This was a piece I wrote a few months ago that I shared with my writing class.

Most people make fun or are intimidated by my memory. I don’t know why. When my uncanny gift is revealed to them in some way, their eyes turn on me. I can see it. They narrow and puzzle over how such details could be preserved in my mind. Or, their eyes widen, wondering how the neurons in my brain carry such seemingly forgettable details, both significant and not, of a time so long ago.

I’ve read all different kinds of theories and explanations of memory, including exercises that supposedly enhance one’s ability to memorize. You remember when you repeat. You remember when you associate with something else. You remember because you want to. You remember it short-term. You remember it long-term. You remember when your senses are stimulated. You remember, you remember, you remember.

This is my assertion: I remember what makes me feel. It’s not about the level of importance or frequency; it’s what makes me feel. Language, the candle’s scent in a room, the waterfall of hair when she tilted her head, ever so slight lisps, that hum of air-conditioning units from the neighbor’s house, the number of steps at the funeral parlor lobby, the shading at the community pool. Why certain aspects of life strike me to feel and then forever crystallize it in my mind, I cannot and do not know.

Even as my mind is recording something, I really have no idea it means anything at the time. Moments, days, even years later, something will jog it and I will, sometimes on my own or in correcting someone else’s commentary. I will realize I remember it perfectly and can describe what happened. I can describe not only what exact words were used, but how they were pronounced, what their cadence was like, what gesture was done and how quickly their fingers flew threw the air, and how their hair was styled and how a lonely piece of thread trailed the back her skirt when she stood up and walked away.

Most people press with the common reaction, “How do you remember that?” If it’s someone close to me who is all too familiar with my rich re-enactments or ease with rewinding life, “How in the hell do you remember that shit, Leese?” Sometimes I quip that perhaps they should pay more attention to their life or how I need to work for the FBI and make a fortune utilizing this special skill. But, usually, I just give an open grin and shrug my shoulders. If the conversation has turned onto another topic, I store away the rest of the unsaid details that I chose not to share. They think I’m freaky enough as is.

The larger who, what, when, why, and why of a memory is sometimes lost. I can remember and describe every dash on a ruler, but can’t tell you what purpose the ruler may have been serving. My memory is as fragmented as it is sharp, in shards as it is accurate, like broken pieces of a huge mirror. Broken, yes. Does it still precisely reflect? Yes. My internal vat is like an enormous, gaping hole in the earth where things – random things, sacred things – are thrown.

There are only a handful of details I remember from my 9th birthday party: boys called my house for the first time wanting to come over; I created my own trivia game with homemade questions. One of them asked for the nationality of Rocky Balboa’s boxing opponent in Rocky IV. It was my favorite movie and I loved that no one could answer that one. I remember that when I opened my gifts, I leaned against my parents’ old, small wooden TV stand that had been cleared for party use. I remember the end of that wooden stand had been stripped of its artificial coating and was rough to touch. My 9 year old bum sank into that roughness for nearly an hour. It hurt and was so uncomfortable, but I didn’t want to move because I was so excited my friends were there – answering my trivia questions and competing for small goody bag prizes. I don’t remember one gift, what food was served, or if one or both of my parents were there. I just remember my excitement superseding the pain of a wooden stand up my ass.

That is how my memory works. I remember something innocuous and upon deeper reflection, I find it is linked to a larger emotion, a larger detail. I’ll walk around a thrift store and find an old wooden TV stand and in the blink of an eye, I’ll feel the surging waves of excitement. I remember the excitement of that 9th birthday party. My excitement was not just because I had just turned nine and was that much closer to being a teenager, for which I could barely wait. It was because my 9th birthday was my first birthday in Ohio. My family had just moved from New Jersey and my father worked as a psychiatrist and we lived on the grounds of the state hospital. My house was one of two brick houses; our house was shaped with sharp 90 degree angles, cut so perfectly square that my siblings and I gave it a name. We called it, “The Cube.”

While most of my friends lived on bike-riding, ice cream truck visiting streets, I looked out the living room window and saw the state’s most mentally ill citizens on daily basis. Welcome to Ohio! I observed the patients all the time. Some tried to simply walk off the grounds or others would stare at the grass for hours without moving. Other patients yelled into the open fields – my front yard. On a few occasions, patients would walk right up to the porch and peek into our living room window. One even sent my dad ripped out pages of the bible, marijuana leaves, and a death threat after my father testified that he was not yet ready to leave the hospital and be immersed back into society. All of this happened during the height of the popular television show, Unsolved Mysteries, and I was convinced that someday I would be on that show as an unfortunate victim of a senseless crime committed by a mentally ill citizen. At eight years old, I had no idea I would someday be trained as a mental health therapist or understand that cognitive disorders of the mind are of nothing to be frightened. At eight years old, I was scared. I was scared to let people know where I lived. I wanted normalcy and normalcy meant New Jersey. I absolutely dreaded the well-intentioned parents of my friends, offering me a Toyota lift home from school. I hated it because I was so ashamed. No one would ever understand what it felt like to be so different.

