Letter #7

Dear Veronica,

I wish there was a way to explain the world to you in a somewhat simple manner. Most days, I feel after thirty years of observing it myself, I am no closer to a resolution than when I first asked as a little girl.

I remember when I was seven and I slept on the bottom half of a bunk bed, on a blue mattress with white and yellow rockets on them. I woke up one Saturday afternoon from a nap and wondered for the first time, “What if my whole life is a dream?” I waited for the day when I was going to wake up from the real bunk bed of life and discover that I am really a sophisticated genius, dreaming I was seven years old.

In some ways, I think I am still waiting for that wake-up call.

I’ve been thinking about the pain I am physically in from all the different medications I am taking to ready my body for a pregnancy, hopefully. I’ve closed down any pathways for alcohol, steer clear of anyone who breathes out cigarette smoke, and try to get some form of physical activity once a day to rejuvenate my spirit. Vitamins, pills, appointments. This morning, I woke to a stomach full of cramps, gripping and squeezing my lower abdomen. Another cycle.

I’ve finished reading a book called, “The Shack,” and your Dad and I discuss all the ways we agree and disagree with it. The book is about faith. It’s about God and tragedy, but most of all, the book is about redemption.

I thought of how I might explain redemption to you someday and it almost made me laugh. You, an innocent oval of joy rolling around in my head with nothing resembling a stain or mark of evil or oppression on your skin, would know nothing of redemption because you know nothing of death or pain yet.

Redemption is about making something new, the bursting through of darkness with transformation and purpose. It is a lovely concept, but not many people believe in it. I think it’s an odd word, something foreign. I think I put space in my vocabulary from that word because I know it can only come through the despair of tragedy. Redemption is inherently tied to some sort of wrong. I hate wrong.

“The Shack” will be a thing of the past, a dusting on the walls of your books when you learn to read and I am confident there will be a hundred other New York Times frenzies for you to consume. But this book, this particular book came to me in a time where I have been thinking about the possibility of tragedy. My tragedy would not be loss, it would be tragedy of nothingness. Not having you, not seeing you and admitting all the darkest fears in my heart.

A strong confession left my heart and onto a kitchen table with friends as I let out some of my deepest fears of pregnancy and fertility. One of women, one of the wisest I’ve ever known, turned to look quietly into my face, the face of fear, “You need to come to grips with all that you are hoping and wishing. You need to face all the possibilities of having children and not having children and what that means to you. We’ll be here. We’re not going anywhere.”

Veronica, I couldn’t place whether I am more scared to have you in this world with me or to be without you and never experience giving birth to a soul within my soul, light from my cervix, a throbbing bubble of life in the space between my ribs. I am terrified to face the fear that my body may not be capable of the longest desire I’ve ever known. I am out of my mind frightened at the possibility to bring life into a world that doesn’t know anything about redemption except in the contours of novels and films.

Most of all, I’m scared what I will hear within my own mind for the rest of my life if I am infertile, if I am not able to hold life in my body. I am most scared of this small phrase that nearly every single human being thinks and feels, but loathes to admit: I am scared to fail.

My body might fail me. Your father might fail us. I might fail you. You might fail the world. God might fail me. I know I’ve failed God.

Fail.

Fail.

I’m afraid of failing.

So powerful is this fear that I don’t know how else to elaborate its meaning. It’s all there in one damning, one syllable word. Fail.

The shame of failure and the perceptions that dance around a dead dream haunt me everyday. The measure of womanhood is often by her body, her health, her decisions, career, family, relationships, mind, spirit. And children. I’m afraid of being seen as a failure, being seen as dry in the soil where life is supposed to thrive. I’m afraid that I have no garden inside me.

I have all the intuition in the world and I still cannot feel where I am headed. I hope, I suppose, toward my own redemption.

And so, even with all those dimming lights, the sadness and trembling, I continue to plow my land, I dig in the areas where the ground is soft, working to create this garden. I loosen the dirt, readying it for rain, seeds, and love. Readying it for you.

Love,
Mama

The Crisis of Credit Visualized

If you are anything like me, you like pictures. You like visualization. Concepts and problems must be graphed, color coded, or drawn out for me to have a clear handle on things. If you are interested, for your own self-education, on how the credit crisis exploded (or imploded), here is a nice video that explains how it all relates to one another. I’ve been asking siblings who are all in banking and insurance to better explain it to me. While I’m still not there, this video helped quite a bit. It’s basic and explains popular banking jargon. Also, it has funny animations that made me giggle.


The Crisis of Credit Visualized from Jonathan Jarvis on Vimeo.

