Legacy and Destiny

I've been up since around 4:30 this morning. obsessively listening to "Map of the Problematique" by Muse, admiring the full moon hanging so majestically over Los Angeles, and writing a reply to a quite thought-provoking comment left yesterday on my last post. My response to this comment turned into quite the lengthy essay, so I decided to post my reply here instead of in the comment box. Go check out the original comment for more context, but in the meantime, here's my two cents:

Dear Anonymous (and anyone else who might be interested),

Your viewpoints absolutely do not offend and they are clearly offered with true sincerity. In fact, thank you wholeheartedly for taking the risk of offering your perspective. Your thoughts have also made me think about a couple of things.

What you said about your living in the UK and perceiving the US as being like a soap opera reminds me of the time I spent living in Guangzhou, China. I lived in China the entire time the OJ Simpson trial was going on, returning shortly before the verdict was given. To be so outside the situation, it did seem like some sort of sick and twisted soap opera. It made me wonder how I'd perceive the US if I hadn't grown up here, if I hadn't been trained to think about skin color and people in the way I have, in the way I have to constantly struggle against.

One of the other American teachers at the school I worked at disliked me excessively because he said I thought about race too much. He didn't believe that the problems America has with race are a big deal at all and could not understand what I was going through as a person of color who'd been suddenly taken out of the racial mire of America. This is not to say that China was any racial utopia. But there, the beliefs about race, specifically, the beliefs about black people, were not so ingrained, not steeped in a painful history of chattel slavery, and they were easier to overcome.

This guy disliked how I'd constantly talk to the my Chinese students about the oneness of the human family and the beauty and nobility of people of all skin colors. To me, the unity of the human family is the only thing that will cure our social ills so it was natural to do so. For example, one of the first things I did was show my students pictures of my parents, my sister, my cousins. These third and fourth grade students, like some folks here in America, seemed very surprised that my mother is black and that my father is white. They kept asking over and over if my mom was really black. I understood what that was about, clearly having experienced such a reaction before. The Chinese teachers at the school were more honest and direct in their explanations that to them, being black meant being a criminal, stupid, lazy, ugly, thugs and HIV positive. They got all of this from watching American shows on Star TV. Their favorite show was "COPS".

It was at that point that I really understood what a huge role the media has around the world in spreading racism and I understood even more what a huge responsibility we have in the US to solve our racial problems and come together united as one human family. We model so much for the rest of the world that desires to emulate our materialism, our consumerism...and our racial ideologies. .

I remember the day I taught the words beautiful and ugly. I decided to do an experiment with the students. I asked them to say one of the words in English when I held up individual pictures I'd ripped out from some magazines I'd brought from the States. Every single time I held up a picture of someone who was not white, they said "Ugly". I held up a picture of a Chinese woman and a white woman side by side. I asked them which one was more beautiful. It's a mean question, I know, but I was curious. Every single student picked the white woman.

This kind of thing is the same in the States, as evidenced in last year's documentary by Kiri Davis, "A Girl Like Me". We are taught in this racial system that to be white is to be beautiful, intelligent, superior, capable, good, hard-working. If I go to the store right now and look at every single magazine cover, chances are I'm not going to see a black face unless I'm looking at Essence, Ebony, Jet or O Magazine.

You bring up how black people are having plastic surgery to change their noses, and ask why skin lighteners are such a big business. Well, it's because our whole society screams this negativity. We're buffoons, fat mammies, hair weave wearing rump shakers...Hottentot's indeed. And black people are marginalized in the most seemingly inocuous ways. For example, I can't just walk into any hair salon and expect to find a stylist that knows how to do my hair. In fact, I used to walk into random salons just to mess with the staff. I'd request to have my hair cut or styled. They'd freak out at Super Cuts and Fantastic Sams as they stammered that they didn't have a stylist that did black hair...because our hair is supposedly so difficult that everyone isn't trained to do it.

You said, "I, like a lot of "black" Britons look to "black" Americans for social, psychological, political and spiritual guidance."

