I help run a group for girls at Urban. It's called Students for Women's Equity and Rights (SWEAR). Helping out with the group involves running their online conference/discussion. I try to keep my voice to a minumum on there to give the students more space; sometimes, I am inspired to post something. What's below is in response to girls writing about their ambivalence on being "feminine."
* * *
Circular narrative ahead...
I made brownies for some friends. One of them asked, "Are those Turkish brownies?" I thought about it for a second. I did follow my mom's recipe, and she is Turkish, but...these are just brownies. I didn't realize brownies had a nationality. I said (insert smartass tone here:), "well, I made them, so yes, I guess they are 'Turkish'." Other times, when I do something that puzzles people and they ask, "Is that a Turkish thing to do?" with a sort of innocence in their voice that comes from lacking information ("ignorance" sounds too harsh here), I say, "Well, I did it, so it must be, I suppose."
I think about what it means to be feminine in the same way. When I climb up to an apartment's balcony to let in a friend who just locked himself out and he says I'm "so butchie," I get annoyed. No. If I am going to fit into one of those dichotomies, it's probably "femmy," and this is what "femmy" looks like because I am feminine and I did just climb up a railing and hoist myself up into a balcony.
I am a woman. Whatever I do, then, is womanly/feminine.
tk
_________________________
The purpose of art is to lay bare the questions which have been hidden by the answers.
:: James Baldwin ::
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
a half-baked idea...
I've been thinking about not teaching full time
...because I value time more than money.
I want time to read, write, be guiltfree on a beach on a Sunday (grading day!), do art.
15 essays fewer a week means over 6 hours of additional free time -- that's huge! That's an entire Sunday afternoon reading Baldwin instead of essays on "Othello" by adolescents who think they can analyze a man's internalized racism in two double-spaced pages.
I mentioned the idea to my department chair today. As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt a little scared. The idea is now out there in the world; it's a real possibility now.
It sounds simple maybe...
It's not.
If this doesn't work financially, and I am finding that I am not able to make ends meet, I can't just get a job at a cafe. I can't temp. I can't register as a sub. I am on a work visa, and the only employer that can -legally- give me money for my work is my current employer.
If I commit to being part time and it doesn't quite work out the way I am hoping it will...well, I guess there is always dog walking and baby sitting and tutoring folks on Craigslist for cash.
Yes, the idea of going part time and voicing it in front of my department chair scared me, oddly...and that is precisely how come I think I need to consider the option.
(Any comments?)
...because I value time more than money.
I want time to read, write, be guiltfree on a beach on a Sunday (grading day!), do art.
15 essays fewer a week means over 6 hours of additional free time -- that's huge! That's an entire Sunday afternoon reading Baldwin instead of essays on "Othello" by adolescents who think they can analyze a man's internalized racism in two double-spaced pages.
I mentioned the idea to my department chair today. As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt a little scared. The idea is now out there in the world; it's a real possibility now.
It sounds simple maybe...
It's not.
If this doesn't work financially, and I am finding that I am not able to make ends meet, I can't just get a job at a cafe. I can't temp. I can't register as a sub. I am on a work visa, and the only employer that can -legally- give me money for my work is my current employer.
If I commit to being part time and it doesn't quite work out the way I am hoping it will...well, I guess there is always dog walking and baby sitting and tutoring folks on Craigslist for cash.
Yes, the idea of going part time and voicing it in front of my department chair scared me, oddly...and that is precisely how come I think I need to consider the option.
(Any comments?)
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Rain and leaf stencils in San Francisco
Ever since I went back to Fort Funston and spent some hours in a late afternoon's mist and an early evening's fire-lit quietude, I've been ready for the rain.
At the end of a long day of classes and meetings, on my way back home, I walked up Dolores Street in the light rain and smiled. Up the hill from 18th Street to my block were the haiku moments I had been missing in my life and more, all within a three-block walk.
The negative-space trace of trees on the concrete made from rain falling between leaves.
Leaves so yellow they seem to insist on their color even lying still on the gray sidewalk in the dark.
I have been in this city long enough to know that several of these leaves will be stepped on with just enough force, just enough times, by just enough people, at just the right pace, and the rain will cease and the sun will come out from behind the clouds for just long enough that the concrete sidewalk will be stenciled with dry fallen leaves for a couple of days.
