I was on campus by 8:30.
I’ll say that again. I was on campus by 8:30 AM.
“Mom” drove Kiki and I in and dropped us off. Sure it was Saturday, but we’d been told at the orientation about a little trip to the city center and we wanted to take advantage of it. It was hit and miss, and mostly miss. The common theme here is, nobody knows what’s going on and we’re all really under-informed. So we weren’t really told what we were going to do, got there and kinda just stood around for a good twenty minutes wondering what the hell we were doing there, and you KNOW how I can be early in the morning…
Eventually this guide showed up and led us into the building we were standing in front of. Not just us, though; also a few guards with big friggin guns. I don’t know what they were, but I took a picture of Kiki standing in front of them so maybe one of you can tell me. We did a lot of wandering around, a handful of hours, and he told us what we were seeing. Problem is, let’s be honest – my Spanish isn’t exactly perfect. What’s more, he was talking into one of those bullhorn things and while it did raise the overall volume of his voice, it muffled it so much that I understood half or less of the sum total of what he said. It really felt like a total waste – I could show myself around, read, ask questions, and learn that way rather than be rushed from one place to the next never really understanding what’s being said. Le sigh!
We finished up in a plaza in front of some old building, who knows what, with some statues, who knows by whom, and went to eat in a little restaurant nearby. There was stuff all over the menu, but you know as soon as I saw they had fish tacos I quit looking.
For more fun and confusion, the two boys who went as ‘guides’ from the school with us had each told people a different time to meet back up – one said at 1 and one said at 2. The boy from my school and I ran into a group of kids, two boys and a girl, from the United States, who were drunk. They had come to meet back up with the group at 1, didn’t see anyone, and decided to go back to drink more – they invited us to come with. At first we were a little interested, but then as we walked we saw that not only did they not speak any Spanish, but they weren’t even trying. I’m just not trying to be *that* tourist in any country I visit. They were drunk and acting silly and really weren’t worried about meeting back up to catch the bus back at all… so we ditched them. Went back and immediately found the group and made the precious 19 second video you may have seen on my facebook page.
Kiki’s fascinated with accents, I think, and encouraged us to talk in an Arkansan one about how smoking hot we thought she was. It just happened. It was pretty fun.
Now I can’t remember if it was Friday or Saturday that we went back out after the siesta with our “Mom.” We hit up a local market and went to the Wal-Mart. Oh yeah, I said it. It was actually kinda nifty – it was in a little plaza with a group of other shops which we also explored. It was a super cool mall. That night I ate more of the leftover meat in the sauce, and some more taquitos on the side. Y’all, I am eating like a queen here.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Friday was orientation
Well I’m behind. I’ve been a very busy MexiCAN.
I think I last wrote Thursday. The next morning was Friday and orientation at the University, as well as a placement test to find out what level we would be in. It started at nine…
…but I have to tell you about my homestay sister first! Her name is Ageliki, a fine Greek name, a part-native girl from Canada. We went and picked her up from the airport, Guille, Lore and I, and got good and lost in the area nearby. But we decided we didn’t get lost, we were just getting to know the city better, and it was nice! They called it a bad part of town, but to me it was beautiful – after dark, who knows. And everyone there was so kind – Guille asked several people, just random people in the car next to us or on the sidewalk, if they would tell us how to get to the airport and everyone was so willing to help. One truck driver told us just to follow him for a ways! We got there JUST in time to find which door she’d be coming out of and hold up the sign. We’ve become fast friends – she’s a brave traveler with a great sense of humor and a really kind heart.
Bueno. So that’s Kiki, and we were both going to take the bus from our part of town to the school… but when we woke up for breakfast Mom said she’d be driving us to school that day. So sweet! So she drove us in like a precious mother hen and gave us hugs and kisses goodbye. We got there and met up with the boy from my school who had nothing good to say about his mom, so we just went on and on about how ours is this perfect loving angel and he got a little jealous, natch.
Some guy talked first. I’m sure he was important because he kicked it all off in this nice suit, but I can’t remember his name or position. He told us about a few things in Mexico – that we have to be super cautious crossing the street since it’s basically a big game of Frogger here and the cars get points for hitting us or something. He told the women to get ready to ignore lots of whistles and comments, then talked about diarrhea for a while before cautioning us against heavy drinking. He got done and we had to listen to a few more people prattle on about the same things, we watched this video about the history of la Universidad Autonoma de Guadalajara and all its dozen or more campuses… man. Can you tell I was bored?
One thing I perked up for was an American doctor from Texas talking about this new pill he is testing. Ours will be the last group to be tested before the pill is taken to the FDA for approval. Already there exist pills that help with the diarrhea once you get it – this one will be a preventative pill that the traveler takes for two weeks when first traveling to a developing country. Half the group, he said, will get the pill and half will get placebo, but all will get paid minimum $80 and maybe $100 or more depending on whether you get sick and how many times. That’s American money, by the way, so you know I signed up. I have to keep this diary about what time I eat, what time I take these pills, then answer all these questions about my daily movements and how they came out.
Just to skip ahead a little, today, Monday, I decided I’m definitely in the placebo group. Somebody ain’t altogether well in the belly right now.
