I met you today,
during a story.
And let my guts pour out all over the floor
over and over...
My life just lying there on the ground, for everyone to see
as I chewed and processed publicly
My heart melted when I heard a piece of me was a freedom fighter
sometime
long before I was born
And that his spirit, I still carry
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Sunday, August 29, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
If you're cool and you're reading this, this is not for you
I wanted nothing more than to dance salsa tonight. And it seemed like the conditions were perfect: It wasn't one hundred and three degrees outside; I returned from the mall with an end-of-the-work-week reward for myself; i.e. a beautiful mahogany bag and gorgeous earrings. I wasn't feeling like a cow and felt confident enough to go out. So I call and text a couple of folks, all of whom are willing to go somewhere but not "all the way to Boston" and surely not to dance salsa.
Ok.
I set my Pandora station to Marc Anthony radio and get ready to go out by myself. Yes, I was going to do it. I was going to venture into this uncharted territory: Going dancing by oneself; treating your relationship with Boston as though you were a married couple trying to revive the flame by acting as though you were on a first date with the place. I was going to be a tourist in Boston with all the daring energy in the world. My cocktail dress was played down by a sloppy bun so as to not look too enticing--I didn't want to get hit on by creepy men.
And then...
I was anxious.
I was ready to go, but thought:
Where will I leave my purse when I am on the dance floor?
And how will I come off: A young woman by herself at a club, ripe for any man to come onto her?
Of course I wasn't afraid of the handsome professionals going to dance salsa after a long work week, who would impress me with great conversation and wit. I was worried about Panchito and his friend Hector, who resemble the men who are most likely to approach me and then ask me awkward questions with sexual innuendos. They'll be 2 feet shorter than me with huge mustaches. Oh, and one of my headlights needs a new bulb and I might get pulled over by the cops.
Before I knew it, my anxieties had defeated me and there was no salsa, no beautiful heels on wooden floors. No memories of Antiguo San Juan and a rekindling of that old Latin flame that still burns inside of me--somewhere--in a dark corner with cobwebs, probably in the basement of my soul.
Instead, I had traded my night of salsa for a party in Beverly--still in the clothes I would have gone dancing in, mind you. You might think that wearing the same clothes I would wear salsa dancing to a party is not that strange. Oh, but it is. Because Beverly parties are not like other parties. People dress in flannel here.
Also, people walk away from you when they don't like what you're saying, which is about 90% of the time for me. And if they don't know you, they might turn their backs to you. Literally. You might not be able to tell whether you should continue a conversation because they may become uncomfortable with how long the conversation is going or with the dynamic of it all. They may prefer to talk about the word "sex" or "fuck" or cigarettes. If you mention something serious, they may just walk away because it's not in their repertoire of approved topics.
But it's ok. because I'm still seeking to understand people who are different than me. It's the only way to be. And of course, there were lovely people there. People who know me and who I appreciate dearly. It's just those folks I don't know, who I judge intently when they do things that are foreign to me and weird. And then I realize, there are some people who don't act this way, even in Beverly. And coincidentally, they are older and their jobs look a little different and their thoughts are consumed with other topics. So maybe tonight was ok. afterall.
And maybe one day I'll be surrounded with people who will want to dance salsa with me and wear heels and makeup, and maybe they'll want to live in the manifestation of their roots; of their culture; of what makes their heart beat. For now, the hearts of those who surround me beat for something different than me. And it's a tension I must learn more about.
Ok.
I set my Pandora station to Marc Anthony radio and get ready to go out by myself. Yes, I was going to do it. I was going to venture into this uncharted territory: Going dancing by oneself; treating your relationship with Boston as though you were a married couple trying to revive the flame by acting as though you were on a first date with the place. I was going to be a tourist in Boston with all the daring energy in the world. My cocktail dress was played down by a sloppy bun so as to not look too enticing--I didn't want to get hit on by creepy men.
And then...
I was anxious.
I was ready to go, but thought:
Where will I leave my purse when I am on the dance floor?
And how will I come off: A young woman by herself at a club, ripe for any man to come onto her?