At the end of a long day of classes and meetings, on my way back home, I walked up Dolores Street in the light rain and smiled. Up the hill from 18th Street to my block were the haiku moments I had been missing in my life and more, all within a three-block walk.
The negative-space trace of trees on the concrete made from rain falling between leaves.
Leaves so yellow they seem to insist on their color even lying still on the gray sidewalk in the dark.
I have been in this city long enough to know that several of these leaves will be stepped on with just enough force, just enough times, by just enough people, at just the right pace, and the rain will cease and the sun will come out from behind the clouds for just long enough that the concrete sidewalk will be stenciled with dry fallen leaves for a couple of days.
Friday, September 22, 2006
There is no such thing as a passive witness.
Some reflections on Illusion 5: Fuera del Barrio Beyond Our Block...
There is so much to say, and I really want to say these things to either folks who were at the De Young today, or to a man who up and left this city, fuera de su barrio, and ended up surrounded by art.
I came home tonight, with my white dress and my white suitcase touched here and there with blue paint from someone's artwork. My job was to go between artists' work and "integrate" separate pieces with my writing. When I got home, I was exhausted and drained. It takes a lot of energy to be around a ceaseless stream of people, integrate all of them into the project as well as integrate the seemingly disparate works of different artists into a whole. I observed and absorbed a great deal. I am filled with what I experienced, and I feel drained. At the end of it all, though, I am utterly rejuvenated beyond words.
I can see there is a journey coming...the figurative kind. I can sense my life is about to take me to a new place even if I can't see the path yet. I am where I had set out to arrive 12 years ago when I left home. I teach. I travel. I know what home is and what it isn't.
I am also where I did not imagine. I am surrounded by artists and musicians. I am surrounded by people who give back. I am surrounded by good food, good music, many languages and nationalities, and just simply, by good people.
Surprising to me is how I have become a participant in what surrounds me, how I have been absorbed into a community of creativity and imagination explored daily in conversation, in cooking, in hanging out and being, in playing, in swimming in the freezing Pacific Ocean, in being silent on the beach, in making art to be taken down the next day
I don't know where the path leads, and (not but) I am happy.
There is no such thing as a passive witness.
There is so much to say, and I really want to say these things to either folks who were at the De Young today, or to a man who up and left this city, fuera de su barrio, and ended up surrounded by art.
I came home tonight, with my white dress and my white suitcase touched here and there with blue paint from someone's artwork. My job was to go between artists' work and "integrate" separate pieces with my writing. When I got home, I was exhausted and drained. It takes a lot of energy to be around a ceaseless stream of people, integrate all of them into the project as well as integrate the seemingly disparate works of different artists into a whole. I observed and absorbed a great deal. I am filled with what I experienced, and I feel drained. At the end of it all, though, I am utterly rejuvenated beyond words.
I can see there is a journey coming...the figurative kind. I can sense my life is about to take me to a new place even if I can't see the path yet. I am where I had set out to arrive 12 years ago when I left home. I teach. I travel. I know what home is and what it isn't.
I am also where I did not imagine. I am surrounded by artists and musicians. I am surrounded by people who give back. I am surrounded by good food, good music, many languages and nationalities, and just simply, by good people.
Surprising to me is how I have become a participant in what surrounds me, how I have been absorbed into a community of creativity and imagination explored daily in conversation, in cooking, in hanging out and being, in playing, in swimming in the freezing Pacific Ocean, in being silent on the beach, in making art to be taken down the next day
I don't know where the path leads, and (not but) I am happy.
There is no such thing as a passive witness.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Half past beach o'clock.
When it's time for me to have some beach time, my body can tell.
And recently, I've been feeling something unsettled in me. Today, I finally named it. It's time. It's been time, beach o'clock, for a while now. I have been needing to touch a body of water, taste the salt. And I just identified this need today, while I was writing to Caleb.
Then, I realized something else. It's Rosh Hashanah tonight. The Jewish New Year. No one said "Shana Tova"; no one said anything until I got an "e-card" from my family from Turkey and Israel.