Terrified to have any friends over, I believed they would make fun of me and call me mentally ill for living there. I was still the new kid. I didn’t want to be called the new crazy. Then something happened when I was on the cusp of turning nine. Tired of being afraid, I decided it was time to grow up, time to shed my fear. Taking a deep breath, I carefully selected my birthday party invitations. I wrote out each one myself. Slowly, but confidently, my new friends were invited to The Cube. When the time came to put my address, I wrote 25 times on girlie pink invitation envelopes: 3000 South Erie Street Massillon, Ohio 44646 (on the grounds of Massillon state hospital).

Some parents called my mom, wanting to be assured it was safe and my mom reassured each one that their daughter would be fine. Every person came. They were inquisitive and asked a lot of questions. Does the school bus pick you up? It did. Do you talk to the patients? No. Are you scared? A little, but you get used to it. I tried to answer every question to show I was just like them. Eventually the questions died down and their curiosity turned to excitement. The verdict: they thought it was cool and loved coming over. Eventually my friends were begging me with a favor. With the mental hospital as the backdrop, it was perfect for a Halloween party, they said. I happily obliged.

It’s never just about what you remember. It’s what makes you feel.

There is a book entitled, What I Know Now, and it’s inspired my entry today.

I’m not going to write Dear Self, Hello You, or To Me. That beginning reminds me of retreats where you write letters to yourself for future read. For as much as I loved retreats, I never felt like I benefitted much from writing to my future self. I always seemed to trust myself that whatever I experienced that day, if significant, I’d remember later on.

Now I’m writing to my younger self. The 27! me. That’s a bit from my GRE studying – remember factorials? You multiply all the numbers preceding the one with the !

I like the exclamation mark. (!)

So, 27!, here:

I’m tempted to give advice or write regrets. Both futile, I think. Why cajole bittersweet memories? Why regret? I don’t respond well to regret.

I’m tempted to give a hearty pat on the back. That’s dumb. I know I’ve done some things well in life. I also know I can be a coward. Let’s get real.

Might I just surrender to the nit-grit of what I write best: reflecting on brokenness and the painful lessons learned through just good ol’ fashion love.

There are so many things I wish you could have known, especially how to stand up for yourself and also how to stand up to yourself. You were never a prisoner of your emotions, as you once thought. Your feelings just never knew quite how to swim to the top of your tongue so they could escape. They stayed. Sometimes I wonder what you would have done, become, willed yourself to, if you learned that your emotions were simply, and quite exquisitely, symbols of your beauty and depth. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I wish you could have found the right people at a younger age. That was not to come until later. Perhaps it was because you weren’t yet able to receive them. Or they were not yet able to receive you. I’m not sure.

I really do wish that you understood that loving doesn’t mean it is always returned and that doesn’t mean you should stop, but it does mean to be careful. To be more or less cautious would be asking you to step down from who you really are. To ask you not to love the people you did is unthinkable. When you loved, you loved so fiercely, without ever taking a breath. It was like watching an artist paint with their own blood. A painful witnessing of creation. I was thankful when you learned to put the blood away.

You were never afraid of dancing, trotting to the bathroom by yourself, or taking solitude as your only backpack. I actually wish I kept some of that. The backpack is here somewhere.

I don’t know if there is anything you could have known that would have helped you. Every heartache yielded to a wider peripheral vision. At 27, I can see a lot. The caves are wide and expansive because of all the chiseling that’s been done. There are scars, dried wounds, and smelly corners, but the peripheral is wide.

You always loved your family, Tricia, being alone, and dreaming of what could be.

Maybe I could suggest to keep writing? Stop listening to everyone else. Publishing is not the goal of writing. Writing, your first and only obsession, is necessary.

I wonder where would you be had you known what Adonis had in store for you? Would you have run? Become afraid? Kicked him to the side and fished for another whale? You knew, from age .2, that you were destined for true love, true. And nothing would have stopped you. Nothing did. Not even the ravens of depression intimidated you. They only taught you to fly.

I don’t have anything to tell you. You always seemed to trust me and I, in turn, shall do the same.

