few times to assure them that we actually do wanna walk. At night, the dogs yap like crazy. Its like their time to chat with each other. Late into the night they answer back and forth. And then at some point the rooster starts crowing (quite a few). I haven't figured out why tho. Why does a rooster feel the need to crow at one in the morning?

So, I'm making it. And enjoying it. Moving in with my host family was a little unnerving - what do i do? should i sit and talk...should i not? but i'll figure it out!

PS - my love to all my peeps!! miss u all!

Finally.....Live from Cape Coast, Ghana!

2008-02-02T11:01:00.000-05:00

This will be quick. At some point, I will take some relaxing time to write out a coherent blog. But for now, I am here to say, "I'm in GHANA!!!" It is hot and hazy, so very different, and so very amazing.

So quick items: I walked across one of three canopies in the world, listened to a "Queen Mother," found my way around the market and bought some kola nuts, and went to the beach! I am having a fabulous time and will keep you posted!

MLK Day

2008-01-21T15:46:00.000-05:00

"There is a little tree planted on a little hill and on that tree hangs the most influential character that ever came in this world. But never feel that tree is a meaningless drama that took place on the stages of history. Oh no, it is a telescope through which we look out into the long vista of eternity, and see the love of God breaking forth into time. It is an eternal reminder to a power-drunk generation that love is the only way. It is an eternal reminder to a generation depending on nuclear and atomic energy, a generation depending on physical violence, that love is the only creative, redemptive, transforming power in the universe.

So this morning, as I look into your eyes, and into the eyes of all of my brothers in Alabama and all over America and over the world, I say to you, "I love you. I would rather die than hate you." And I'm foolish enough to believe that through the power of this love somewhere, men of the most recalcitrant bent will be transformed. And then we will be in God's kingdom. We will be able to matriculate into the university of eternal life because we had the power to love our enemies, to bless those persons that cursed us, to even decide to be good to those persons who hated us, and we even prayed for those persons who despitefully used us."

- Martin Luther King Jr
November 17 1957

"Maybe when you wear the looser clothing you'll look like the maid."

2008-01-16T19:35:00.000-05:00

Ronke, my Nigerian sister, gave me Ghana clothing 101 the other night. It consisted of giving me very little comfort about what I should bring and completely confusing me. The program tells me that "tops should cover shoulders and waist...skirts should cover knees, clothing should not be tight or see-through, and plunging necklines are not acceptable." Ronke's advice is different, however.

1) I do not have to dress like a nun. Proof: Pictures of girls in tanks with plunging necklines and tight jeans.

2) My low-heel sandals are what her mother used to wear around the house.

3) If I'm going to wear the skirts I was planning to bring, accessorize. Bangles, bangles, bangles!

4) Girls my age will be dressed like Americans. I should not try to dress like it was 20 years ago. If it's cute here, it's cute there.

And that is Ronke's advice. Along with scaring me by saying an outfit there will cost $100, and then realizing that it's probably because her mother was always buying the very high-quality cloth from Dubai, and that I actually could get something for $10 (at which point I began smacking her). She also got smacked for laughing about my mid-calf skirts, and then finding a skirt she wore in Nigeria that was most definitely down to her ankles.

So the solution to this dilemma? Bring all the nunnery and the cute tops. And heels.

To whom much is given, much is required

2008-01-09T16:35:00.000-05:00

Preparations for Ghana continue. I've got the mosquito repellant, the mosquito net, the sleep sack, the hiking boots, and seven of my eight shots. And the closer I get, the more I can't believe that I'm actually going. What?!!

Preparing for all this, however, has reminded me how important family support really is. I filled out a "letter of financial responsibility" today, and I thought of how easy it was. I could put my father down as responsible for my finances (probably much to his chagrin) without a second thought. My middle class status stared me right in the face. With all my complaints of how much those shots cost, I can empty out my bank account with the knowledge that if I need help, my parents have the resources to help me. And they do. All that mosquito crap? My father bought that. And I'm hoping that my health insurance will pay me back for all those shots.

This isn't to list how wonderful my life is because I can go to Ghana. But I thought about how so many college students are going to school with much more limited resources. They may not have parents who can pay for all the extra stuff, or who can sign that financial responsibility letter. They may not have health insurance to pay for prescriptions. To be solely responsible for your finances is hard at this time in our lives.

And so I'm reminded of what I expect from myself. I expect myself to go to Ghana, with gratitude, and make the experience worth something, something more than a good time or another point on the resume. I won't take for granted the support I am able to recieve.

And when it does get hard to know where the money will come from? God is good, and I'll take out a loan! =)

How NOT to avoid embarassment

2007-12-17T16:15:00.000-05:00

Sometimes its really healthy to laugh hysterically at yourself while in public. And the perfect opportunity came to me while standing in Borders. So to set the scene....

I pick out about 5 different cds of African music. One of them was gonna be a present, but I hadn't decided which one, so what better way but to actually listen to them? And that's what those little borders listening stations are for. Swipe the cd barcode underneath and play the songs. So I put the headphones on and set to figurin out which African music cd I was gonna buy.