***
"On the first day of Rosh Hashanah, after the afternoon services, Jews visit a body of water or pond, containing live fish*, to symbolically "cast away" their sins into the river.
*The fish's dependence on water symbolizes the Jews dependence on G-d, as a fish's eyes never close, G-d's watchful eyes never cease."
***
I am a cultural Jew. I don't practice every custom, only the ones I grew up with in Turkey. And we didn't grow up visiting a body of water on Rosh Hashanah. But somehow, my body knows its religion, it seems.
Maybe I'm making this up. I can't explain it. Science can't explain it either, but there IS something there:
***
"An average adult body is 50 to 65 percent water -- that's roughly 45 quarts.
Water content differs throughout the body. Blood is made up of 83 percent water, bones are 22 percent water, and muscle is 75 percent water."
***
Either way, I find this epiphany about my/my body's need to be by the water beautiful.
Sunday. Beach.
I'll bring in the new year right.
And recently, I've been feeling something unsettled in me. Today, I finally named it. It's time. It's been time, beach o'clock, for a while now. I have been needing to touch a body of water, taste the salt. And I just identified this need today, while I was writing to Caleb.
Then, I realized something else. It's Rosh Hashanah tonight. The Jewish New Year. No one said "Shana Tova"; no one said anything until I got an "e-card" from my family from Turkey and Israel.
***
"On the first day of Rosh Hashanah, after the afternoon services, Jews visit a body of water or pond, containing live fish*, to symbolically "cast away" their sins into the river.
*The fish's dependence on water symbolizes the Jews dependence on G-d, as a fish's eyes never close, G-d's watchful eyes never cease."
***
I am a cultural Jew. I don't practice every custom, only the ones I grew up with in Turkey. And we didn't grow up visiting a body of water on Rosh Hashanah. But somehow, my body knows its religion, it seems.
Maybe I'm making this up. I can't explain it. Science can't explain it either, but there IS something there:
***
"An average adult body is 50 to 65 percent water -- that's roughly 45 quarts.
Water content differs throughout the body. Blood is made up of 83 percent water, bones are 22 percent water, and muscle is 75 percent water."
***
Either way, I find this epiphany about my/my body's need to be by the water beautiful.
Sunday. Beach.
I'll bring in the new year right.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Q: What is the dilemma that drives the action of your life's plot?
I have been quiet this summer, and less spontaneous than I would like to be.
Having class every single day, sometimes at 9 am (and being in the only class that meets everyday) has a great deal to do with my lack of venturesomeness in Oxford. Once again, I confirm silently to myself that I travel best when I am on my own. Add other people into the scenery, and I get distracted. I forget about how I would go about exploring a city left to my own devices and go along with others' plans. In the end, I notice something missing. A sense of adventure, curiosity, the unexpected. When I hang out with others, the unexpected encounters, the haiku moments, the impromptu conversations I refer back to wistfully sometime in the future seem to be so rare.
Sure, there is time enough to hang out at the pub up the street, but if that's what we do every time we go out, I just might want to stay in, read for a while, and go to sleep early for once. And yes, when I stay in, sometimes I will end up missing out on future plans. Today, I found myself wishing that I had gone out last night so I could have known about the morning punting excursion that followed the pub outing. The wish lasts for a second or two, no more. I am well rested, the river and the little boats are there still, and they will be there until I leave this city.
The primary dilemma of my life, I thought, was deciding between familiarity and adventure. Now, I realize that this dilemma is merely a manifestation of a larger one: seeking happiness alone, independently, in many transient interactions and in moments that are beautiful because they are passing moments, OR in developing relationships with people and places that become familiar and comfortable in time. Disequilibrium or comfort?
Outside, a kid is crying. The mother yells all of a sudden: "SHUT. UP. Just shut up!" Some city soundscapes are comforting; some are pollution.
I miss swimming.
tk
Having class every single day, sometimes at 9 am (and being in the only class that meets everyday) has a great deal to do with my lack of venturesomeness in Oxford. Once again, I confirm silently to myself that I travel best when I am on my own. Add other people into the scenery, and I get distracted. I forget about how I would go about exploring a city left to my own devices and go along with others' plans. In the end, I notice something missing. A sense of adventure, curiosity, the unexpected. When I hang out with others, the unexpected encounters, the haiku moments, the impromptu conversations I refer back to wistfully sometime in the future seem to be so rare.