Just Imagine This Scene

6:15am
Friday, March 13, 2009

Nick wakes up quietly, trying not to wake his wife peacefully sleeping and dreaming on his right.

His usual kind and loving tradition, he leans over to gently kiss his sleeping wife on the cheek before he goes to start his day.

It’s still dark, but the morning sky is just beginning to turn.

Lisa is having a bad dream. Her eyes fly open.

The slight lighting from the window casts a silhouette outline of someone leaning over her.

She opens her mouth and screams bloody murder. Her left arm comes up in a helpless defense against who she thinks is trying to attack her.

“LEESE! IT’S ME! IT’S NICK! LEESE! LEESE!”

She recovers and shudders, “Ohhhhhhhh…” her heart pounding.

One of these days, someone is going to have a heart attack.

Speak! Album is Released

There’s a cut and paste version of explaining what the Speak! CD is all about,

Speak! is a women of color-led media collective. In the summer months of 2008, they created a CD compilation of spoken word, poetry, and song. After months of hard work, they are excited to finally share their first self-named album with the world!

With artists and poets from all over the country, the Speak! CD is a testament of struggle, hope, and love. Many of the contributors are in the Radical Women of Color blogosphere and will be familiar names to you. Instead of just reading their work, you’ll be able to hear their voices.

Proceeds of this album will go toward funding mothers and/or financially restricted activists wanting to attend the Allied Media Conference in Detroit, MI this July. This is our own grassroots organizing at its finest with financial assistance from the AMC. Here it is, ready for your purchasing!

but I thought I’d give you another version in case you already read that…

In all the juke and jive I’ve encountered about how people want to raise their social consciousness, in all the complaints that online interaction and threads don’t really do anything, amongst all the bemoaning the road that mainstream music has traveled, and all the talk among folks who want to “help” but don’t know how…Here is a musical, artistic collection of work between scholars, activists, poets, mothers, warriors, students, sisters, and partners which does one thing: it speaks truth.

Each track, as I listened to it again last night, is piece of truth of someone’s life. You may not understand it. You may not get it. But, there it is, twenty tracks of spoken truth reserved to fill the spaces and ears of those willing to listen and engage.

Be a part of it.

Popcorn in Bed

There is a gaping hole in our kitchen ceiling and it is atrocious.

Our contractor had to rip it out because our noggins were endangered of having the thing collapse on us.

So, Bob, our very own Mr. Fixit, is kind and generous enough to help us through this problem. It’s going to be finished at the end of the week. I can’t wait because every time I stand in front of the refrigerator it feels like I am about to be sucked into a huge vortex of darkness and leaky pipes above.

The joys of homeownership. Nothing is better.

In other news…

Last night was an unusual night. I had a late meeting for a potential and temporary short term job and came home around 9:30pm. I chatted on the phone for an hour or so with my lovely sister in law and figured, with a quick peak at our shut bedroom door and the sound of the space heater, that Nick was already sleeping, passed out like the old man he is.

So you can imagine my surprise as I head upstairs after I was done talking to Kelly and my phone rings. And it’s ringing Nick’s ringtone.

Nick is still out to tell me he’s on his way home. If he’s still out, who in the hell is in our bedroom?

And the door swings open and it’s bleary-eyed Nick, cell phone in his hand.

YOU GAVE ME A HEART ATTACK. WHY ARE YOU CALLING ME WHEN YOU ARE ONE ROOM AWAY?

“Oh, hi, babe. I was wondering where you were. I was getting worried.”

HEY MR. SHARPIE – I’VE BEEN HOME FOR AN HOUR.

“Really? I didn’t hear you.”

So, I give him an odd look and get ready for bed.

As I snuggle into my side of the bed and begin drifting off to sleep, Nick speaks clearly as if it’s the middle of the day, “I’m wide awake.”

“Well, this is certainly a role reversal.” I just want to get to sleep, but know it’s not going to happen.

“Maybe I should eat something,” Nick muses.

“If how I feel right now is what you felt the entire first year we were married when I kept yapping my head off because I wanted to talk, this is my way of apologizing right now and I swear I’ll never do that again.”

“I will go eat something,” he decides.

“Fine. There’s some popcorn I just made sitting out downstairs if you want that.”

Now, if you know ANYTHING about Nick and popcorn, you know that popcorn is not just another snack like, say, Pringles or M&Ms. Popcorn, in the Borchers family, is eaten in a rather methodical, non-stop robotic nothing can interrupt my rhythm, kind of way.