So after all the talking and the video and talks about future trips and stuff, we were paraded across campus to take the placement test – out of nine levels, I tested into level five. Not too bad, I reckon. I tried to study the afternoon before but I just fell asleep. By the way, I have really fallen comfortably into the schedule of eating and sleeping here. It’s a breakfast, normal like we do (although I hear some eat beans or chilaquiles or different things, more savory things for breakfast, but my mom makes cereal and fruit and juice and coffee), you head out early (for me – it’s like 8AM or so), get back by sometime around one until three PM, have a big honkin lunch and take a nap, then wake back up to do things and have a late late light dinner, like any time from eight until ten.
So after our tests, we went to get student IDs and then were told we were free. Kiki and I and another student from Washington state named Daniel went looking for the music school because they wanted to take guitar lessons and I wanted to take the bus back with Kiki to show her how it goes more or less. We found it by wandering around more or less, and these two precious tiny old men were inside with a couple or so students. The viejito at the door started asking what they wanted to play and then asked me what I play – I said banjo and piano even though I had no intention of taking any lessons, and he pointed to the other viejito and said that he was the piano teacher. He called him over and introduced us, and I was pretty much told to go play something. I apologized, saying I hadn’t taken lessons in years and hadn’t played much for months, but picked out a Beethoven tune and then a Regina Spektor tune. I was then pretty much told I would be signing up for lessons.
You know what? I’m actually really excited about it. I haven’t taken lessons in years and the guy is a classical piano teacher, and that’s what I really like to play. He picked out some Bach, some Mozart, some Beethoven and they all sounded like songs I would really enjoy playing.
When Kiki and I finally made it back to the house, our mom was so worried! She said that if we had taken another half hour to get home she was about to call the university looking for us and then drive over to find us. Her genuine caring about us is so… just … awesome. Really I wish she was my real mom. She reminds me of my real mom a lot, mostly in the hair and a little in the face and the laugh, only she’s much nicer and I actually feel like she loves me. It’s bizarre. I’m never leaving this house. Okay, of course I am, but I really intend to keep in touch with this family for a while.
It’s crazy – the kids get home and sit on the couch watching television together and cuddle, the mom is just full of real genuine caring for everyone… It makes the house feel like such a warm, positive energy filled HOME. I’m so happy here it’s ridiculous.
So that was Friday. Mom had made this delicious meat in this sauce with a gorgeous red rice on the side and I chowed DOWN. Ate two servings for lunch, took my nap, woke up and hung out with the fam a bit and then had another serving for dinner. If she keeps cooking food this good, I’ma be a big ole fatty when I come home, y’all.
I think I last wrote Thursday. The next morning was Friday and orientation at the University, as well as a placement test to find out what level we would be in. It started at nine…
…but I have to tell you about my homestay sister first! Her name is Ageliki, a fine Greek name, a part-native girl from Canada. We went and picked her up from the airport, Guille, Lore and I, and got good and lost in the area nearby. But we decided we didn’t get lost, we were just getting to know the city better, and it was nice! They called it a bad part of town, but to me it was beautiful – after dark, who knows. And everyone there was so kind – Guille asked several people, just random people in the car next to us or on the sidewalk, if they would tell us how to get to the airport and everyone was so willing to help. One truck driver told us just to follow him for a ways! We got there JUST in time to find which door she’d be coming out of and hold up the sign. We’ve become fast friends – she’s a brave traveler with a great sense of humor and a really kind heart.
Bueno. So that’s Kiki, and we were both going to take the bus from our part of town to the school… but when we woke up for breakfast Mom said she’d be driving us to school that day. So sweet! So she drove us in like a precious mother hen and gave us hugs and kisses goodbye. We got there and met up with the boy from my school who had nothing good to say about his mom, so we just went on and on about how ours is this perfect loving angel and he got a little jealous, natch.
Some guy talked first. I’m sure he was important because he kicked it all off in this nice suit, but I can’t remember his name or position. He told us about a few things in Mexico – that we have to be super cautious crossing the street since it’s basically a big game of Frogger here and the cars get points for hitting us or something. He told the women to get ready to ignore lots of whistles and comments, then talked about diarrhea for a while before cautioning us against heavy drinking. He got done and we had to listen to a few more people prattle on about the same things, we watched this video about the history of la Universidad Autonoma de Guadalajara and all its dozen or more campuses… man. Can you tell I was bored?
One thing I perked up for was an American doctor from Texas talking about this new pill he is testing. Ours will be the last group to be tested before the pill is taken to the FDA for approval. Already there exist pills that help with the diarrhea once you get it – this one will be a preventative pill that the traveler takes for two weeks when first traveling to a developing country. Half the group, he said, will get the pill and half will get placebo, but all will get paid minimum $80 and maybe $100 or more depending on whether you get sick and how many times. That’s American money, by the way, so you know I signed up. I have to keep this diary about what time I eat, what time I take these pills, then answer all these questions about my daily movements and how they came out.
Just to skip ahead a little, today, Monday, I decided I’m definitely in the placebo group. Somebody ain’t altogether well in the belly right now.