Sure, there is time enough to hang out at the pub up the street, but if that's what we do every time we go out, I just might want to stay in, read for a while, and go to sleep early for once. And yes, when I stay in, sometimes I will end up missing out on future plans. Today, I found myself wishing that I had gone out last night so I could have known about the morning punting excursion that followed the pub outing. The wish lasts for a second or two, no more. I am well rested, the river and the little boats are there still, and they will be there until I leave this city.
The primary dilemma of my life, I thought, was deciding between familiarity and adventure. Now, I realize that this dilemma is merely a manifestation of a larger one: seeking happiness alone, independently, in many transient interactions and in moments that are beautiful because they are passing moments, OR in developing relationships with people and places that become familiar and comfortable in time. Disequilibrium or comfort?
Outside, a kid is crying. The mother yells all of a sudden: "SHUT. UP. Just shut up!" Some city soundscapes are comforting; some are pollution.
I miss swimming.
tk
Why I didn't go to the World Cup: adventures in Bureaucracyland.
Part I.
I had a ticket to see a World Cup home game for Germany.
I didn't go.
Some people I have told think I must be crazy.
No. Just trying to sustain my patience in a long-term-relationship with bureaucracy.
In April, during the 10-day spring break I had, I flew all the way to Turkey to renew my American visa. I now have to do this once a year. Fun.
Back in the US with a valid visa, in May, I applied for and just in time received my UK visa so I could attend my graduate school program in Oxford.
Once I had that, I had to then get an EU visa so I could go to the World Cup Games with my friends and travel around in EU after the grad school program is over. I looked at the list of requirements for a visa, and I just didn't have it in me anymore to deal once again with gathering bank statements, letters from my employer and my grad school, a statement from my health insurance company...I had no joy left in me about traveling, and when that joy is gone, what's the point?
Part II.
At the passport check point in the UK, the man who looked over my paperwork asked if I knew about the whole registering at the police station thing. I didn't; it was written across my visa, apparently, but having gotten so many visas over the years, I just don't read them as literature anymore. It says: "No recourse to public funds - Work (and any changes) must be authorised. Police Registration within 7 days of Arrival." The kind man told me that I would have to go to a police station because citizens from certain countries have to, within a week, and Turkey is one of those countries. "Of course it is," I said. He smiled and asked me how long I would be staying. Six weeks. Well, he said, since you will be studying and only staying for a short time, I will leave that up to your discretion. That is all I can say. -- In other words, he meant, You won't get into trouble and no one will know if you do not register. I thanked him, and went on my way.
I thought about whether or not to register for a while; then, I decided I should do it (but after at least 9 days, just because) for the experience and to add to my many bureaucracy stories. I have also been working on a painting that is "fertilized" with documents about immigration, visas, etc. in its background, so I thought it would be nice to have a UK document to add to the painting's texture.
My friend Kim volunteered to join me for "moral support, just in case." She in fact suggested that I dress up in a cocktail dress for the occasion. I'm glad we didn't go that far. We tried to make it a fun occasion and get a story out of it.
Here's the story.
We walked in and picked a number: E85. When it was my turn, I pulled out my passport and told the kind man I apparently had to register because I am Turkish. I asked him (because people have been asking me) what the actual reason for this registration was since I am already in the system after the passport checkpoint. He said something very very vague about our countries' not having a mutual agreement. About what, I asked, but he gave me another vague answer about how the government relies on the local police to keep track of immigrants since it doesn't do a good job on a national level for one reason or another. He tells me I need to fill out a form, and I get very excited. This is exactly what I wanted. But wait, he tells me, you have to pay £34 with this form, submit a passport photo as well as a letter from the graduate school you are attending.
I can't even describe the feeling that overcomes me at that point. I think crestfallen fits pretty well. I feel stupid for trying to do the "right" thing and registering. I feel silly for thinking this could possibly be a light and fun excursion to share with a friend. I turn to Kim, who has been witnessing the entire episode, and tell her that this is the story I came for. I am angry and frustrated and trying to hold back the tears. This episode is emblematic of my experience in the past 12 or so years -- being excited about traveling, having stories to tell, and then having that excitement be crushed by nonsensical paper work, ridiculous amounts of money, and stress.