So you can imagine my surprise, slight annoyance when I am drifting off to sleep and all of a sudden I hear the clank of a glass (filled with sprite and ice, I’m sure) hitting the side table near our bed followed by Nick easing onto his side of the bed and I hear the back and forth of hand-bucket-stuff into mouth -hand-bucket-stuff into mouth – hand-bucket-stuff into mouth rhythm. All in the background is the distinct sound of Nick chewing the grains and fluff of salty popcorn.

I flipped over, “Are you eating in bed?”

I can’t see him in the dark but I hear the crunching continue, “Yup.”

My tiredness turns into sarcasm, “Is it good?” referring to the popcorn. I try not to think of the crumbs, particles, and oil that are going to get on our sheets or on me because of this late night snack.

“Mhm- MHM!”

With the dark veiling my face, Nick could not see me roll my eyes. I just laid on my back and waited for him to finish the bucket. It didn’t take long. For Nick to finish a bucket of popcorn, it never does.

As I heard him clap his salty hands and throw the excess on the ground because I know he doesn’t believe in napkins, I closed my eyes for much needed rest.

Sure enough, he falls asleep.

The Top Five Ways that White Feminists Continue to Discredit Women of Color

More food for you. More voices. More insight.

There is a guest post by Aaminah Hernandez over at Problem Chylde entitled The Top Five Ways that White Feminists Continue to Discredit Women of Color.

Here are bullets to whet your appetite…

1) Say we are too “involved” or biased in regards to the subject, and claim
that you are more “objective”.

2) Say we are ignorant of the subject,
even though the subject is our own life, history, culture or religion, because
we have dared to speak to our own story and question the way outsiders have
portrayed it. This includes questioning our academic background (or lack of),
our writing style/ability, and whether or not we cite “accepted” texts to prove
our points.

3) Speak condescendingly towards us. Tell us we are too young or too old,
naïve or bitter, and that we are angry or emotional, etc.

4) Pull out
your “credentials” to show that you have more support and legitimacy than we
do.

5) Say we are hurting the cause of feminism, or that we aren’t really
feminist at all.

Don’t comment here. GO THERE AND READ HER WORK!

The Bliss that is Natural Light

As much as Nick loves natural light, I’ve never seen him wear shades before.

Little fun fact about Nick: one of his favorite things in the world is natural light. He freaking talks about how awesome natural light is at least three times a month. If you add that up over the course of the years I’ve known him, that’s a lot of time spent talking about something as simplistic as the sun’s rays.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love photography. I practically salivate over natural light when I shoot photos. The best weddings photos are the ones that are shot with as much natural light as possible.

But Nick’s not a photographer. He just goes nuts over sunlight.

He, and I’m not exaggerating, does not like curtains because of this. He would PREFER a curtainless world to let as much natural light into our house as possible. When we were looking at houses to buy last year, he’s say, “Look at those windows! Think about how much natural light we’ll get.”

And I, looking at him from the corner of my eye, say, “Sure. Yeah. I mean, looks great.”

When we’re driving, Nick is usual steering while I am off in my own world blabbering about my thoughts on the Universe, whether we’ll live to see the scientific proof of another galaxy beyond the Milky Way, and all of a sudden Nick will explode, “DID YOU SEE THAT HOUSE? THEY HAD ALL FRONT WINDOWS THAT WERE HUGE. DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH NATURAL LIGHT THEY MUST GET?”

And I, again, dumbfounded that he doesn’t even get that excited over Xavier basketball or a Beanie Wells run, or a discounted oil change will reply, “Huh. Where?” I’ll strain my head, look in the rear view mirrors, “I didn’t see it. Darn.”

And just like the calm sea after a brief storm, Nick will return to his 98.6 degree body temperature. His eyes will return to their normal shade of blue-ish green, and the torrent of emotion will subside as he drives on.

So it was no surprise yesterday, out on a long walk and taking advantage of our 50 degree day, Nick says, “Guess what?”

“What?”

“It’s 5:30pm now and look how light it is. Just think – next week, it’ll be this light out at 6:30pm!”

“Yes. Daylight savings time. Incredible.” I am bemused watching him practically skip down the sidewalk like a little boy.

I remain silent, enjoying his enjoyment.

“You know,” he continues, “I don’t even know what I’d be like if daylight savings time were on the same day as my birthday. I wouldn’t know what to be more excited for.”

“Mhm,” I speculate, “I’d air on the side of celebrating existence than natural light, but that’s just me.”

I don’t think Nick hears me. He is lost to the world, absorbing his joy of the impending spring.

And with that story, my friends, I am sure you will remember to jump your clocks forward an hour this weekend. I don’t know if Nick will be able to sleep the night before from his excitement.

A Belated Thanks from the Birthday Gal

Over the weekend I went to Hocking Hills for the first time. I went with a group of women who dubbed the getaway, “Wild Women’s Weekend.”