Of course I wasn't afraid of the handsome professionals going to dance salsa after a long work week, who would impress me with great conversation and wit. I was worried about Panchito and his friend Hector, who resemble the men who are most likely to approach me and then ask me awkward questions with sexual innuendos. They'll be 2 feet shorter than me with huge mustaches. Oh, and one of my headlights needs a new bulb and I might get pulled over by the cops.
Before I knew it, my anxieties had defeated me and there was no salsa, no beautiful heels on wooden floors. No memories of Antiguo San Juan and a rekindling of that old Latin flame that still burns inside of me--somewhere--in a dark corner with cobwebs, probably in the basement of my soul.
Instead, I had traded my night of salsa for a party in Beverly--still in the clothes I would have gone dancing in, mind you. You might think that wearing the same clothes I would wear salsa dancing to a party is not that strange. Oh, but it is. Because Beverly parties are not like other parties. People dress in flannel here.
Also, people walk away from you when they don't like what you're saying, which is about 90% of the time for me. And if they don't know you, they might turn their backs to you. Literally. You might not be able to tell whether you should continue a conversation because they may become uncomfortable with how long the conversation is going or with the dynamic of it all. They may prefer to talk about the word "sex" or "fuck" or cigarettes. If you mention something serious, they may just walk away because it's not in their repertoire of approved topics.
But it's ok. because I'm still seeking to understand people who are different than me. It's the only way to be. And of course, there were lovely people there. People who know me and who I appreciate dearly. It's just those folks I don't know, who I judge intently when they do things that are foreign to me and weird. And then I realize, there are some people who don't act this way, even in Beverly. And coincidentally, they are older and their jobs look a little different and their thoughts are consumed with other topics. So maybe tonight was ok. afterall.
And maybe one day I'll be surrounded with people who will want to dance salsa with me and wear heels and makeup, and maybe they'll want to live in the manifestation of their roots; of their culture; of what makes their heart beat. For now, the hearts of those who surround me beat for something different than me. And it's a tension I must learn more about.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
If you find yourself in bed, crying now
No room to breathe
Know that pictures of your seemingly mundane life will soon make sense in the context of pictures of your future travels
You will look back at it all
Just when you think you're being complacent
Just when you think you are stuck
Songs of melancholy will turn into songs of depth
Perspective will rise from routine
You will see these photographs that are now melancholy, mundane, just evidence that you are stuck
You will see them in black and white and sepia
These, that seem so common place to you now
As they age, these will increase in value
And you will treasure their cracks and folded over corners
No room to breathe
Know that pictures of your seemingly mundane life will soon make sense in the context of pictures of your future travels
You will look back at it all
Just when you think you're being complacent
Just when you think you are stuck
Songs of melancholy will turn into songs of depth
Perspective will rise from routine
You will see these photographs that are now melancholy, mundane, just evidence that you are stuck
You will see them in black and white and sepia
These, that seem so common place to you now
As they age, these will increase in value
And you will treasure their cracks and folded over corners
Food
I ate 7 Starbursts today--or maybe 10. One typically looses track of how many Starburst he/she eats after you pop that first one.
Oh, and I ate bread. And it wasn't even whole grain!
And best of all, I ate a buffalo chicken wrap. Out of all of the bad things I ate today, I look back at this item of food with the least regret because, to be honest, I didn't enjoy it. Especially not the blue cheese. But the Starbursts. Those were good. And so was the bread.
Question: Why exactly are you happy about the fact that you didn't enjoy the buffalo chicken wrap in all of it's cheesy glory? Answer: Because this is indicative of the fact that my body is learning to love itself and my taste buds are totally riding that wave-length and learning to love vitamin-filled vegetables .
People are telling me I look thin. And when I look at myself, I am happy. Best of all, I feel comfortable in my own skin. But the fear of going back to a place where my hips protrude and my thighs rub together hangs over me with every Starburst and piece of white bread that enters my mouth. As soon as I taste the sugar and the starch I feel my thighs expand slightly and think about how much yoga I must do to get the fat to turn into muscle.
And as you hear me, you may think this is anorexia. But no, my friends, sadly, this is what women think about. All the time. Especially when you're not naturally a size 5.
Oh, and I ate bread. And it wasn't even whole grain!