I found that so interesting because it made me think about a Baha'i quotation that compares black people to, "the black pupil of the eye surrounded by the white. In this black pupil you see the reflection of that which is befor it, and through it the light of the Spirit shines forth."

It's that light that keeps black people going despite everything that's happened in our history. I believe we do have an innate spiritual legacy, born from the blood of our ancestors. It's a legacy that's soaked into the soil of this country, shaped by the countless prayers surely said for deliverance from horrors I hesitate to imagine, all while offering thanks for all that they had. To me, tapping into that legacy and leaving behind all the materialism and consumerism is the ultimate revolution.

We don't know who we are right now. We have absorbed all the messaging our culture has given us and so we see ourselves primarily as material beings, still to be bought and sold to the highest corporate bidder. To me, that's why we have black on black crime and the problems with addiction. Definitely read that Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome book. I wholeheartedly believe that when we recognize our true selves, then things will change. When that happens, you won't have the helicopters and neither will I. Some folks think that's so idealistic, but I think it's completely possible.

And truly, there are so many amazing and dedicated people who are doing what they can to change things in their own spheres of influence. I really believe it's less about some big charismatic "Leader" and more about how we are leaders in our own communities, with our own circle of friends, with who we decide are our friends.

Surely, if we all, no matter what color our skin is, change our own hearts, ask ourselves the tough questions, and then act on what we know to be right, surely, that can and does make a difference.

Lindsay Lohan And LA's Nameless, Faceless Black and Tan Dots

See that picture to the left? Don't you wonder what those little black and tan dots are?

I'll give you a hint: It's part of a map of Los Angeles.

Before you get all excited, let me be clear: those dots aren't locations of celebrity homes. And don't worry, they also aren't places where Lindsay Lohan's been arrested for DUI.

In fact, despite another booking for DUI and cocaine possession, I have a hard time picturing Lindsay spending any time in the neighborhoods highlighted in this section of the map. She doesn't really strike me as a South-Central type of ride-or-die chick, you know? She probably hasn't even seen "Baby Boy" before. And, Lindsay has money for bail and the umpteenth shot at rehab.

Indeed, Lindsay's train-wreck existence has felt like the biggest story on the internet and TV, even bigger than the Bulgarian medics who injected 438 kids in Libya with HIV being set free.

And now it's 12:13 at night and I'm watching Rob Schneider, dressed up and pretending to be Lindsay Lohan on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno. Schneider is pretty funny, and normally, I'd probably laugh. But I can't. I'm sitting here with tears running down my cheeks. And no, Lindsay's plight hasn't affected me that much.

No, I've been simultaneously reading the Los Angeles Times' Homicide Report. You see, those black and tan dots in the picture, well those are people. 460 mostly black and Latino people. Mostly males, mostly late teens, early twenties in age...you know, around Lindsay Lohan's age. And they've been murdered in Los Angeles this year.

The Report, in existence since January, is written in blog form by a journalist named Jill Leovy. This isn't the first time I've read it, but it's been awhile since I clicked on the link and read the heartbreaking stories about the circumstances and lives of those who have been murdered. Truly, I have nothing but respect for Jill who, in one article, answers the question about why the homicide report exists:

"Selective news coverage is a practical necessity for most news organizations operating in a county where nearly 1,100 people die from homicide yearly. The Los Angeles Times, for example, is limited by the number of pages it prints, and in a recent year, found room for stories on fewer than 10% of L.A. County homicides, according to an analysis by a Times researcher. Such selectivity ensures that the people and places most affected by homicides are least likely to be seen, while the safest people are inundated with information about crimes unlikely to ever touch their lives."

Don't be shy. Go ahead and click on that link and read more about why Jill does the Report. Rereading it just now reminded of me of why I wish the best for Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears and all the rest of them...but I honestly don't give a damn about them. They aren't living somewhere where they can get shot sitting on their front porch. They aren't parents who have to grieve for their eighteen year old son murdered in front of their house. Oh, and these same parents have a daughter who's nine and survived being shot in a drive-by four years ago.