Believe me, there was nothing wild about it, except how we got CRAZY and ate sweet potato quesadillas, cheesecake, lasagna, and about thirty pounds of fresh carrots with hummus.

It’s been a long time since I shared a big house with 16 other women. Of the sixteen, I knew three very well and the rest by connection or acquaintance. It struck me that I was one of the oldest among them, at a ripe 30 years of age, and as I continue to wear my thirty crown, I am blessed to have weekends where I just giggle, write, exercise, and go for hikes around caves and waterfalls. I don’t have a neurotic husband who doesn’t know how to feed himself or have the lovely grace/burden of children who need their Mama.

It was the first time in a long time I had back to back nights of 2am/3am bedtimes. This morning, Wednesday, was the first day I felt really recovered. Whatta wimp I am.

When I returned home, my voicemail message box was full (no phone reception in the woods) and it suggested I delete messages to make room for new ones. Considering I am eagerly waiting for interviews and job prospects, that might be a good idea.

Some messages were quite hilarious. Of the several I received, here were the classics:

PHONE
[insert angry tone] Hi, Leese. It’s Victor. I don’t know where you are or why you’re not picking up the phone, but I’d like to wish my sister a Happy Birthday on her actual birthday. So, pick up next time will you?

[insert exasperation] Hey, Leese, it’s Tricia. Why don’t you pick up your freaking phone?! Pick up! Pick up! We have to talk. You won’t believe who called me. I know it’s your birthday, but I have to tell you something.

[insert happy] Heeeyyyy, Leese, it’s Jennnniiiifffeerrrr! How are you? Just calling to say Happy Birthday. We really need to chat! Why do we wait so long to talk? Here’s an incentive to call me: I think I might be in love! AHAHHAHAAH – how’s that? Call me!

FACEBOOK MESSAGES
[from Mike, a childhood friend] I swear, back in the day, I once gave someone a humongous New Kids on the Block card. If I could get another one I would give it to you now. Happy Birthday.

[from Leslie, former colleague] At 30, I was dating ugly men and making bad decisions, you’re doing awesome!

[from Kristie, good bud] I hate to tell you this on your birthday, but you might be crazy.

TEXT AND VIDEO MESSAGES
[from Amanda, one of my best friends] records herself singing and dancing to, “Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves

[text from Alexis, friend and former co-worker] writes: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY FAVORITE MUFFIN IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE.

So, a big thank you to all those who sent me wonderful and fun-filled greetings. It was a birthday I shall never forget.

Who You Calling Radical? Conversations Between WOC and RWOC, Part II of Infinity

Dear Firefly,

I’ve been thinking about your words, your anger, and the message lying underneath it; about how people cannot come together at the table and discuss if not everyone can attend.

At first, I thought we were just looking past each other. And I thought it was about not being explicit about this “space” on my blog and in the Allied Media Conference. I thought, “Maybe I just didn’t clarify the fact that no one can make it to both spaces and so opening it up in various locations makes it more inclusive.” The table, so to speak, is moved from one place to the next and if folks can’t be there at some moments, well, you have another opportunity to join in later.

I see what you’re saying about moving something online to offline. My first thought process was to spread it out, make it as open, transparent, and accessible as possible. When you expressed your disagreement, I thought it was a conflict of models, a difference of HOW a “series” of conversations should be done.

In retrospect, that’s just kind of half-assing it. Throwing up my hands and shrugging my shoulders when it is not enough for those like you who DO want to be there and CANNOT make it to the table is not, as I wanted, radical. At all. My reply shouldn’t have been, “Well, you can be at SOME of the the talks, just like others who can’t be here online and will be at the AMC.” It should have been more thoughtful, considering where your anger was coming from. I should have bravery to face the legitimate place of where your reaction sprouted and how I threw more dead hay, more of the same, than what was needed – water.

If radical organizing and breaking through old concepts of inclusion and communication is our agenda, than what I proposed is not good enough. And saying, “Well, it’s going to suck, no matter what, let’s just try and build from what we have,” is strikingly similar to tunes I’ve heard from, as you called it, elite white feminists. Once I stopped and listened, I could hear myself humming that same tune. That tune of, “Well, it’s just an idea, stop getting so hot and bothered about it,” mixed in with, “This is the best I can think of right now, ” with a little bit of, “That’s not what I meant,” with a whole lot of confusion, reciprocating anger, and frustration.