And best of all, I ate a buffalo chicken wrap. Out of all of the bad things I ate today, I look back at this item of food with the least regret because, to be honest, I didn't enjoy it. Especially not the blue cheese. But the Starbursts. Those were good. And so was the bread.
Question: Why exactly are you happy about the fact that you didn't enjoy the buffalo chicken wrap in all of it's cheesy glory? Answer: Because this is indicative of the fact that my body is learning to love itself and my taste buds are totally riding that wave-length and learning to love vitamin-filled vegetables .
People are telling me I look thin. And when I look at myself, I am happy. Best of all, I feel comfortable in my own skin. But the fear of going back to a place where my hips protrude and my thighs rub together hangs over me with every Starburst and piece of white bread that enters my mouth. As soon as I taste the sugar and the starch I feel my thighs expand slightly and think about how much yoga I must do to get the fat to turn into muscle.
And as you hear me, you may think this is anorexia. But no, my friends, sadly, this is what women think about. All the time. Especially when you're not naturally a size 5.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Good morning
It's morning and the air filling my room is crisp and cool-like fall. And fall soothes me in a way no other season can. I wish there was a newspaper to pick up on the front porch so I could read it with tea in the kitchen or living room. Except we don't use those common areas in this house. We still haven't kicked the college dorm room habit, so we drink tea and read the imaginary newspaper in our rooms. My room is mustard yellow and beaming with the highlights of the sun that come through the curtains.
It is morning and everything is fresher than it was towards the end of yesterday. Wait, why was I mad last night again? Now, I'm slightly embarrassed that I ever felt negative feelings at all.
It's Saturday and the thought of have tos came into my mind briefly in my sleep.
-"Have to get up and go to yoga...."
-No, you don't have to. Have to's are for Mondays, and Tuesdays and Wednesdays.
Saturdays are for sleeping and feeling the coolness of your sheets on your skin; for letting the sun greet you in place of a loud annoying alarm.
-Why, hello Mr. Sun. Come in.
It is morning and everything is fresher than it was towards the end of yesterday. Wait, why was I mad last night again? Now, I'm slightly embarrassed that I ever felt negative feelings at all.
It's Saturday and the thought of have tos came into my mind briefly in my sleep.
-"Have to get up and go to yoga...."
-No, you don't have to. Have to's are for Mondays, and Tuesdays and Wednesdays.
Saturdays are for sleeping and feeling the coolness of your sheets on your skin; for letting the sun greet you in place of a loud annoying alarm.
-Why, hello Mr. Sun. Come in.
Friday, August 6, 2010
I haven't felt this way in a while
There are some things I mull over like a dog reluctant to give up the frisbee she's been biting for 7 minutes. "But puppy, Charlie wants to play with the frisbee."
And puppy stubbornly bites harder, refusing to relinquish. The following is one of those things in my life. I should just let Charlie play with the damn frisbee, but I am stubborn. So I'll let you know when I become more refined and less dog-like. But until then...
It's like that scene from "Save the Last Dance" when Shanille rips on Sarah and says something to the effect of "open up your pretty blue eyes and look around you, Sarah." Sarah looks around the free clinic to look at all of the Black single mothers holding their crying babies with no Black men beside them, and Sarah, all the while, has Derek-the only Black man who seems to be doing something with his life in their neighborhood. And of course, he goes for the only white woman in an almost entirely Black community.
It's like when a suburban white girl cries about shit I think is trivial and everyone cancels plans for her and she's more than OK with their sacrifice. When she turns around so that I can see her puffed up face and go "awww....what happened?" Frankly, during times like that, I am not moved.
I am moved when a mother gives everything to buy her daughter a small cupcake for her birthday because that's all they can afford. I am moved when a Dominican family in bumfuck Dominican Republic living off of so little prepare a large meal for their American guests.
I am not moved, however, when you want the world to revolve around you. I am not moved when you say "I would be fine with living in poverty for the rest of my life" when you can't even begin to scratch the surface of what that even means or looks like. And I am definitely not moved when you have every support system in place, financial and emotional cushions and when you have the luxury of "rebelling" against your parents and yet still find reasons to try to get me to pity you.