Recently I was in a lunch with a few colleagues, talking about the plight of teens these days. The massive alter ego inside, the one that believes whatever pain I am going through supercedes anything else, spoke in defense of all the 20-somethings out there. What is this belief that teens have it bad? Oh, it must be the theory that claims teenhood is a confusing, body hormonal war in a terror tunnel, and homes are echoing because no one’s home to help with calculus homework.

Yes, it’s terrible, like the sound of dying cows with no tongues.

But, take all of that and apply it to young adulthood where one begins to make decisions that must be made, owned, and made manifest by your own self. No one else is responsible to teach you, guide you, ask you to come home, or tell you not to indulge in sex, drugs, food, work, or alcohol. It’s ultimate freedom with ultimate consequences and absolute responsibility for Y O U R O W N L I F E. The book would be called, “What Happens When Daily Life Begins to Elbow You Repeatedly in the Lung Area for 10 Years.”

THE TOP 5 REASONS 20 SUMTHINS DESERVE SUMTHIN BETTER

5. For those pursuing higher education, you enter your early 20s with a debt comparable to your first job’s salary. In addition, having a bachelor’s degree is not a big deal anymore. A master’s degree will soon be the common degree. BRING ON THE DEBT. If you are a college bound teen reading this, mark my words: Sallie Mae is an ubiquitous big mama.

4. People are living longer. Dying at 70 is considered young. A full life is croaking at 93 – 101. Do you really need to know by 25 how you will spend most of your days? Weeeellll, yes – because if you don’t know, you’re perceived as a) lazy b) capriciously indecisive c) unmotivated d) scared
To be in your 20s means every conversation is laden with really large fonted labels being awkwardly wrapped around you like a deformed Christmas gift.

3. Community. A fairly cheesy word to describe the undeniable need to have support around you. In the age where 20sumthins are more nomadic than ever, it’s difficult to feel a sense of belonging, of roots. Work buddies are a toss-up, one can never be certain of finding a happy hour playmate or someone to just connect with in the office. Family is family; not the same as having a non-blood related, warm, soul-social network.

2. Attempting to find a primary relationship will always be the most contentious aspect of a young adult’s life. Without relationships, you are a cold, cold human with nothing to look forward to. Even with a buttkicking job that smiles into your life and bank, finding a meaningful human with whom you share a few ideas with can be a daunting and perilous element of the 20sumthins juggler. Also, for those who choose the single, not twin icepops of a lifestyle, defending your chosen singlehood can be an oppressive experience with a society obsessed with soulmates and “we” attitudes. READ MY LEFT HAND – MARRIAGE IS NOT FOR EVERYONE.

And the number one reason why it’s so damn hard to be youthful and full of untapped potential in 2006:

1. You still need time to figure out who the hell you are when society is ringing the alarm that your time is up. The niche, your thing, a call, a place in the world…Say it’s identity development, say it’s a quarter life crisis, say it’s life. Whatever you call it, you need MORE time to define it. You hear a teen slamming a door and label it annoying, but expected. Fast forward 5 years, you hear a slamming door and it’s usually a mental health practitioner closing a room containing a 20s person in a straight jacket.

Today, I spent several hours writing a response to an article. Here is the article, followed by my response.

Holiday Political Correctness Solves No Problems

Tom Speaker

Get ready, everyone. December is just around the corner. Soon, it will be time to light the nondenominational holiday tree.

“Nondenominational holiday tree?” you ask. “I thought it was called a Christmas tree.” Indeed it once was. Unfortunately, we live in a culture where political correctness and over consideration of people’s feelings supersede history and common sense.

The “nondenominational holiday tree” actually has very Christian roots. Its tradition traces back to Western Germany in the 1500s. The trees were called “paradeisbaum,” or “paradise trees.” They were annually brought into homes Dec. 24 to celebrate the Feast of Adam and Eve. The trees reached America in 1700 and became popular by 1850.

Christmas trees have clearly been a part of the Christian culture for hundreds of years. Given Christianity’s ubiquity in America, people often try to neutralize the trees so that everyone can feel accepted. But this leads one to wonder: How would other cultures and religions feel if their own symbols and traditions were universalized? Would people sit and smile if the Jewish menorah was renamed the “Nonreligious Nine-Branched Candelabrum?” How would Muslims feel if the star and crescent was retitled the “Cosmological Simplistic Representation of No Specific Creed?”

The Christmas season (whoops, holiday season) isn’t the only example. This brand of over-sensitivity and revisionism is permeating society to ridiculous degrees. A few years ago, the University of Dayton sent out a letter stating that the term “freshman” has too many negative connotations and must be replaced with “first-year” so that people aren’t afraid of their class identity.