I ask the guy "so I have to pay £34 for being honest when the passport control guy pretty much suggested I not bother?" and I ask if he can pretend he never saw me; I ask what would happen if I took the form and never came back. He says there is always a chance that the station would get its shit together and realize I have yet to register, then come "knocking on [my] school's door" three weeks from now, and it would be likely that I would then be asked to leave the country. I won't know if you came back or not, he says. "I can't say any more than that," he adds, like the passport control guy.
Both men sympathize and try to do their jobs at the same time.
Kim and I walk back, and I decide not to register. Sometimes, I need to do what I think is the right thing.
Let's see what happens.
I had a ticket to see a World Cup home game for Germany.
I didn't go.
Some people I have told think I must be crazy.
No. Just trying to sustain my patience in a long-term-relationship with bureaucracy.
In April, during the 10-day spring break I had, I flew all the way to Turkey to renew my American visa. I now have to do this once a year. Fun.
Back in the US with a valid visa, in May, I applied for and just in time received my UK visa so I could attend my graduate school program in Oxford.
Once I had that, I had to then get an EU visa so I could go to the World Cup Games with my friends and travel around in EU after the grad school program is over. I looked at the list of requirements for a visa, and I just didn't have it in me anymore to deal once again with gathering bank statements, letters from my employer and my grad school, a statement from my health insurance company...I had no joy left in me about traveling, and when that joy is gone, what's the point?
Part II.
At the passport check point in the UK, the man who looked over my paperwork asked if I knew about the whole registering at the police station thing. I didn't; it was written across my visa, apparently, but having gotten so many visas over the years, I just don't read them as literature anymore. It says: "No recourse to public funds - Work (and any changes) must be authorised. Police Registration within 7 days of Arrival." The kind man told me that I would have to go to a police station because citizens from certain countries have to, within a week, and Turkey is one of those countries. "Of course it is," I said. He smiled and asked me how long I would be staying. Six weeks. Well, he said, since you will be studying and only staying for a short time, I will leave that up to your discretion. That is all I can say. -- In other words, he meant, You won't get into trouble and no one will know if you do not register. I thanked him, and went on my way.
I thought about whether or not to register for a while; then, I decided I should do it (but after at least 9 days, just because) for the experience and to add to my many bureaucracy stories. I have also been working on a painting that is "fertilized" with documents about immigration, visas, etc. in its background, so I thought it would be nice to have a UK document to add to the painting's texture.
My friend Kim volunteered to join me for "moral support, just in case." She in fact suggested that I dress up in a cocktail dress for the occasion. I'm glad we didn't go that far. We tried to make it a fun occasion and get a story out of it.
Here's the story.
We walked in and picked a number: E85. When it was my turn, I pulled out my passport and told the kind man I apparently had to register because I am Turkish. I asked him (because people have been asking me) what the actual reason for this registration was since I am already in the system after the passport checkpoint. He said something very very vague about our countries' not having a mutual agreement. About what, I asked, but he gave me another vague answer about how the government relies on the local police to keep track of immigrants since it doesn't do a good job on a national level for one reason or another. He tells me I need to fill out a form, and I get very excited. This is exactly what I wanted. But wait, he tells me, you have to pay £34 with this form, submit a passport photo as well as a letter from the graduate school you are attending.
I can't even describe the feeling that overcomes me at that point. I think crestfallen fits pretty well. I feel stupid for trying to do the "right" thing and registering. I feel silly for thinking this could possibly be a light and fun excursion to share with a friend. I turn to Kim, who has been witnessing the entire episode, and tell her that this is the story I came for. I am angry and frustrated and trying to hold back the tears. This episode is emblematic of my experience in the past 12 or so years -- being excited about traveling, having stories to tell, and then having that excitement be crushed by nonsensical paper work, ridiculous amounts of money, and stress.
I ask the guy "so I have to pay £34 for being honest when the passport control guy pretty much suggested I not bother?" and I ask if he can pretend he never saw me; I ask what would happen if I took the form and never came back. He says there is always a chance that the station would get its shit together and realize I have yet to register, then come "knocking on [my] school's door" three weeks from now, and it would be likely that I would then be asked to leave the country. I won't know if you came back or not, he says. "I can't say any more than that," he adds, like the passport control guy.