In fact, I'm going to be honest here: I have little compassion for people who cry and complain when things get tough when at the same time they have looks, smarts, the favor of everyone in their path and a constant flow of affirmation. And do you know why? Because I don't have all of that all the time, and I don't have the support systems. I do not have the luxury of throwing a fit and asking people to forgo their plans for me. They will most likely respond, "Ok. Annery. We'll be back later. Call if you need anything!" No one planned my birthday. No one showers me with affirmation. And for certain, no one would do my homework should I be in a state of utter chaos.
I can't just become a barista if I want to because there is no one to rely on. When I'm broke I don't mean I have $600 in my savings account and a trust fund. I mean I have $0.53 in my savings account and -$2.00 in my checkings.
"No other assets?"
"Well...call your parents to see if you can borrow."
First of all, I'd never have to borrow money from my mother. She would gladly give me every penny she had at no cost. And secondly, I would never do that to her because I have more than she does. So, basically, all I have is me--whether I am crying in my bed at night or shivering with fear--ain't no one going to come to my rescue.
So when little suburban girls want me to pity them-I'm sorry. Ain't gonna happen.
And then I feel like a bitch. You see me with my neck roll, finger raised and scrunched eye brows next to poor white beauty with tears and a red nose. Who do you think looks more affable and approachable?
I am sorry that your life has been so tough, little white girl. Welcome to the fucking world.
And puppy stubbornly bites harder, refusing to relinquish. The following is one of those things in my life. I should just let Charlie play with the damn frisbee, but I am stubborn. So I'll let you know when I become more refined and less dog-like. But until then...
It's like that scene from "Save the Last Dance" when Shanille rips on Sarah and says something to the effect of "open up your pretty blue eyes and look around you, Sarah." Sarah looks around the free clinic to look at all of the Black single mothers holding their crying babies with no Black men beside them, and Sarah, all the while, has Derek-the only Black man who seems to be doing something with his life in their neighborhood. And of course, he goes for the only white woman in an almost entirely Black community.
It's like when a suburban white girl cries about shit I think is trivial and everyone cancels plans for her and she's more than OK with their sacrifice. When she turns around so that I can see her puffed up face and go "awww....what happened?" Frankly, during times like that, I am not moved.
I am moved when a mother gives everything to buy her daughter a small cupcake for her birthday because that's all they can afford. I am moved when a Dominican family in bumfuck Dominican Republic living off of so little prepare a large meal for their American guests.
I am not moved, however, when you want the world to revolve around you. I am not moved when you say "I would be fine with living in poverty for the rest of my life" when you can't even begin to scratch the surface of what that even means or looks like. And I am definitely not moved when you have every support system in place, financial and emotional cushions and when you have the luxury of "rebelling" against your parents and yet still find reasons to try to get me to pity you.
In fact, I'm going to be honest here: I have little compassion for people who cry and complain when things get tough when at the same time they have looks, smarts, the favor of everyone in their path and a constant flow of affirmation. And do you know why? Because I don't have all of that all the time, and I don't have the support systems. I do not have the luxury of throwing a fit and asking people to forgo their plans for me. They will most likely respond, "Ok. Annery. We'll be back later. Call if you need anything!" No one planned my birthday. No one showers me with affirmation. And for certain, no one would do my homework should I be in a state of utter chaos.
I can't just become a barista if I want to because there is no one to rely on. When I'm broke I don't mean I have $600 in my savings account and a trust fund. I mean I have $0.53 in my savings account and -$2.00 in my checkings.
"No other assets?"
"Well...call your parents to see if you can borrow."
First of all, I'd never have to borrow money from my mother. She would gladly give me every penny she had at no cost. And secondly, I would never do that to her because I have more than she does. So, basically, all I have is me--whether I am crying in my bed at night or shivering with fear--ain't no one going to come to my rescue.
So when little suburban girls want me to pity them-I'm sorry. Ain't gonna happen.
And then I feel like a bitch. You see me with my neck roll, finger raised and scrunched eye brows next to poor white beauty with tears and a red nose. Who do you think looks more affable and approachable?
I am sorry that your life has been so tough, little white girl. Welcome to the fucking world.
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