Yeah, you start reading that Homicide Report, and suddenly, those black and tan dots have a name, and have a face. You start reading it and you're accountable for what you know about the countless young people gunned down in this city... and they aren't even drunk and in possession of cocaine.

So forgive me for not thinking Lindsay's situation deserves all the press it's received. Forgive me for hoping she gets the book thrown at her and gets locked up for awhile, as she deserves.

After all, in prison, at least she'd still be alive.

Selective Imagery

When I lived in New York, I was a regular at the Met. In Chicago, the Art Institute sometimes felt like a second home. But here in Los Angeles, the city that's been my heart for almost nine years, until Friday, I'd never been to LACMA, the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.

I initially went to see Dan Flavin's fluorescent light exhibit. But once I got to LACMA and started walking around, I realized that it's been a long time since I saw a picture I can't stop thinking about, something that just connects to my soul.

This 1876 painting, The Cotton Pickers by Winslow Homer, absolutely captivated me. These two women have a humanity, a nobility to them. There is a mystery in their eyes. I've looked at this picture non-stop over the past two days and I'm still wondering, are they happy? What are they thinking about? Are they imagining what could have been or what could still be?

That sort of complexity is often missing in so many of the mainstream images we see of black women today. This is no asexual, fat and happy mammy. It's not a caricature of a strong black woman. It's not a video ho at the beck and call of a rapper who discards her once she shakes her stuff for the camera and gives up her goodies. And thank goodness, it's not Beyonce with her layers of blond hair weave.

I started to wonder, who is this artist that depicted two black women in such a beautiful fashion over 130 years ago? An online search reveals that Homer is from Boston and best known for his landscape watercolors. I find it quite interesting that I read the first ten sites that popped up on Google, and they all neglect to mention how this painting came into being. I had to spend a half hour digging around on the Internet to find out that Homer spent some time in the Reconstruction-era South, painting, among other things, realistic images of black people. Why were the initial biographies I read skipping over that era of Homer's life? All of a sudden, ten years pass and he's on the coast of England painting waves crashing against a craggy shore. Hmm...why the gap in this man's history?

Well, just as I know racism plays a role in the current imagery we see of black women, I wonder how racism plays a role in which pieces of Homer's art are written about. It's sad to think that this painting, and the others he did of black people, might be seen as less beautiful, less worthy of being written about, precisely because they depict black people. If that's the case, it's unfortunate to think that other folks that might be as affected as I was by this picture may never even know that it exists.

Of course, I could be wrong. Maybe race doesn't play into this at all. Maybe Homer's landscapes are simply the equivalent of the Mona Lisa. I just wish I lived in a world where I didn't have to wonder.

Forty-three

Just a few more minutes and July 18th is officially over again till next year.

Today would have been my brother's 43rd birthday. It's a prime age for an exhaustive midlife crisis or, to put it more positively, a prime age to undergo a reinvention of yourself. My brother did neither a full-blown crisis nor reinvention. Instead, last year, he made the sad decision to end his life.

More than anything, I thought about my mom today. As much as a birthday is the celebration of someone's life, a mother gives birth to the person doing the celebrating. I particularly thought about my mom as I lethargically watched two balls of energy: my sons.

My boys sang songs and played guitar while acting out their "Rockstar" game. You know how to play "Rockstar" don't you? If not, it's their game where they say, "Hey, let's be Smashing Pumpkins," or, "Hey, you be Sting and I'll be Slash." Uh-huh. Yes, that Slash. But don't worry, there were no cigarettes hanging out of mouths or anything like that.

There was some naked wrestling on the floor and the ever present echo of their G.I. Joe inspired rallying cry, "Go, Joe!" And finally they played "Volcano" while jumping on the couch. The floor lava was so burning hot that falling off the couch meant instant death.

Once upon a time, my mother surely watched my brother in much the same way.

I can't remember the last time I saw him on his birthday. Either his own personal circumstances or my own distance always seemed to ensure that I didn't see him blowing out birthday candles.

It makes me think about how you never know how long you'll have someone in your life.
We are not guaranteed the pleasure of each other's company for any length of time.