Both men sympathize and try to do their jobs at the same time.
Kim and I walk back, and I decide not to register. Sometimes, I need to do what I think is the right thing.
Let's see what happens.
Monday, February 13, 2006
INS
INS
Main Entry: INS
Function: abbreviation
1. Immigration and Naturalization Service; 2. inertial navigation system
Well, THAT explains it: INS has really molded itself to suit both definitions; now it is truly "Inertial Naturalization Service." Let me count the seconds until I get deported for this...
Main Entry: INS
Function: abbreviation
1. Immigration and Naturalization Service; 2. inertial navigation system
Well, THAT explains it: INS has really molded itself to suit both definitions; now it is truly "Inertial Naturalization Service." Let me count the seconds until I get deported for this...
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Non-American Myspace ends with catty hypocrisy
If I cared enough, I would come up with an artsier and less American (and less white, but that's a whoooole other topic) version of Myspace. Reframing no.1: it is somewhat American to describe who you are through movies. I won't lie and say I haven't enjoyed quoting the same lines from certain movies repeatedly (Life Aquatic comes to mind here) -- that would be me assimilating. Growing up, I never watched the same movie twice. I didn't own movies I had already seen. Repeated viewing of a favorite movie was a habit I learned in the US (the paragon of all: Princess Bride taught me everything I needed to know about Americans' relationship with movies). Let's just say, there was zero chance for a Turk to come up with Netflix. So now I have to wonder, of course, what a non-Americanized Turkish version of Myspace would ask for instead. Favorite soccer team, for sure. Favorite food. (Favorite music would only generate Americanized answers, of course.) Favorite Nasrettin Hoca joke, perhaps? Reframing no.2: Favorite books. As an English teacher especially, I appreciate the assumption that everyone reads somewhat regularly. But let me limit what I wonder about and work with that assumption for a second. Why only favorite movies, music, and books? Why no room for favorite artists/artwork? If you want to know me and you believe you can know me through some pages on the internet, fine; go look up Carrie Mae Weems' work and Nikki S. Lee's Projects and ask me some questions about them. If you want to know me, go look at a world map, Google "birthplace of Homer," Google "capital of Turkey," Google "Ladino," Google whatever it takes for you to ask me more informed questions so we can have a conversation rather than a one-sided imparting of encyclopedic knowledge.
Meow.Fine. I just finished watching "24," and if not my identity, I do define my Mondays through my favorite television show. Bite me.
Meow.Fine. I just finished watching "24," and if not my identity, I do define my Mondays through my favorite television show. Bite me.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
I miss Bruno's!!!
I took myself out tonight to see Marcus Shelby et al ("et al" including the fantastic Olmos and Marcus). Hanging out chatting with one of the musicians after the show, I realized how much I miss Bruno's, which was my version of Cheers. I'd walk in and hear my name called by three different people (think "Noooorm!"). I could be sitting around doing nothing at home on a Monday night, and I'd walk over to Bruno's to hang out with the bartenders and see the jam session, hang out with Shelby in between sets so we could give each other shit, and any Tuesday was a good night thanks to the Jazz Mafia folks.
Get your shit together already, Bruno's...I miss live jazz I can afford.
Get your shit together already, Bruno's...I miss live jazz I can afford.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Moving
I measured over seven years in psycho housemate drama (the 5-pairs-of-cops-in-5-years party was a good time), shenanigans that featured yours truly as Anais Nin, broken dishes, broken hearts, fulfilled hearts, secrets that shall remain secrets in my wine-dark room, whale sounds coming from a trumpet slowly starting to sound like a jazz tune, Nintendo until 3 am (mixed with a housemate having sex in the next room), Buffy marathons, rewinding, replaying, rewinding, replaying that one scene from Evil Pink (what? girls watch porn?!??), obsolete chore lists, spills on carpets, wooden beams on the ceilings, trips out the fire escape to the roof to have World Sausage & sunbathe when it was those three days of summer, spontaneous wine and cheese parties with the housemates, the brilliant line "Does anyone know a generous squid?" in response to an empty ink cartridge, many a night of standing in front of a fridge with barely any room and wondering aloud, "What shall I eat?", subletters gone awry, housemates grown friends, friends grown home, a home full of laughter (and forgetting, and nerdiness like this literary allusion)...