Several people see the phrase “mental retardation” as too pejorative (given the widespread use of insults such as “you’re retarded”), and now it’s nearly impossible to determine what to say – is it “challenged,” “developmentally disabled,” “developmentally delayed” or “mentally subnormal?”

Some feminists view the terms “woman” and “women” as symbolic of the historical and continuing subordination of their sex and suggest that society find replacements for the words, such as “womyn,” “wimmen” or “womon.” One European circle even proposed eliminating sex in profiling altogether.

The problem with modifications such as these is that they change history and terminology so that people will feel better about themselves. Unfortunately, taking such action prevents people from adjusting to the world on their own and facing its realities. It is one thing to erase blatantly offensive labels (such as the infamous N-word), but history and neutral commonplace words are something else altogether. Holiday trees, nondenominational or not, still have Christian origins.

The “developmentally delayed” will face ridicule, no matter what they are called. And whether you’re a “first-year” or a “freshman,” some people will always assume that you are naive and inexperienced.

People will be more prepared for the real world if they deal with these stereotypes, prejudices and facts of history on their own instead of through a sensitive vocabulary.

MY REPLY

A mixture of genuine curiosity for one portion of his article and blatant disagreement with the other motivated me to write a response to the November 7 publication, “Holiday Political Correctness Solves No Problems,” by Tom Speaker.

Mr. Speaker calls the current culture we live in a place where “political correctness and over consideration of people’s feelings supersede history and common sense.” Highlighting the once called, “Christmas tree” now synonymous with the “non denominational holiday tree,” Speaker uses this example as illustration of society’s “over sensitivity” to be politically correct. After providing references about the origins of the Christmas tree, he jumps to, “How would other cultures and religions feel if their own symbols and traditions were universalized?”

Christmas is two things. The Christmas holy-day, in its religious origin, celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ. Christmas, the holiday, has evolved to be winter celebration of seasons, Santa Claus, and other proverbial winter icons. The tree holds significance for both. The effort to call the Christmas tree other names may very well be an effort to be mindful of non-believers, agnostics, or atheists, but it is certainly not in the name of religious diversity and faith inclusion. Even if the symbolic broadening of the Christmas tree is done in the name of “political correctness,” it’s still problematic to use a symbol with Christian heritage. The underlying assumption is that everyone recognizes and agrees with this symbol.

On October 26, the University Multicultural Council sponsored a Religious Diversity forum where calendars with different religious holidays and symbols were distributed. This simple gesture, featuring Bahai, Buddhist, Christian, Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, Wiccan, Jewish, Jain, and Orthodox Christian traditions, demonstrates there is indeed a societal and University need to be more inclusive and open-minded of other religions and cultures. It is not a call for Christian symbols to change its history. It’s not a call even for Christmas-goers to share the holiday fever. It’s a call for all individuals, to bring themselves to a higher level of integrity and intentional respect for other religious practices and beliefs.

What I found most disturbing is the article then jumps to language use as further illustrating how “ridiculous” and PC our society has become. Speaker cites the University of Dayton’s stance that the term “freshman” is too negative and must be replaced with “first year” as pictorial hypersensitivity. Perhaps the administration of UD should not be criticized for taking action against the underlying problems of hazing and other problems that come with seniority issues. Perhaps UD viewed the term, “fresh-man” as too narrow and ignoring issues of gender identity and is attempting to model a new viewpoint.

Speaker also goes on to write, that “several people” find the phrase mental retardation as “too pejorative,” and complains “it’s nearly impossible to determine what to say.” What I found backward is that Speaker finds fault with “mental retardation,” an actual diagnostic terms for persons born with lower levels of cognitive ability and not with the population that nonchalantly uses “you’re retarded” as a degrading verbal hit. But, according to Speaker, these human beings “will face ridicule, no matter what they are called.” It is the incredulous ignorance and abuse of our language, not our “political correctness,” that is superceding common sense.

Also, Speaker identifies problems with the terms “woman and women.” As a feminist of color, I am curious as to what group of feminists Speaker is referring to when he writes “some feminists and one European circle.” Feminism is a naturally evolving term with respect to race, class, gender, age, ability, and religion. It is a lens to view a world of difference to promote equality for all persons. Some of my feminist peers and colleagues do prefer alternative spellings, such as “womyn.” However, their reasons are not to “change history and terminology so that [they] will feel better about themselves,” it is a personal preference to express their own dissent in opposition to systematic privilege based on gender. It is an action to heighten awareness, hardly an attempt to feel better about themselves and the state of patriarchy.

It’s the lack of cultural competency, not vocabulary modification that is the real problem. Malicious labels, insults, and misinformed use of words create a prejudicial climate that panders to the lowest opinions in our communities. Speaker states that vocabulary adjustment will not change the world, but I disagree. As Martin Heidegger states, “Language is the house of being, and [you] must exist in that house.” It’s not just about the language, it about the climate those words create.