So after all the talking and the video and talks about future trips and stuff, we were paraded across campus to take the placement test – out of nine levels, I tested into level five. Not too bad, I reckon. I tried to study the afternoon before but I just fell asleep. By the way, I have really fallen comfortably into the schedule of eating and sleeping here. It’s a breakfast, normal like we do (although I hear some eat beans or chilaquiles or different things, more savory things for breakfast, but my mom makes cereal and fruit and juice and coffee), you head out early (for me – it’s like 8AM or so), get back by sometime around one until three PM, have a big honkin lunch and take a nap, then wake back up to do things and have a late late light dinner, like any time from eight until ten.
So after our tests, we went to get student IDs and then were told we were free. Kiki and I and another student from Washington state named Daniel went looking for the music school because they wanted to take guitar lessons and I wanted to take the bus back with Kiki to show her how it goes more or less. We found it by wandering around more or less, and these two precious tiny old men were inside with a couple or so students. The viejito at the door started asking what they wanted to play and then asked me what I play – I said banjo and piano even though I had no intention of taking any lessons, and he pointed to the other viejito and said that he was the piano teacher. He called him over and introduced us, and I was pretty much told to go play something. I apologized, saying I hadn’t taken lessons in years and hadn’t played much for months, but picked out a Beethoven tune and then a Regina Spektor tune. I was then pretty much told I would be signing up for lessons.
You know what? I’m actually really excited about it. I haven’t taken lessons in years and the guy is a classical piano teacher, and that’s what I really like to play. He picked out some Bach, some Mozart, some Beethoven and they all sounded like songs I would really enjoy playing.
When Kiki and I finally made it back to the house, our mom was so worried! She said that if we had taken another half hour to get home she was about to call the university looking for us and then drive over to find us. Her genuine caring about us is so… just … awesome. Really I wish she was my real mom. She reminds me of my real mom a lot, mostly in the hair and a little in the face and the laugh, only she’s much nicer and I actually feel like she loves me. It’s bizarre. I’m never leaving this house. Okay, of course I am, but I really intend to keep in touch with this family for a while.
It’s crazy – the kids get home and sit on the couch watching television together and cuddle, the mom is just full of real genuine caring for everyone… It makes the house feel like such a warm, positive energy filled HOME. I’m so happy here it’s ridiculous.
So that was Friday. Mom had made this delicious meat in this sauce with a gorgeous red rice on the side and I chowed DOWN. Ate two servings for lunch, took my nap, woke up and hung out with the fam a bit and then had another serving for dinner. If she keeps cooking food this good, I’ma be a big ole fatty when I come home, y’all.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Lunchtime in Guadalajara
WELL! I should start with the last leg of the flight I suppose.
There are two other students from my school who’re coming this semester. One’s a boy, one’s a girl, and I feel pretty sure the boy and I are going to be fast friends. We were going to be on the same flight from Dallas to Mexico, so I started looking for him after all the excitement about the troops coming through, which by the way, was one of the most moving things I’ve experienced in my short life. I found him and we started talking about the placement test we would have to take Friday, the families we were joining, and other preparatory nonsense, when an announcement came on about our flight. The woman said there were some exit row seats available… that’s all I needed to hear. I took off running and said my friend and I needed to be in them. Look, I have a lot of leg, and the exit rows have the most leg room. I’m down with the responsibility, I think I could manage in a pinch. So we got to sit together and have lots of leg room, that was nice.
But we didn’t really have any idea what would happen when we got there. We heard something about there might be a bus there from the university to pick us up, that there might be someone with a sign that said UNIVERSIDAD AUTONOMA DE GUADALAJARA or something… we didn’t know. Would he take us to the University and we’d find our homes from there? But we made it through customs and baggage and everything and as soon as we walked through the doors together, a man started excitedly waving two signs, each with one of our names on it. Whoops, so much for blending in at all.
Mario was a perfect gentleman. On the drive he asked us about ourselves, told us the history of how UAG got started, which was beautiful and inspirational, and also told us why the people of Guadalajara are called Tapatíos – one part of it is truth, he said, and one part legend. The truth, he said, is that the indigenous people who lived here used to say Tapatíotl for a form of bartering that involved trading three for one. So for example I have a goat, and you want to trade but all you have are chickens – you’d give me three for my one, and it was quite common. The legend part is that when the Spaniards started moving in, and the area was called Nueva Galicia, the governor’s wife was pregnant. They didn’t have real tests like we do today, of course, to tell people it’s a boy, it’s a girl, it’s healthy, it’s going to have these problems, etc. But the doctor was able to tell the governor that it was probably twins and possibly triplets. The governor loved children and longed for many, so he prayed that it would be a Tapatíotl situation, the word he’d learned from the indigenous people, a three-for-one deal. They turned out to be only twins, so the governor said that each person who lived there would be his third child, his Tapatío. You know how mushy I am, I ate that up.