I think of all that my red walls have absorbed, and my eyes get ready to cry while my lips start stretching to smile...So I just sit here with this expression that must look nowhere nearly as graceful as La Gioconda's visage in its ambivalence, and notice my chest hurts the same way it does when I leave Turkey after each visit.
I think of all that my red walls have absorbed, and my eyes get ready to cry while my lips start stretching to smile...So I just sit here with this expression that must look nowhere nearly as graceful as La Gioconda's visage in its ambivalence, and notice my chest hurts the same way it does when I leave Turkey after each visit.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Note to self:
This was a fantastic night/morning (it is 3:06 am).
When you volunteer to spend all day at a workshop on diversity and multiculturalism on a Saturday again, make sure you once again make up for the lost you-time by having a tiny wine-and-cheese-and-Nintendo gathering (I guess it won't be spontaneous as it was tonight if I am planning it now), and stay up until the weeeee hours -- as long as it takes until you have done not-work longer than you have done work.
(It did say "note to self" above; what did you expect?)
When you volunteer to spend all day at a workshop on diversity and multiculturalism on a Saturday again, make sure you once again make up for the lost you-time by having a tiny wine-and-cheese-and-Nintendo gathering (I guess it won't be spontaneous as it was tonight if I am planning it now), and stay up until the weeeee hours -- as long as it takes until you have done not-work longer than you have done work.
(It did say "note to self" above; what did you expect?)
Monday, January 23, 2006
Doing my thing...
I like to do my own thing. I have several "things" and at my best, I do my thing regardless of what others are doing. I like traveling, going to the movies, seeing jazz shows by myself. I like laughing my ass off at a comedy show by myself. Sometimes, I prefer doing these things alone because I truly like the unrestrained me. At a jazz show, being without someone interrupting with, "I'm going to the bar, do you want anything?" feels much more authentic. And while I love sharing laughter with people I love, I don't mind seeing comedy alone because then I don't need to wonder why the person sitting next to me is not laughing at an immensely clever joke (or worse, wonder how come the friend sitting next to me did laugh at a horribly offensive "joke"). I like bumming around in a country I have never been to alone because I blend in more easily than others (it's my ambiguously ethnic look and my ability to fake fluency in a foreign language until I run out of useful vocabulary), and I have an inherent sense of when to be spontaneous and adventurous and when to be safe.
I want more friends who know when to let me go and when to reclaim me -- people who go out and do their own thing, who sometimes invite me along, and sometimes explain without an apology that they're doing something alone or with another group of friends. I want more friends who know to call occasionally out of the blue just 'cause... I guess that's one reason I am on here, one reason I write to strangers persistently, one reason I thought it more productive to write all this down than grade another essay or two...
People who can let a woman do her thing are people worth knowing. People who can go and do their own thing unapologetically as well are people worth knowing even more.
I want more friends who know when to let me go and when to reclaim me -- people who go out and do their own thing, who sometimes invite me along, and sometimes explain without an apology that they're doing something alone or with another group of friends. I want more friends who know to call occasionally out of the blue just 'cause... I guess that's one reason I am on here, one reason I write to strangers persistently, one reason I thought it more productive to write all this down than grade another essay or two...
People who can let a woman do her thing are people worth knowing. People who can go and do their own thing unapologetically as well are people worth knowing even more.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Avuncular Guidance
I know the difference between a house and a home. I do not have the former, but I have several of the latter. Having multiple homes means that sometimes, I feel homeless; ultimately, I experience this feeling as an advantage. Not belonging in any one place has made me believe I can belong anywhere. Different Me's appear in different places, and I am slightly different in each language I speak. My wit is sharpest in English, my diction makes me strangely vulnerable in Turkish. Or is it the other way around? In Spanish, I am the badass who sits next to the cab driver and chats the whole way as though the fifty-something-year-old man sitting a gear shift away from my were my peer (and as though I were fluent in Spanish).