Although it's a great comfort to know his soul's still progressing along it's journey to true happiness, and while I pray for him still, somehow it doesn't change the fact that I always wanted him to be happy in this world, to recognize his nobility here in this existence, to be the son, brother and father he surely wanted to be.

Truly, time does not heal all things.

Steve & Barry's Shopping Adventure: That Size Eight Is SOOO Fat.

Yesterday I trekked over the Beverly Connection shopping complex over on La Cienega Blvd and Third. I went to the new Steve and Barry's shop over there. You've never heard of Steve and Barry's? Yeah, me either. At least not until I was sitting in my hairdresser's chair on Saturday, reading "O" magazine while getting some of my hair chopped off. This month's "O" (as in "Oprah") has a spread of Sarah Jessica Parker's new clothing line, Bitten, and it's available at Steve and Barry's.

Now, I'm not, as a whole, a big fan of SJP. In fact, I'm pretty sure I've only seen "Sex and the City" twice in my whole life. I wasn't particularly impressed with the show and I've always wondered how frequently the concept of STDs was discussed. But maybe that's just me and my germ-phobia. Or, HIV phobia, whatever you want to call it.

Anyway, SJP's clothes at Steve and Barry's are pretty cute. And, major shocker here, the prices are dirt cheap. How cheap? Well, right now I'm wearing a pair of jeans I got for $14. Yeah, that cheap. This is not another overpriced celebrity clothing line with logos all on the outside of the clothes. That's quite a relief. We'll see if the jeans fall apart in the washer, but in the meantime, they're pretty fly. And did I mention already that they were $14?

Now, to get to this one pair of jeans, I had to try on at least seven or eight different pairs. You just never know how the sizing is going to work out with a new line of clothing, and there are so many different cuts to choose from. Skinny jean. Boyfriend jean. Low rise, also known as ass-crack jeans. Ultra low rise, also known as "You'd better forget about sitting down" jeans. High waist. Bootcut.

I made it easy on myself and ruled out the ultra low rise and skinny jeans. Both are just ridiculous and I'm sure millions of women the world over can't wait for them to go out of style.

So, I'm in the dressing room, almost finished trying on my armfuls of jeans when I overhear the mother/daughter pair in the dressing room next to mine. This mother says to her daughter, "What size are those?"

The daughter replied back, "An eight. Do they look too tight?"

"No, they look fine but they're an eight. You should be wearing a four, or at the most, a six. What's happening to you? We're going to have to get you to a gym or you need to stop eating or something because you're just blowing up!"

I was absolutely horrified by this conversation and immediately found myself thinking about how if I had a daughter, this is exactly the kind of ridiculousness I'd have to protect her from. I know childhood obesity is a problem in America, but a size eight is fat? Maybe if you're five feet tall or something, but come on, regardless, I was so shocked by this conversation. This mom was single handedly ruining my Steve and Barry's shopping experience. And killing her daughter's self-esteem.

"I mean, don't you know they do vanity sizing all the time and an eight is really a ten? Do you want to be a size ten?"

The daughter mumbled, "No," and tried to protest a little by saying, "But I think these clothes run a little small."

"It doesn't matter. You should be wearing the six, not an eight."

I hung out in my dressing room till they opened the door to theirs. I wanted to get a look at this mom and daughter. The daughter was about 5' 8" or so, and looked totally healthy, totally normal. The mom had that super-skinny tanorexic, LA plastic surgery look to her. She looked mean.

The conversation made me not want to get my jeans at all. It made me think about all the actresses, SJP included, that diet down to nothingness and then become the norm for body size. I'm no advocate for being overweight, especially if it's negatively affecting your health, but I'm not trying to look like I just spend two months on a deserted island. Although, if I did look like that, I'm sure there are those folks who'd say, "Oh wow! You look sooo good!"

So, yeah, you already know I got my jeans. Like I said, $14...I couldn't resist. And I don't care what size they were. I just wanted them to fit and look good on me.