As long as it was coming from the insides of a good ol‘ radical women of color identified feminist, like myself, then it wasn’t wrong. The idea wasn’t excluding as soon as I explained MY side of it. Your anger was YOUR reaction, not anything I did or am accountable.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Blackamazon (who I need to thank in truckloads) fed me a pool of good questions and thoughts to swim through and I am understanding that “radical” to me is about finding the root. I’m seeing that if what I say, propose, cuts blood on the arm of who I *claim* to want to work with, I shouldn’t hand you a band aid, I need to look at how what I put out there managed to cut you and not me and look down the path so we can steer clear of either of us bleeding. I shouldn’t be there to lament with you, cut my own arm to be in solidarity with you, but, get rid of whatever cut you in the first place.

If I proposed something that didn’t work for you, the response after your feedback should be, “how do WE make it better so this works?” Not, “Well, what do I do about it so I can fix it?”
There’s a difference between collaborating to make something work and solely fixing it so there’s a solution.

It’s not about making everyone happy, I realize. It’s about working to create an environment where everyone feels invested in each other, in each idea that moves toward action. If it illicits anger, particularly from a WOC whom I trust, then the fit isn’t right.

It isn’t right. Period.

In my mind, the big picture conversation is a “series” and “for those who can,” and I see now and how that is not radical. Not in the least. If I was to turn this space into a profound and shifting conversation about how women of color and radical women of color communicate with one another each other, I would have clarified, specified a few questions. I may have delved into the deep-cutting factors that influence HOW we talk to each other and how that will impact our conversation. Like

How does our anger function in our activism?

How does our own internalized racism, classism, ethnocentrism, superiority and inferiority affect our perceptions of one another?
What are we willing to do when we run into it,
when we run into ourselves?

What constitutes “liberation” and/or “revolution” and how might that be different in a midwestern town in the United States from a spot somewhere, say, in Sydney, Australia?

And instead of casual-izing the agenda, a more radical writer might be willing to look Deeper than what she thought was possible and look past the defensiveness and scope of her own peripheral vision.

I see not only your anger, but the Why of it.

I see how patterns of privileged organizing are re-birthed into the places where we say they are not allowed. The intention to do or build “something else” does not necessarily mean we will succeed right away in our efforts. Just because I say I want to “de-centralize” or dilute the US-centrism in our conversation doesn’t change the reality I am standing on US soil and that will reflect that in all that I propose unless I dismantle my own US/ego-centrism.

Your Australian view of what US-centrism looks like will probably be clearer than my standing in the middle of the road in Cleveland, Ohio. Your view may not be perfect, nor is mine, but how we see each other, and how we discuss that difference may be one critical step is forging a space that works for both of us. Maybe if we both look upward, away from our respective countries and try to shoot the sky with the fireworks of our ideas, maybe we find a space that belongs neither here nor there, but is accessible to us both, to all who wish to be part of it. Maybe that’s the blogosphere. Maybe not. I don’t know.

The necessity to be specific, to state what we can and cannot do, cannot be overstated.

I CAN try. I CANNOT do this alone.

I CAN open up a idea, but I CANNOT expect for it to stay the same after it is offered to others.

I CAN take feedback, but I CANNOT be defensive.

I CAN write about what being a woc means to me, how my US citizenship affects it, how my definitions desire to be widened but, despite that good intention, still CANNOT grasp the entire conflicts and hardships of radical international/transnational effort.

I can try to understand, but I must be willing to take time to process when things get hairy.

This thread was created to discuss how we, women of color, talk to each other. It is a space where we must be able to find an exchange of difference and respect, but must be willing to look at ourselves, run into ourselves, and not run away from this process when we look like assholes.

This is how I am trying to move forward and if it’s not enough, I’ll dig deeper again.

I will continue to do so and return to my digging spot as many times as necessary until we all sense we’re heading in a good direction, until we’re all heard, and want to invest our words and time.

-Lisa

Nick as Big Brother

Nick always makes ridiculous statements about how he married an older woman. He says this at least once every other month and it annoys me to holy heaven because I am three weeks, yes WEEKS, not years, older than him. He just likes to pretend he is funny and say he’s married to an older woman for effect.

I’m older by 21 days.

Nick’s 30th birthday this year is the last day of winter, March 19. I’ve asked him repeatedly on how he would like to celebrate. He says he hasn’t given it any thought and this only furthers the evidence that we are two separate human beings who like to celebrate our birthdays in different ways.

Considering I take the entire month of February to celebrate, I suppose that’s right.

So, I will take March to celebrate Nick since he has given me no bright ideas on how he would like to proceed forward.

I thought I’d start with a classic picture. This one is dated August 1992.

(No matter how I try to find embarrassing photos of him, Kelly or Keith (usually Kelly) tend to win in the “Oh my…” department.)