And when I cannot make sense of my own experience, I read some James Baldwin. Put into his words, inherent complexities seem manageable; I feel so lucky to have him in my life, like a distant uncle, maybe I cry.
And when I cannot make sense of my own experience, I read some James Baldwin. Put into his words, inherent complexities seem manageable; I feel so lucky to have him in my life, like a distant uncle, maybe I cry.
Friday, January 20, 2006
"How was your day?"
[KRB] on Friday, January 20, 2006 at 2:28 PM -0800 wrote:
Dear [Pelagic],
How was your day?
Love,
[KR]
I JUST sent my last interim report in.
Today felt good despite the interims craziness.
We had our MLK Day assembly today -- my favorite meeting of the entire school year. Of course, I cried. I need to process everything, and I am not sure I want to right now. I need to look into how come I cried so much this year -- was it really that much about the content of people's narratives, or was it more about where I am right now? I know it's both. There is so much pain in these stories people share 40 years after MLK's speeches. I know there is progress, but there are a lot of steps backwards, too. One of the speakers today, my friend Tommy, who is the Project Coordinator, did a spoken word piece he just wrote in response to last night's decision to shut down some public schools. His elementary school, where he stood in front of his whole community 16 years ago in a play and acted the part of MLK, which, incidentally, was the first time he started making the conscious commitment to doing the work that we do now around fighting for social justice, was one of the schools that got "cut." With it and several others have gone the public education in the neighborhood (in Western Addition, "Fillmo'") where Tommy grew up.
These meetings give me hope and make me feel a sense of pessimism at the same time. They make me feel proud and ashamed at once.
Then, I go into class and talk about Othello and his multiple identities in Venetian society, how he kills himself like a soldier defending a Venetian against "a malignant and turbaned Turk," and all sorts of things come up for me emotionally. I try to get the students to realize the complexity of Othello without spelling things out for them, and it's a vulnerable place to be. Painful and fulfilling at the same time.
In "The Theater of Ideas," we talk about what it takes to connect with another human by talking about a character who achieves (?) it through an act of violence.
It's a good day. Intense topics, exhausting, draining, but at least meaningful. At least I have not been sitting in a cubicle. At least at the end of the day, I get an e-mail from a graduate asking me how my day was, and I write this.
tk
_________________________
The purpose of art is to lay bare the questions which have been hidden by the answers.
:: James Baldwin ::
Dear [Pelagic],
How was your day?
Love,
[KR]
I JUST sent my last interim report in.
Today felt good despite the interims craziness.
We had our MLK Day assembly today -- my favorite meeting of the entire school year. Of course, I cried. I need to process everything, and I am not sure I want to right now. I need to look into how come I cried so much this year -- was it really that much about the content of people's narratives, or was it more about where I am right now? I know it's both. There is so much pain in these stories people share 40 years after MLK's speeches. I know there is progress, but there are a lot of steps backwards, too. One of the speakers today, my friend Tommy, who is the Project Coordinator, did a spoken word piece he just wrote in response to last night's decision to shut down some public schools. His elementary school, where he stood in front of his whole community 16 years ago in a play and acted the part of MLK, which, incidentally, was the first time he started making the conscious commitment to doing the work that we do now around fighting for social justice, was one of the schools that got "cut." With it and several others have gone the public education in the neighborhood (in Western Addition, "Fillmo'") where Tommy grew up.
These meetings give me hope and make me feel a sense of pessimism at the same time. They make me feel proud and ashamed at once.
Then, I go into class and talk about Othello and his multiple identities in Venetian society, how he kills himself like a soldier defending a Venetian against "a malignant and turbaned Turk," and all sorts of things come up for me emotionally. I try to get the students to realize the complexity of Othello without spelling things out for them, and it's a vulnerable place to be. Painful and fulfilling at the same time.
In "The Theater of Ideas," we talk about what it takes to connect with another human by talking about a character who achieves (?) it through an act of violence.
It's a good day. Intense topics, exhausting, draining, but at least meaningful. At least I have not been sitting in a cubicle. At least at the end of the day, I get an e-mail from a graduate asking me how my day was, and I write this.
tk
_________________________
The purpose of art is to lay bare the questions which have been hidden by the answers.
:: James Baldwin ::
Sunday, January 01, 2006
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