I’ll admit it. I’m an anti-smoking occasional smoker.

From my impudent college days, I put a puffer to my mouth and held the smoke in my cheeks, not inhaling, but so wanting to look cool. I’m orally fixated, my excuse excused me from the Surgeon General’s Warning, and upset! Then I actually started inhaling.

I can do whatever the hell I want. This, I recall, is MY BODY.

Ok, fast forward five years to a less impudent college administrator. I loathe smoking for all the same reasons I did in college. The difference is that I now have the gall to state that I am an uncool, non-caffeinated healthy, avocado eating, ‘Laura’s Lean Beef’ carnivorous advocate. I am. I also love the taste of a hefty cigar and a sip’o brandy.

Issues 4 and 5 are on the Ohio ballet and I cannot recall the last time (ok, I can – presidential election of 2004) when I was so politically heated. Granted, I’m not twisting my go-go-gadget head around a floral wedding centerpiece to holler at a stranger like I was in 2004, but a rather feisty advocate has emerged in these last few years as I take slow ganders over advertisements and actually read labels, addicts’ stories, and the reality of second-hand smoke.

Besides the proverbial “my contacts dry out and my eyes sting, smelly hair and pillow (the latter is optional if you don’t shower before bed), my clothes need to be dry-cleaned” argument, the only resounding point I come up with is: I WANT CLEAN AIR. I am the kind of person that convinced my Philip Morris employed brother to quit the empire and to come cheer on the good side of humanity. I am the kind of person that, yes, under inebriation, steals a rare puff from my best smoking friend because I engage in occassional bad behavior. Bad behavior? Check. Actively killing myself and my lungs? No.

This is my message to smokers: you can be the lung destroyers of the world – because it is your right to do whatever you want to your insides, just like my college experience attested. But, this November 7^th, I refuse to be taken down with you. I refuse to walk into any given restaurant and have no choice but to simply sit in a cloud of smoke, to be inconvenienced to find of a non-smoking establishment (when you’re thisclosetokentucky, it’s difficult), inhale toxins, and shorten my life. Hey! When I want to kill my lungs, I’ll do it on my own time and smoke outside so no one else is affected by my bad behavior.

We drink alcohol. It’s apparently within our right to poison our livers and destroy brain cells. There’s no law that says you can’t get drunk (outside the 21y/o thing), but you can’t get drunk and then recklessly put others at harm. Hence, there are laws regulating what we do afterward. We are not allowed to operate vehicles or other large mass machinery out of concern for everyone’s safety and well-being. Right? We have rights, but there’s laws created to prevent us from potentially hurting another human being.

Is smoking really that different?

Follow me.

There are a lot of smokers, but that shit you blow out is inhaled by me, dining and welcoming service employees- who are mostly women- children, and other passer-byers. That smoke floats over the ineffective barricade and adheres to my nostrils, my lungs. My rage raises as you flick your butt outside car windows, into lawns, and start fires in college residence halls. But that’s going beyond Issues 4 and 5.

For Ohioans, Issue 4 is a well known to be backed by Tobacco companies. Issue 5 is backed by the American Cancer Society. For f*ck’s sake, you figure it out.

This, I recall, is MY BODY.

VOTE YES ON 5. NO ON 4.

The last wedding I attended was one of the fanciest ones I’ve ever seen. Every man had either a dark suit or a tux on, every woman was wearing a black dress. This ostentatious parade could have easily been turned to a celebrity funeral.

I could not believe how many variations of a black dress there were: strapless, spaghetti, off the shoulder short, off the shoulder long, one sleeve sling, deep V front, deep V back, backless, sashes, bows, ripples, wraps with varying pleats and side hip gathers for every kind of material possible, sheer, satin, taffeta, silk, stretchy, translucent. There were different layers and swaying hemlines at the floor, ankle, calf, knee and thigh. And there were stiff hems inching upward, curving the buttuck region. The strapless women tugged at the top of their breasts all night [super attractive, don’t think anyone’s watching?] and the loose straps were yanked impatiently all night as they fell off a dipping left shoulder blade.