He drove me straight to my homestay house and I just fell in love from the front door. It’s very simple, almost minimalistic, unassuming and friendly. The inside has got this great open feeling, even though it’s a small floorplan. It’s three stories though, and the entire house feels like it’s made of air and light. The energy’s great in here. The mom, Guillermina, who insists that I call her Guille, gave me the tour of the house – the sitting and dining room, the kitchen, the patio, then the second story where all the girls live, and have a couple small bathrooms, the top floor where the boys live and the two dogs (!). She’s got three daughters and one son, one daughter has already moved out and started her own family with a husband and a son – Marcela is the daughter and Sebastian her son, and they were here when I arrived. Later Lorena, or Lore, got home, she’s about twenty and we hit it off. Later Gonzalo got home and then we went and picked up Juli from work. Guille made some taquitos de pollo for dinner and was almost apologetic that it wasn’t something more impressive, and that the salsa verde might be too “picoso” for me… but it was absolutely delicious, a great first meal, and the salsa was really calm. I even tried some of the habañero sauce on the side. Red’s okay, it turns out, but green is FRIGGIN PAINFUL.
Oh! My room. Well there’s wireless in the house which will help with my online class, and will mean I don’t have to take my laptop to school with me to use the wireless there, so that’s awesome. But she opened the door and it was just… breathtaking. It’s completely simple, a small one-mattress twin bed, a small desk, a little nightstand and a small … what’s that thing called that’s like a short dresser with the mirror on top? who knows, one of those. Everything was white, big window, clean and fresh and just perfect-feeling. I unpacked and promptly passed out for a couple hours before getting up for the taquitos, a quick shower, and back to bed. I did, after all, wake up at 3AM that day to drive to the airport to arrive early enough to check in for my 7AM international flight…
Woke up today and Guille drove me to meet the boy from my school near the university and we explored a little, that was fun. I took the bus back, managed rather well if I may say so myself, and have gotten here just in time to smell Guille cooking something delicious… off to stuff my face with more spiciness! So far my belly’s been holding up just fine.
I haven’t felt any real stirrings of culture shock just yet. I had it way worse in Scotland, but then I wasn’t staying with a family. We’ll see how it goes, it might take a week or two.
There are two other students from my school who’re coming this semester. One’s a boy, one’s a girl, and I feel pretty sure the boy and I are going to be fast friends. We were going to be on the same flight from Dallas to Mexico, so I started looking for him after all the excitement about the troops coming through, which by the way, was one of the most moving things I’ve experienced in my short life. I found him and we started talking about the placement test we would have to take Friday, the families we were joining, and other preparatory nonsense, when an announcement came on about our flight. The woman said there were some exit row seats available… that’s all I needed to hear. I took off running and said my friend and I needed to be in them. Look, I have a lot of leg, and the exit rows have the most leg room. I’m down with the responsibility, I think I could manage in a pinch. So we got to sit together and have lots of leg room, that was nice.
But we didn’t really have any idea what would happen when we got there. We heard something about there might be a bus there from the university to pick us up, that there might be someone with a sign that said UNIVERSIDAD AUTONOMA DE GUADALAJARA or something… we didn’t know. Would he take us to the University and we’d find our homes from there? But we made it through customs and baggage and everything and as soon as we walked through the doors together, a man started excitedly waving two signs, each with one of our names on it. Whoops, so much for blending in at all.
Mario was a perfect gentleman. On the drive he asked us about ourselves, told us the history of how UAG got started, which was beautiful and inspirational, and also told us why the people of Guadalajara are called Tapatíos – one part of it is truth, he said, and one part legend. The truth, he said, is that the indigenous people who lived here used to say Tapatíotl for a form of bartering that involved trading three for one. So for example I have a goat, and you want to trade but all you have are chickens – you’d give me three for my one, and it was quite common. The legend part is that when the Spaniards started moving in, and the area was called Nueva Galicia, the governor’s wife was pregnant. They didn’t have real tests like we do today, of course, to tell people it’s a boy, it’s a girl, it’s healthy, it’s going to have these problems, etc. But the doctor was able to tell the governor that it was probably twins and possibly triplets. The governor loved children and longed for many, so he prayed that it would be a Tapatíotl situation, the word he’d learned from the indigenous people, a three-for-one deal. They turned out to be only twins, so the governor said that each person who lived there would be his third child, his Tapatío. You know how mushy I am, I ate that up.
He drove me straight to my homestay house and I just fell in love from the front door. It’s very simple, almost minimalistic, unassuming and friendly. The inside has got this great open feeling, even though it’s a small floorplan. It’s three stories though, and the entire house feels like it’s made of air and light. The energy’s great in here. The mom, Guillermina, who insists that I call her Guille, gave me the tour of the house – the sitting and dining room, the kitchen, the patio, then the second story where all the girls live, and have a couple small bathrooms, the top floor where the boys live and the two dogs (!). She’s got three daughters and one son, one daughter has already moved out and started her own family with a husband and a son – Marcela is the daughter and Sebastian her son, and they were here when I arrived. Later Lorena, or Lore, got home, she’s about twenty and we hit it off. Later Gonzalo got home and then we went and picked up Juli from work. Guille made some taquitos de pollo for dinner and was almost apologetic that it wasn’t something more impressive, and that the salsa verde might be too “picoso” for me… but it was absolutely delicious, a great first meal, and the salsa was really calm. I even tried some of the habañero sauce on the side. Red’s okay, it turns out, but green is FRIGGIN PAINFUL.