I wish that teenage girl had a mom who felt the same.

The N-Word

Last night I was peacefully curled up on the couch, reading "The Templar Legacy" by Steve Berry, and watching my kids wrestle on the floor. Suddenly, my eldest was next to me, poking me in the arm.

"Excuse me, I have a question for you," he said. There was an expectant look in his eyes, the look that only six year-olds can give. The look that says, "Drop everything and pay attention to me, right now."

So I asked him, "What's your question?"

"What's the n-word?"

Whoa. I wasn't expecting that one. It felt a little like those moments folks talk about when their kid says, "What's sex?" Yes, I should be prepared for this kind of question, because, let's face it, discussion of the word is all over the TV and radio these days. I don't even need to listen to an old NWA track to hear it. All I need to do is keep the radio on NPR. (Damn that NPR!)

I needed to mentally readjust my brain from the fiction of Rennes le Chateau and Templar treasure. So, I stalled for time by answering his question with a question.

"Where did you hear that?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe on the radio or something," he responded.

Yes, damn that NPR! So I asked another question, to see what he think he knew. "What do you think the n-word is?"

He leaned down, a gleam in his eye, and whispered in my ear, "It's "nasty", isn't it?"

"Um, no, it's not "nasty"", I replied back. My suppressed laughter faded as I immediately recognizing that my truthfulness was just going to open the door to another flood of questions.

"Well, what is it then?"

And I didn't want to tell him. I know I should have, but I just couldn't do it. I know I should have because if I don't, someone else will. But, dang it, I really didn't want to.

I told him to ask me tomorrow. Well, today is tomorrow and he hasn't asked me yet. But that kid has a memory like a pit bull gets lockjaw. He'll remember.

I have an idea about what I'm going to say, but I'm curious, what do you all think I should say?

Barack Obama And The One Drop Rule

Barack Obama has been on my mind.

Two days ago, someone called to ask me if I'd like to donate to his campaign. They were really friendly and understanding when I told them that I don't contribute to political campaigns. "Oh that's alright," the canvasser replied. "The most important thing is that you go out there and vote on election day." That nice comment, made without harassing me further about donating, put a smile on my face. Aww, Barack hired nice people to call and ask for money.

Next, I came across the most recent Newsweek. Guess who's on the cover? Yes, it's Barack. I'm not a fan of that picture, but I suppose that's totally irrelevant to the topic at hand.

In any case, when I see the words "Black & White" in huge type next to his face, I'm immediately thinking that Newsweek is going to go where most news publications refuse to. Where might that be? Well, into a discussion on how it is that we as a country have historically decided that someone who's half black AND also half white is black.

Barack's daddy was black and his mom's white and from Kansas. We all know that fact about him (or you should by now) but we don't ever get into just why it is that despite being half white, Barack and tons of other folks "come to terms" with our racial system and check the black box. I figured this article was finally going to be a beginning of the discussion about America's one drop rule and the fascinating math that takes place because of it. If you aren't familiar with this math, it works this way:

"black" parent + "white" parent = black child
1/2 black and 1/2 white parent + white parent = black child
1/4 black and 3/4 white parent + white parent = black child

And on and on and on.

This journalistic bravery seemed much more likely once I viewed the article's inside title and subtitle: "Across the Divide - How Barack Obama is shaking up old assumptions about what it means to be black and white in America."

You see how I set myself up for disappointment, right? I guess I took all the words on the cover and in the titles much too literally. Or else I did some selective interpretation. Instead of discussing the one drop rule, this article was about...well, I'll sum it up for you:

1) Black people aren't feelin' Barack. Despite his deciding that he's black, other black people aren't convinced Barack is black enough. And you know, if his own don't like him, there's trouble in paradise, right?

What's the problem with his blackness? Well, some black folks think Barack acts like a sellout Uncle Tom, even if they understand that he has to do it so that the Massa and the Missus don't get scared off. After all, black folks nationally are just gonna lay low till he gets elected and then the revolution is on and poppin'!