Another detail I noticed about weddings and fancy places in general is women’s footwear. Part of the revolution, I hope, is the ability to claim comfort for our feet. Apparently, these guests didn’t want that part of freedom’s walk, or at least, they will step gingerly on freedom’s walk in tight shoes. Being the flat footed, no arched, excessively pronated person I am, I have a hard time reconciling stilettos and high heels that yell CONQUER from across the room. I sport them once in a great while. But then these women try and do limbo in them. [brows furrow]

And then there’s the dancing…

Ok, this is going to sound extremely racist, but what IS it with white people and music? For the most part, white folks CANNOT dance for shit. Are they impervious to bass and percussion? Do they not hear the natural beat and instruction of the rhythm? And WHAT IS UP WITH THE INEVITABLE DANCE CIRCLE? That thing where everyone tries to be inclusive and in this effort ends up with offbeat clapping and hooting and hollering? Why running in place? The numb looking feet shifting from left to right intrigue me. Adonis insists this is cross cultural and says that even Filipinos do the dance circle thing. Yes, but we, for the most part, can dance, I counter.

And why, why, why is it considered appropriate to do bad lip-syncing to your dance partner one millimeter from their face before they both collapse into fits of high pitched squeals and laugh like they’re on ecstasy? Of course, there is the token flower girl doing round-offs and twirls by herself and the one [really] drunk, hapless guy trying to grind with the bride.

Wedding receptions at the Hilton are weird.

There were almost as many photographers, all women, as there are bridesmaids, reminding me of a feminist paparazi. The acoustics were terrible in this temple of a ballroom; the dance floor was the size of my apartment.

The filet mignon and bearnaise sauce was brilliant. From my assigned table on the balcony, I watched the crowd below while my table guestimated the cost of the wedding. Adonis, as usual, was way off in his underestimation and I made a mental note to argue with him about that later.

I counted four or five dozen white roses on one centerpiece alone, amid several circular tables. Some of the centerpieces were as tall as me. I eagerly flagged one women of color in the room. She wore red, instead of black, and I realized, was busy taking care of Table 28.

While our unfortunate server was suffering (and therefore we were suffering) of intense body odor, I counted the guests to keep my mind occupied. He was like a walking sour stick of old balsamic vinaigrette.

All my life, I’ve naturalized the fact that I am often the Other in any given room. I’ve also naturalized the fact that no one gives a damn about that and no one cares to find out if I give a damn either. Well, I do.

My parents come from a country that exports millions of women to become domestic workers across the seas and professionals leave for better opportunity. The Philippines has both a brain and care drain and it lives on the precipice of economically imploding. I ruminate this as I unblinkingly stare at the white rose petals scattering around the skyscraper cake. Who am I to dine in velvet and toast a couple I’ve never met and then politely ask for another linen napkin? Whose pink lips are these, with lavender lidded eyes and bronze rouge? Lancome, with its caucasian consultants, told me to use this combo. Why do I listen?

Bracing myself against the balcony, the powerful rum surges to my brain. My ability to metabolize alcohol is horrendously slow and am quickly drunk. I absent-mindedly text my sister on my cell phone while I eavesdrop on a women talking to my husband. She’s telling Adonis how she doubts her white male son will get into Harvard because of the non-white women, women in general, minorities, and “the internationals” that have to be admitted first. Right.

To my left, a woman is thanking two gushing admirers of her necklace, made, of course, by her very own sister. She has another shipment coming in soon, do you want her information? Oh, yes.

And a cool eye drops down my outfit, I sense. I look away from her, losing my confidence, losing my self. This foreign world with made-up faces and privileged parties deemed normative quiets me. I look for the black woman. I don’t know why. I hastily scan the crowd and drink in her busy-ness, her round brown eyes and young skin. I want to talk to her, but she’s clearing away the burned-out votive candles while the DJ skips around as Cotton Eyed Joe wails from the speakers.

I look down at my placecard. Well, at least they got the hyphenation right. But I can do without the M-R-S stuff. ‘Lisa’ is just fine.

As I become fixated on the bare and gyrating backs of dancers and the male clusters of sipping drunks, I tune out the part-time shimmying, part-time kissy facing couple next to me. Suddenly, the bride appears. She looks like a beautiful white lacy mermaid and Jarod’s the handsome merman with a boasting, muscled chest. I appreciated those muscles in the brief, fierce hug we shared.

Adonis’ aunt is there; a kind woman who loves me with a lot of energy. She pulls up a chair and I breathe. An unrecognizable man interrupts and sits in front of her and misdirects her attention. This man has her now. My time is over. His eyes shift to me momentarily before he indulges her with updates. I am ignored.

Okay.

I try to catch Adonis’ eye, signaling my white flag, but he’s occupied with his uncle.

A bathroom break is needed.

Grabbing my red wrap, I make my way to the bathroom. The Palm Court is a golden haven for expensive dates and wealthy business folks who need a steak in their bellies before bed. I keep my eyes downward and notice, for the 1000th time, the perpetual catch-22 I exist in: I fear being seen, I fear being invisible.