Oh! My room. Well there’s wireless in the house which will help with my online class, and will mean I don’t have to take my laptop to school with me to use the wireless there, so that’s awesome. But she opened the door and it was just… breathtaking. It’s completely simple, a small one-mattress twin bed, a small desk, a little nightstand and a small … what’s that thing called that’s like a short dresser with the mirror on top? who knows, one of those. Everything was white, big window, clean and fresh and just perfect-feeling. I unpacked and promptly passed out for a couple hours before getting up for the taquitos, a quick shower, and back to bed. I did, after all, wake up at 3AM that day to drive to the airport to arrive early enough to check in for my 7AM international flight…
Woke up today and Guille drove me to meet the boy from my school near the university and we explored a little, that was fun. I took the bus back, managed rather well if I may say so myself, and have gotten here just in time to smell Guille cooking something delicious… off to stuff my face with more spiciness! So far my belly’s been holding up just fine.
I haven’t felt any real stirrings of culture shock just yet. I had it way worse in Scotland, but then I wasn’t staying with a family. We’ll see how it goes, it might take a week or two.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
dallas airport draft
Who started it, though? The clapping.
I thought they were just excited that their
delayed plane was finally here. But no.
I heard the wild applause and looked up
to see everyone looking up even higher,
nearly to the ceiling to the walkway
behind the glass, where they strolled along,
looking back down at us.
Who was the woman who kept hooting
and hollering, in the bright red t-shirt
with her patriotic pom-poms? Surely
she was someone's mom, or maybe just
a woman, who happened to be there,
right place right time sort of thing.
And that man? The one who came
running over with flags for the group
of kids, who asked if they wanted to stand
in front and wave them. Who was he?
Where did he come from in his
silly bow tie with his handful
of tiny flags and why?
Who were those troops? Must've been
a hundred of them, easy, they just
kept strolling, filing down the corridor
and we just kept clapping, cheering,
hooting, hollering, whistling, waving
our flags, who was the one who stopped
to dance and wave, who was the one
who stopped only to stare back at us
for a solid minute while his brothers
and sisters filed past behind him, who
was the girl with the mile-wide smile,
who was the one who cried? Was it me?
I thought they were just excited that their
delayed plane was finally here. But no.
I heard the wild applause and looked up
to see everyone looking up even higher,
nearly to the ceiling to the walkway
behind the glass, where they strolled along,
looking back down at us.
Who was the woman who kept hooting
and hollering, in the bright red t-shirt
with her patriotic pom-poms? Surely
she was someone's mom, or maybe just
a woman, who happened to be there,
right place right time sort of thing.
And that man? The one who came
running over with flags for the group
of kids, who asked if they wanted to stand
in front and wave them. Who was he?
Where did he come from in his
silly bow tie with his handful
of tiny flags and why?
Who were those troops? Must've been
a hundred of them, easy, they just
kept strolling, filing down the corridor
and we just kept clapping, cheering,
hooting, hollering, whistling, waving
our flags, who was the one who stopped
to dance and wave, who was the one
who stopped only to stare back at us
for a solid minute while his brothers
and sisters filed past behind him, who
was the girl with the mile-wide smile,
who was the one who cried? Was it me?
Guadalajara bound
I’m typing this in airports as I travel to Guadalajara today. I’ll be staying for four months with a host family I know nothing about, save their partial address and the name of the lady of the house. The last time I spent time abroad like this was just over five years ago, when I did my culinary school internship in Scotland. I lived and worked there for three months before traveling the Mediterranean for a month. For three months, everyone around me spoke English, and during the last month around half of the people I was around did… so this should be fun.
In order to prepare me for the trip, my home university held an orientation a week or two ago. We were given page after page of information – a guide to studying abroad in general as well as specifically in Mexico from my home university, maps of Guadalajara, and several packets from the university in Guadalajara. I always get a kick out of lingual-based humor – puns that only specifically work in a particular language, or jokes or riddles based upon wordplay, or when something is written in a language by a non-native speaker, the particular voice and idiosyncrasies that comes through… So the first thing I chuckled at in the packets from Mexico were particular phrases, like when they caution visitors to be extra careful when crossing the street because “cars do not mind pedestrians as much as they should.” Cute things like that. Then I got to the cultural differences.
First, greetings are explained – people do cheek-kissing in Mexico it says, and then we’re warned not to value strict punctuality too highly and “not get restless when you have to wait.” Dress, table manners, telephone use, etc, then shopping: “In Guadalajara it’s not only good but sensational!” Relaxed concept of time is brought up again, blah blah, and then we get to a paragraph that made me more than a little nervous. It was in all capital letters, and it said:
“WARNING FOR GIRLS.
The following does not mean to frighten you, only to make aware of this information since you are away from home. It’s always better to have more information than none at all. It’s better to exercise some common sense, and be responsible adults.”