Oh yeah, he's uppity because he went to some Ivy League schools. And he refused to wear a "Stop Snitchin'" t-shirt and some grillz.

Ok, just kidding about the shirt and grillz, but come on, that's such a boring line of questioning.

What else did Newsweek tell us about Barack?

2) He's black but some white people like him. Isn't that just magnanimous of them?

Why do they like him?

Well, 'cause he did stuff for them, like get them jobs. And we're talking white people in mostly racist towns in southern Illinois. And if those former racists are ready to elect a black man, then by golly, what's holding the rest of the country back?

Could these white folks that Newsweek interviewed possibly be more comfortable with Barack since he is half white, and thus, lighter skinned? I mean, if Barack looked like Chamillionaire, would 59% of Americans say they're ready to elect a black president?

We'll never know the answer to that question. At least not if we stick to reading this article. Oh, and by the way, in case the reader didn't get it with the first few examples, before the article ended, the authors decided to share yet another example of how black folks aren't so sure Barack is black enough.

I'm infinitely disappointed in this Newsweek article.

How about someone ask Barack how much his racial identity's been influenced by the one drop rule? Maybe someone can ask Barack where he thinks the one drop rule intersects with that national conversation on race we're supposed to be having with each other. Maybe that would open the door to the discussion on why it was that a one drop rule got instituted in the first place and what role it plays in keeping our racial sicknesses going.

At least make the story more interesting and ask black people if it makes a difference to them that he's married to a black woman, and not to a white woman. In my informal polling, that does make a difference, and it's an interesting discussion as to why it makes a difference.

But, Newsweek didn't want to talk about that either.

What a missed opportunity.

Absentee Blogger, I Wonder Why

I did a little blog housekeeping last night. I went through my "Blogs I Try To Read" link list and added some blogs that I've been reading but hadn't gotten around to linking. And I took off some blogs that I used to read.

It's not that I don't like the removed blogs anymore. In fact, I really liked those blogs.

So why remove them from my link list? Well, the authors stopped posting. I'd check back and check back...and after several months of nothing new, I don't think the authors are coming back.

They've abandoned their blogs.

There's no "I'm tired of doing this blogging thing" post. No posts where the blogger even hinted that their entry on a cool movie was going to be the last post they ever wrote.

I know bloggers don't sign any kind of contract with us readers guaranteeing that posts will continue. If a blogger decides to stop writing, then it's clearly their choice to do so. They don't have to give us two weeks notice or anything like that.

Even so, this peacing out with no notice bugs me. I feel like I have a relationship of sorts with the folks who regularly come by here to read and respond to my pithy musings. I'd want to let folks know if I came to the decision that blogging was no longer for me. I wouldn't want folks to wonder if something untoward had happened to me.

My imagination runs wild wondering what happened to these bloggers.

Yes, I immediately think that something bad has happened to these absentee bloggers. I worry that they may have died. I worry that a controlling spouse found out about their blog and forbade them from continuing to post. I worry that the blogger had some sort of accident and developed amnesia, thus forgetting the existence of their blog.

In reality, they are probably just really bad at saying goodbye.

I wonder, if you have a blog, how long do you intend to keep it going? And are you the type to write a farewell post, or will you leave us all wondering and guessing what's become of you?

True Freedom

As a child, I loved the Fourth of July. I wasn't worried about my waistline back then so I'd enjoy a large helping of my mother's potato salad while I listened to her swap stories with my aunts. They'd reminisce about their old Hungarian neighbor, Mrs. Goulash, and how they'd gone to high school with a guy who was, at that time, one of the handful of successful black actors.

The talk would turn to the few other black celebrities and I loved hearing them go on about how Billy Dee Williams was so fine and Jayne Kennedy was beautiful. I wanted to look like Jayne Kennedy when I grew up and be married to Billy Dee.

There was never any talk of Thomas Jefferson or John Hancock, men who hadn't fought for or cared about the freedom of our black ancestors. There was no mention of the Continental Congress or of the Revolutionary War. No, the stories on the Fourth of July relived proms, tales of my grandma, and a pretty and popular girl they'd known growing up, Leslie Link. I loved that name and constantly wondered what Leslie Link looked like and how come she never came over to our house.