There are mirrors everywhere and out of my peripheral vision, can scope out my hurried walk, sidestepping slow walkers and loud talkers. The mirrors soar to the top of the ornate ceiling, giving the illusion of even more space in this fairytale room. Everything, all of this, is an illusion.

My feet dangle from the handicapped toilet seat and I have trouble getting back down the throne. Not built for me, I guess. Keeping my eyes downward, I nearly run back to the wedding, feeling irrationally uncomfortable.

Adonis is smiling at my return and asks me to dance. I accept. His frame blocks my vision to see over his shoulder, so I sneak a peak around his elbow and watch us in a mirror that stands next to a framed picture of Jacqui Kennedy Onasis. I observe, “I’m the shortest person over ten years old in this room. And I’m wearing heels.”

“No,” Adonis disagrees, drawing out the long ooooooo, “there’s a woman behind you, dancing with a guy in a yellow tie. I think she’s shorter.”

I barely listened to his reply, I already felt like anyone in this room could step on me from the top of my head if they really wanted to. My eyes drew upward and thought of Paris Hilton’s inheritance.

“Are you alright? You look really emotional,” Adonis cares openly.

I give a no-teeth smile and kissed him before I buried my head in his chest and fought a rising sadness.

45 minutes later we head home. Trying to warm my sore cold toes in the flannel red bedsheets, I asked Adonis with my back to him, “Do you ever wish you’d have married someone normal?“

“No. Never. I wanted you. Someone extraordinary.”

A silence that drifted five minutes passed.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he softly implored, trying, though he didn’t entirely understand.

A pregnant silence.

“You can’t make it better,” I finally reminded him and myself.

Our eyes met in the dark room once more before they closed and the complex sadness finally quieted, too.

You know what’s kind of nuts about blogging? It’s like you’re a celebrity of some sort. People read you, want to know you, think your thoughts are outrageous or kind or ridiculous. Bloggers provide a snippet of their lives, think of the best way of how to tell it, and then broadcast it from Yugoslavia to the Badlands of the Dakota.

Whether my thoughts are read in a highrise or in a cyber cafe, there’s a uncontrollable feature of blogging that I must become accustomed: I cannot be responsible for how each word is taken. I can only write my truest thoughts and send them forth, hoping they implant themselves safely in an open noggin and jog around a bit.

If you haven’t noticed, or been cued up to speed: I’m not of euro-descent. I’m not “White,” or Anglo-saxen, or Caucasian. Like it or not, this is part of my bloggy. It’s part of my blog because IT’S PART OF MY LIFE. Everything deemed normative behavior, normative advertising, normative vernacular, normative knowledge stems from white folks. Now, there’s knowing that fact is true and then there’s KNOWING that fact is true. If you can read that sentence without confusion and nod, read on. If you have to go back and read that sentence again, but get it eventually, read on. If you’re reading this part and are hoping you’ll eventually catch on, click off and go educate yourself.

I’m moving into a part of my life where race – the uncomfortable, “oh, i don’t know enough about history, but i’m still going to make a comment,” issue – is central. Gender and race and no longer two separate entities. They’ve merged. It’s Genderace. And when you wake your Genderace beast within, you’ve got a helluva lot to say.

People must learn that we are not all born equal. We should, but we’re not. We cannot create solidarity simply because we titled ourselves, “liberal,” and there are degrees of racism, so deeply embedded that even the most progressive thinkers find themselves uttering thin and narrow slivers of oppression in their speech. Listen closely. We are all shaped by racism. But even the deconstructing instructions for race has mostly been written and distributed by white people. But it takes more than dining at Ambar and Bankok Palace, reading up on the elections, and making friends with a black individual to call yourself enlightened.

The color of my skin changes. I’m most fair in November through Februrary. I’m darkest July and August. I have passed Chinese, Japanese, Hawaiian, Malaysian, Spanish, Filipina, Greek, Jewish, Korean, Thai, Nicaraguan, Salvadorean to name a few. I speak only one language fluently (English), but can understand Tagalog and can hold Spanish conversations. I’m many things.

Why do I write that? Because I’m sick and tired of people thinking that race is this one big deconstructing party where everyone’s invited to the White house to hear WOC speak. What needs to be said is not just WOC’s experiences, but this: DO your own work. Work out your OWN shit. READ up on yourself, your roots, and how your privilege comes at someone else’s expense. Stop thinking Peggy McIntosh’s Unpacking White Privilege is the answer to your own biased views. WOC are oppressed more than white women in insidious, invisible ways. There are degrees of violence, susceptibility, and privilege within genderace that you must be awakened to before you can truly call yourself an ally. In this age of relativism and my changing skin color, one thing is true to this day: you cannot, ever, for one day, stop fighting for equality. It’s just a moment’s slip away.