And so some twenty minutes later, after playing some of the cds more than once, I'm satisfied with my choice. I pull off the headphones, and then, to my horror, I hear drums and singing, still playing, and very much audible to the whole store.

Stupid Borders listening thingy was playing out of speakers.

And so what else could I do but stand there laughing at myself? For twenty minutes I had blissfully been rockin out to music from across the African continent, and lo and behold, so was the rest of the store. I look to the guy to the left of me, smiled, trying to let him in on the joke...and I think he thought I was hitting on him. No, no...I'm just crackin up by myself in the middle of Borders.

been here too long - please send food

2007-12-15T17:58:00.000-05:00

If I have to spend one more hour at the library I may find a way to break one of those suicide-proof windows.

Nothing is more depressing than going to the library in the midst of sunshine and birds singing, and returning home after dark in the cold. And I haven't even left yet. It doesn't help that I have no feeling in my butt, my eyes are squinting from staring at my laptop, and this rather large table reminds me how short I am. Or that this is the billionth paper I've had to write.

Why do we continue to come here? After deciding that "Gelman sucks out your soul," you would think we'd opt out. But perhaps we really love it deep down in side. We love the flickering lights, the creepy kids who stalk our study room, the air vent that makes noises (maybe those really are rats), and the girls who come dressed like they were going to a club ( because miniskirts and tanks help me study).

Or maybe its the conversations. Here is where we become philosophical ("be the salmon"), reflective ("I don't care about John Bunyan!"), and inquisitive ("If you did jump out of this window, would you land on your head?").

It could be that we're just dedicated. We procrastinate, but we always get the work done. We spend hours talking, so we can spend that one hour studying in order to at least pass the final. We want to show determination.

But I'm tired of being dedicated. It leaves me writing blog posts about nothing just so I can avoid the umpteenth article of the day. That article which conveniently says nothing at all by the time I get to the end of it (damn you). And so eventually I'll leave the library: dedicated no more, exhausted and contemplating the benefits to living in a commune. I don't think I'll need a college degree there. They'll make me my clothes.

The Nature of a Stupid Fool

2007-12-12T12:22:00.001-05:00

Stupid:1. lacking ordinary quickness or keenness of mind, dull.
2. tediously dull, esp. due to lack of meaning or sense; inane; pointless
3. annoying or irritating

Fool: 1. a silly or stupid person; a person who lacks judgment or sense.
2. a weak-minded or idiotic person.

Some of you may be wondering why my URL is "youstupidfool." It is probably one of my most commonly used phrases (although lately "damn it to hell" has been a favorite. sorry mom.). The only way to really explain it is to put it into context. My job - answering the calls of professors and students about campus technology - gives me the opportunity to interact with many a stupid fool.

Prof: "The computer just has a blank screen. I need this for my lecture. I cannot teach otherwise. Send someone right away."
Me: "Did you move the mouse?"
pause
Prof: "Oh...thank you. Ok goodbye."

Stupid fool.

And then there's the overachieving students who show up 2 hours early for class to practice their presentation.
Student: "It says you need a passcode. Could you tell me what it is?"
Me: No. (stupid fool)

But you can also use this phrase for other occasions.
Me: Will you get lunch with me?
Friend: I can't. I have to go to class.
Me: You stupid fool.

Me: Dang it, I haven't done those forms.
Friend: Yeah...you're kinda scatterbrained.
Me: Shutup you stupid fool!

So see, "stupid fool" is versatile. It can explain a situation, a bad day, an annoying person, or the friend that just said something really truly idiotic and you have to let them know. A stupid fool is a declaration. Try it. Next time that professor gives you 6 French exercises to do in one day, go ahead and say it. Stupid fool. You'll feel better.

Bored at work....and therefore my reflections

2007-12-11T13:23:00.000-05:00

Between Sonali throwing nutcrackers because they freak her out and the puzzle attracting people's attention and hatred, I think the goodbye party was a success. Kate (my roommate going to Kenya) and I decided we'd throw ourselves a goodbye party because we love us. So everyone else was able to love on us too.

And in a week and a half I say goodbye to people at GW. I go home; I lie on the couch and worry about leaving the country; I take malaria pills a couple days before getting on a plane, flying to London and winding up in Cape Coast. It seems unreal. I'm sad to think of all the things I'll miss: angry professors calling AT, goin to large group, hangin out with friends, watching Alex angrily complain about life while Laura makes wisecracks and Kate exists in her own little corner shouting random things. This is why it will be sad.

But...I'll get over it. Cuz I am going to GHANA!!!!!!! and that makes me excited.

Blah Blah Blah

2007-12-08T23:19:00.000-05:00

This blog was really going to be about Ghana (where I'll be studying abroad next semester), but I have about 2 months before I go, and I couldn't wait to start spouting about my life. So for two months I'll be rambling about the uninteresting (or sometimes embarassing, sometimes amusing) details of my life.

Ghana preparation has begun however. My arm feels wounded now. The yellow fever shot I got yesterday is my first testament to the fact that I absolutely without a doubt definitely am going to Cape Coast, Ghana. Next proof: rabies shot, Hepatitis A shot, Polio booster. I'll be a human pincushion.