Well no hard feelings there, I like to be informed and aware, and exercise common sense while traveling… but then it goes on:
“HAZARD LIGHTS FOR SEXUAL HARASSMENT
You may be independent and self-confident, but maybe you cannot read between the lines in a FOREIGN culture. The following may be consider leads:
· Provocative dress and dancing
· Accepting drinks from strangers
· Being out by yourself, or in an all-female group acting loud and cheap
· Engaging in discussions about topics like sex with new acquaintances you know nothing about
· Accepting casual invitations, solitary rides, or more night fun in high hours”
Okay now this does worry me. Who sets the standards on what the exact definition of “provocative” is? And I really have to turn down a free drink? What if the bartender him/herself hands it to me as opposed to the stranger? And no hen parties allowed? An “all-female group acting loud and cheap” sounds like a pretty specific description of some of the best times I’ve ever had in my life. Now I’m not one to start blathering on about how I prefer my intercourse with strangers, so that’s not a problem, but that last bulletin is the most vague of all.
Once, in Madrid, a passing boy grabbed my butt. He kept walking, I yelled things about his mother, that was over and done with. Once on an overnight train in Italy, a kind gentleman found me sleeping in the hallway and said I should come into a cabin where he and a couple of other travelers were passing out. They didn’t know him, so it didn’t seem like a setup, it seemed safe and I was tired. I went in and laid down… and he promptly started cuddling. I spent the rest of the night curled into the fetal position while he urged me to “lie down, get comfortable.” Sir, I said, I cannot be comfortable if I’m lying down right now. I don’t go walking down dark alleys by myself in foreign countries, I don’t climb into cars with random passers-by, I think I’m smart and cautious in general.
But then on the next page there are some more warnings, for example, “Girls do not go out to bars or discos alone; they go with friends, trying whenever possible to have a male companion who sees that each person gets home safely.”
Is it just me, or does this all read RAPE RAPE RAPE SUCKA YOU GONNA GET DONE UP THE BUM BY A GREASY CRIMINAL YEAAAAAAHHHHHHH.
So there’s that. On a lighter note, I got every single thing done that I needed to before I left. Cigar box banjo is made, finished, pegged and strung so I’ll have the ability to make music while there. Got a little carrying bag made too. Packed everything on the list I worked on for some time, and packed into only one checked bag and one carry-on. My house practically cleaned itself somehow magically, it’s the cleanest it’s ever been I think, and it all just happened almost effortlessly as I was getting errands done, last-minute supplies purchased, important calls made… things went so ridiculously, inexplicably well it’s feeling like the whole universe is conspiring to get me on this trip. Five years it’s been since I did something like this, and it was the single most formative experience of my life thus far… I’m feeling like this just might blow it out of the water. I’ll be back in four months, and God willing, with my hymen still intact.
In order to prepare me for the trip, my home university held an orientation a week or two ago. We were given page after page of information – a guide to studying abroad in general as well as specifically in Mexico from my home university, maps of Guadalajara, and several packets from the university in Guadalajara. I always get a kick out of lingual-based humor – puns that only specifically work in a particular language, or jokes or riddles based upon wordplay, or when something is written in a language by a non-native speaker, the particular voice and idiosyncrasies that comes through… So the first thing I chuckled at in the packets from Mexico were particular phrases, like when they caution visitors to be extra careful when crossing the street because “cars do not mind pedestrians as much as they should.” Cute things like that. Then I got to the cultural differences.
First, greetings are explained – people do cheek-kissing in Mexico it says, and then we’re warned not to value strict punctuality too highly and “not get restless when you have to wait.” Dress, table manners, telephone use, etc, then shopping: “In Guadalajara it’s not only good but sensational!” Relaxed concept of time is brought up again, blah blah, and then we get to a paragraph that made me more than a little nervous. It was in all capital letters, and it said:
“WARNING FOR GIRLS.
The following does not mean to frighten you, only to make aware of this information since you are away from home. It’s always better to have more information than none at all. It’s better to exercise some common sense, and be responsible adults.”
Well no hard feelings there, I like to be informed and aware, and exercise common sense while traveling… but then it goes on:
“HAZARD LIGHTS FOR SEXUAL HARASSMENT
You may be independent and self-confident, but maybe you cannot read between the lines in a FOREIGN culture. The following may be consider leads:
· Provocative dress and dancing
· Accepting drinks from strangers
· Being out by yourself, or in an all-female group acting loud and cheap
· Engaging in discussions about topics like sex with new acquaintances you know nothing about
· Accepting casual invitations, solitary rides, or more night fun in high hours”
Okay now this does worry me. Who sets the standards on what the exact definition of “provocative” is? And I really have to turn down a free drink? What if the bartender him/herself hands it to me as opposed to the stranger? And no hen parties allowed? An “all-female group acting loud and cheap” sounds like a pretty specific description of some of the best times I’ve ever had in my life. Now I’m not one to start blathering on about how I prefer my intercourse with strangers, so that’s not a problem, but that last bulletin is the most vague of all.