Let this post serve as my occasional need to emotionally vomit, a syndrome of living in the modern world…Being a woman is messy. Let me rephrase, being an caring, passionate observer is messy. There is nothing clean and linear about life, Period. What I have found in dinner parties, blogging, social justice work, marriage – LIFE – is messiness, misunderstanding…why do I feel the need to fucking explain myself over and over again to people who do not know me, nor ever will?

Should I declare this?
Hey – I’m not pro-choice! Hey – I’m not pro-life either! I’m more worried about the results and indications of these titles and propoganda than I am concerned with how I identify.

Hey! I waited until I was married to have sex. Hey! I am not convinced pre-marital sex is a sin!

Know what else? I voted for George Bush in 2000! Then I voted for John Kerry in 2004! I’m not a flip-flopper, I’m now more aware that neither really knows the plight of what women face everyday. Why? Because they’re both absurdly wealthy white men who have never known sacrifice a day of their political lives. And I don’t mean sacrifice like, I went to war and thrice won medals or I flew to Ohio seven times in two weeks to have rallies in Dayton to get the vote. I mean sacrifice like, “We can’t buy that medicine, the car needs repairs.”

What’s more…I’m a Spanish Filipina! Hey! I married a white guy- he’s German, French, and Irish! ’nuff said.

Also, I’m a devout Catholic! I truly believe in doctrines and the symbolism of the C-Church. But, guess what the pisser is? I actually take time to read and understand the role of oral tradition, religious history, and Scripture. You won’t believe this, but for as much error and misunderstanding as there is in the practice and education of the church, there is much life-giving Truth is you are willing to invest in finding it…similiar to the investment you make in your family. Change and growth is necessary for survival. And! I’m a feminist of color! I listen to eminem, country, and the 80s. I’m the youngest of 4 with an achievement complex. Spanish is more comfortable than Tagalog.

Can my narcissism continue for another paragraph? Of couse! I’m a closet perfectionist and outright fierce competitor. Losing is never an option and if I do, I pout like a little bitch. I’m spiritual, forgiving, and compassionate and love doing nothing and losing myself in my own world. I’d never join the army or the PTO. Once a cheerleader, I now hate cheerleading and cheerleaders, but still admit, I loved the performance element of it. I could do without the lust, sexism, and stereotype reinforcement, though. Knitting and crocheting are hobbied proofs that I might be ADHD. Pill-popping is not my thing, nor have I ever done drugs, but still have a secret fantasy of doing heroin. As a member of standonline.org, I campaign for a smoke-free world and love an occasional cigarette or brandied cigar.

Hey! If you have something negative to say: get the f! off my blog.

So I just planned, conducted, executed an entire week of programming called Women’s Wellness Week. I feel a lightness in my step, a relaxation of arms, jaw, and vagina. I feel wonderful.

The week ended with a workshop on the psychology of women and eating, a deeper look (for undergraduate women anyway) at body image and disordered eating. The university’s dance team was there with matching red ribbons in their high set bouncing ponytails. I listened in the back of the room while I munched on the chocolate covered strawberries I ordered as snack food. Yes! I completely agree, I thought with my full of berry and chocolate, restriction gets you nowhere!

As it ended and everyone applauded, different young women came to me with their stories about their bodies. These innocent and lovely creatures telling me they are too intimidated to wear two piece bathing suits, too afraid how their butts will look if they attempt to climb the rock wall in the gym, and their highschool trauma stories…I thought about their words during my commute.

Talking about how you feel about your body is similar to talking intimately about your family. Y, No one can truly identify to what degree you feel. It’s trembling and personal, almost sacred, to share how you see your body. And sharing that with others is a tentative, brave step for many. I could see the expectent eyes of so many, asking me to share my thoughts, my experiences of body image and my experiences of weight loss, gain, and maintenance. I kept my thoughts to myself, and this blog.

The thing about weighing 130lbs is that it comes with privileges and responsibility. The thing about weighing 201 lbs is that it comes with discrimination and fear. I can write about both and every pound in between. Weight, for some, is not just a topic about health. Weight is an excrutiatingly important topic for all the wrong reasons and I fear to share my story sometimes. I choose not to share NOT out of fear of being judged, I choose not to share because I have a fear about being misunderstood. My body is the only thing I’ve had with me my whole life and its story of growth, loss, operation, healing, and treatment is my own. It’s mine. Perhaps one blog, I will reveal more. To reveal this much, today, is a triumph.