We had a health-conscious home so 99% of the time, there was no soda, or what we midwesterners call "pop", in the house. But on the Fourth, that all changed. I'd open the refrigerator to stare at the shiny red rows of Coca-Cola cans, all waiting to be snapped open and poured into small Styrofoam cups filled with ice. I'd gratefully take a cup, my name etched into the side so that I didn't have to use more than one during the day. Cup in hand, I'd go sit out on the back porch, watch my dad maneuver hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill. I'd sit and wonder about the stories of Coca-Cola originally containing cocaine. Even at eight or nine, I knew what cocaine was.

If we were barbecuing at my parents house, folks stuck to drinking that Coca-Cola. My parents, being Baha'is, did not drink and so alcohol was not served at their house. This was always a good thing, a protection against drunken, harsh things being said and old, bitter grudges being brought to the surface once more. But we were not always at our house on the Fourth. Sometimes we were at my grandmother's home, a mere six blocks away. There, the alcohol flowed more freely.

I remember sitting on my grandmother's porch, munching on Jay's potato chips and watching the fireworks we'd bought explode into the air. The cascades of shimmering red, white and blue sparks illuminated the darkness before descending onto the narrow brick street below. And then one of my aunts, tipsy and attempting to sit down next to me on the porch step, spilled her beer on me. It ran in rivulets down my leg and a small amount flowed into the dark recesses of my white K-Mart tennis shoes. The smell made me want to vomit but I was more worried that I'd get in trouble somehow for my shoes being messed up. So, I just sat there, not knowing what to say or do.

A few moments later, some folks who lived across the street from my grandma had also had too much to drink. They were arguing and someone threw a television out of the house. It crashed loudly on the concrete sidewalk, and the air erupted with curses flung back and forth. No one called the cops but we all went inside. The fireworks were done for the night. Later on at home, I snuck to the basement and put my shoes in the washer, erasing all signs of their beer desecration. They never seemed the same though. I always felt like I could smell that awful odor.

The rest of the summer always seemed somewhat lackluster, something of a let down in comparison to the joy of eating a hot dog and running through the front yard in the dark, sparklers ablaze in each of my hands. And all these years later, these Fourth of July holidays never seem to have the vivid liveliness that those childhood ones did.

Two days ago, I had no barbecue plans to speak of and living in LA where fireworks are illegal, I have not held a sparkler in my hand in quite some time. Although I can't do anything about the fireworks, I can and did make the barbecue plans and will be getting together with many of the friends who are essentially my California family. Moreso, I am celebrating my grasping the reins of life in a new, liberated fashion. There is nothing like having your life back, having your soul back, and that is true freedom indeed.

Ready To Relax

YEE-HAW!

Don't worry, I haven't migrated to Texas.

Nope. I'm just celebrating the fact that crazy.busy.work.week number two is almost over...only a few more hours to go! Can I say it again?

YEE-HAW!

Undoubtedly, these past couple of weeks have been really hard, but I tell you, it's been worth it. The teachers I am privileged to work with are going to make such a huge difference in the educational futures of kids in this city. That means a whole lot to me. I care so much, too much perhaps, about making sure that we have educational equity, making sure that all kids have a teacher that's going to work hard and push them academically. It's important and it has to happen. All kids, regardless of the color of their skin or the zip code they live in, deserve to be taught like they're attending an elite private school.

Yes, it's tiring, working so much, caring so deeply.. I'm not going to lie...the dark circles have gotten out of hand this week. But you know, other than writing, I seriously can't think of another worthy cause that merits my busting out the heavy-duty MAC concealer! What did folks do before it was invented? (And men, a little concealer could really be a good friend to your dark circles.)

Anyway, I have to say it again: YEE-HAW!!! Tomorrow I'll be spending time with dear friends and heading to the bookstore to get something to read during my four days off. I miss books. It's so weird but I haven't read anything in three weeks.

Any literary suggestions for me?