Once, in Madrid, a passing boy grabbed my butt. He kept walking, I yelled things about his mother, that was over and done with. Once on an overnight train in Italy, a kind gentleman found me sleeping in the hallway and said I should come into a cabin where he and a couple of other travelers were passing out. They didn’t know him, so it didn’t seem like a setup, it seemed safe and I was tired. I went in and laid down… and he promptly started cuddling. I spent the rest of the night curled into the fetal position while he urged me to “lie down, get comfortable.” Sir, I said, I cannot be comfortable if I’m lying down right now. I don’t go walking down dark alleys by myself in foreign countries, I don’t climb into cars with random passers-by, I think I’m smart and cautious in general.
But then on the next page there are some more warnings, for example, “Girls do not go out to bars or discos alone; they go with friends, trying whenever possible to have a male companion who sees that each person gets home safely.”
Is it just me, or does this all read RAPE RAPE RAPE SUCKA YOU GONNA GET DONE UP THE BUM BY A GREASY CRIMINAL YEAAAAAAHHHHHHH.
So there’s that. On a lighter note, I got every single thing done that I needed to before I left. Cigar box banjo is made, finished, pegged and strung so I’ll have the ability to make music while there. Got a little carrying bag made too. Packed everything on the list I worked on for some time, and packed into only one checked bag and one carry-on. My house practically cleaned itself somehow magically, it’s the cleanest it’s ever been I think, and it all just happened almost effortlessly as I was getting errands done, last-minute supplies purchased, important calls made… things went so ridiculously, inexplicably well it’s feeling like the whole universe is conspiring to get me on this trip. Five years it’s been since I did something like this, and it was the single most formative experience of my life thus far… I’m feeling like this just might blow it out of the water. I’ll be back in four months, and God willing, with my hymen still intact.
Friday, July 31, 2009
What's this? Dirty laundry?
Dear Becca:
It has been eleven weeks since the disillusionment of our friendship. May 18th, I woke up to find some messages from you in my inbox accusing me of some very hurtful and completely untrue things. When I replied, hoping to help you understand the truth of the situation, you wanted to hear none of it. We had some scary phone calls that day, and then it was over.
Since then I’ve sent you one message (seven weeks ago), trying to get some sort of explanation about why you allowed our friendship to be what you consider a casualty of your battle with cancer (although since I never signed any treaty aligning myself with the Nation of Cancer, I’m not sure how that works). Since then we’ve had one single phone conversation on or around July 3rd, when you called asking me whether I’d spoken to a girl who had just walked out of Central Park while you were working there. That’s it, the extent of our communication, and you should know that.
Which is why I’m very perplexed about why I had to explain to someone lately that I have neither forwarded you any messages that he and I had exchanged nor called harassing or threatening you or calling you names like “cunt.” I know that you and I have shared many friends, and when a ‘breakup’ like ours occurs it can be problematic for mutual friends. People have asked me what went on between us, and all I can think about is how we spent two years as such close friends. No matter why we split, I cannot ignore those two years, cannot say they meant nothing. And so I try to honor them, and you, by telling people merely this: “She said some things that I can’t bring myself to forgive.” I leave it at that.
If I didn’t forward you those messages, how did you get them? Did you conjure up his password or was it mine? What else have you read while on our accounts, what have you deleted or changed that we’ll never know about? Either way, you surely know from checking one of our accounts that I sent him a message asking him what, besides his friendships with me and the person he used to call his best friend, has changed since he came to know you. And as I asked him that, I couldn’t help but ask myself.
I came up with five names right off the top of my head: Mandy, Tommy Thrash, Tracy, Tyler, and Tommy Hampton. These are all people that I used to talk with, laugh with in bars, consider friends before you told me things about them, things you said they’d done to you. You told me these people said unkind things to you, about you, and because of the way you told the story, and because I thought you were someone I could call my best friend, I believed you without hesitation. I judged these people based upon your evidence. Who else should go on that list that I can’t recall, or that I’m not even conscious of?
And now I am hearing “evidence” about myself that you’re giving to other people: that I call you on the phone and am unkind, or that I forward messages, and I can only think of two things. One is, WHO ELSE is she telling this to, WHAT OTHER complete fabrications is she conjuring up and spreading about me? Because I’ve caught some sideways glances from some mutual friends of ours since the split, which I had chalked up to general awkwardness, but now I’m starting to wonder what lies they’ve been fed. The second thing is, WHAT of the things you told me while we were friends ABOUT OTHER PEOPLE was also entirely made up? And that’s when the real shame and guilt sets in, and I realize that I was an unwitting accessory in your framings. That’s why I’m giving copies of this letter to the people I feel I judged wrongly. I deserve a little public humiliation for what I’ve done. They deserve apologies and I’m going to make sure they get them, from this letter as well as from me personally the next time I see them in a bar and buy them a beer. If they can bring themselves to forgive me, that will be radical. If not, I’ll just have to live with what I’ve done, but at least I’ll know I tried to make it right.
I guess the only other thing I keep wondering is how you allowed this to happen. Why, first of all, you said those unkind things to me and never cared to apologize for them or take them back. Sure, you apologized for the fact that I was hurt by what you said, but let’s not kid ourselves – that’s not a real apology. I know from what you have told me that you hate any comparison to your “crazy mother” or when people try to look at your battle with cancer, issues with your fathers, or other problems in your life as a basis for your behaviors. I’ve been there for you when you cried about this in the past. It seems that someone who is conscious of those challenges wouldn’t allow herself to be affected by them… but then you also told me other things that I’m now wondering about the truth of, and I know you’re telling at least one person things about me that are utter lies. I wonder what it must be inside your head that makes you think it is acceptable to conjure up these bizarre untruths and spread them around. I wonder if you realize they are untrue as you spread them or if you yourself actually come to believe them and live them.
I’m writing you to ask you to stop. I know the very idea is silly, that maybe you can’t and maybe you simply won’t, but I have to ask. I have to ask because I’ve tried to honor what I thought was a great two-year friendship by not saying a single negative thing about you, Becca, not to anyone. All I’ve ever said is that we had a disagreement, or that you said some things I have trouble forgiving. I leave it at that. I remember asking you to do the same, and I remember you telling me you would, but now I hear otherwise.
You know I write a poem every day in the month of April, and you know that in 2008 I wrote a poem about/for you. Well I did it again in 2009, when we were still friends. I enclose it now to remind you of what was lost. I always knew I was only as close to you as you allowed me to be, that I only knew of your life what you wanted me to know; I always felt you holding me at arm’s length. But I was all right with that. I wanted only to be your true friend, your solid supporter until the end. When you pushed me away, I tried to respect and honor that. Of course it’s too late to save what we had, Becca, and that’s not why I give you this poem, or why I give copies of this letter to the people who deserve to read it. I do it to hopefully help things in the future. I can’t know whether any of this will actually make sense inside your brain, after the many things people have told me since we’ve ‘split up,’ but I have to try. I have to do it for the future friends you might have, the future hearts you might break, the future friendships you might dissolve.
The next time you start to fabricate a hurtful lie about someone, do try and see if you can stop for just a moment, take a breather, and ask what that lie might cost. This letter can’t save our friendship, but I can use it to thank you for the important lesson you taught me at least, and I can try to apologize to the people I hurt because of you. If I can also cause you to at least consider change, well then that’s three wins, and if not, let’s just remember the important lesson we learned from Meat Loaf: “Two outta three ain’t bad.”
God forgive us both,
Ginna Funk Wallace
cc: Mandy, Tracy, Tyler, Tommy Thrash, Tommy Hampton
April 24, 2009
Poem to Make Becca Jane Smile 2
Here’s the thing of it: I don’t know how to write a poem about you
without saying Every time I tell you that I love you it’s a lie.
Man nor God never invented any word to tell you what I feel
and love feels so cheap it’s a curse in four letters. I want to say: Sister,
remember that time we got in the car and we drove all day to Kentucky
and whether we went so you could see a boy or so I could forget one
doesn’t matter anymore all that matters is stopping in Loretta Lynn’s
Country Kitchen on the way back for an impromptu photo shoot. That’s closer
to the kind of love I want to convey, I want to say At least once a day
I think about the time we turned that corner and saw the four women
praying to end abortion and I said Girl just look down and we turned into the lot
and walked inside, hand in hand. I’m getting warmer. I try: I’m glad
your brilliant academic career fell flat on its face so I can at least still see you
even if it’s only once or twice a month and we can sit in the sunshine and talk
about our lives like that’s actually what we’re talking about instead of
why on earth they say the Greek had four words for love and the Eskimos
have twenty or so and I don’t have a single one that can tell you what I mean.
Now I’m getting really warm. If I say the word Friend it’s a sorry excuse.
If I say Soul Mate it’s trite, overused, and Best Friend always fit better
on a key chain anyway. I’d tattoo you on my heart but no one would be able
to see it, it’s important to me that everyone see it so I say: No one has ever
made me feel so completely KNOWN, I say: Comrades, Cohorts, Compadres,
say: the best day of my life was that day when I called you crying on campus
because I was afraid you were good as dead already and you answered
and you cried right back and you’ll always be the strongest woman
I’ve ever known. Say I want to be you when I grow up, say you knew
all of this before I even wrote it, didn’t you? Say I love you
isn’t strong enough but I love you anyway.
It has been eleven weeks since the disillusionment of our friendship. May 18th, I woke up to find some messages from you in my inbox accusing me of some very hurtful and completely untrue things. When I replied, hoping to help you understand the truth of the situation, you wanted to hear none of it. We had some scary phone calls that day, and then it was over.
Since then I’ve sent you one message (seven weeks ago), trying to get some sort of explanation about why you allowed our friendship to be what you consider a casualty of your battle with cancer (although since I never signed any treaty aligning myself with the Nation of Cancer, I’m not sure how that works). Since then we’ve had one single phone conversation on or around July 3rd, when you called asking me whether I’d spoken to a girl who had just walked out of Central Park while you were working there. That’s it, the extent of our communication, and you should know that.
Which is why I’m very perplexed about why I had to explain to someone lately that I have neither forwarded you any messages that he and I had exchanged nor called harassing or threatening you or calling you names like “cunt.” I know that you and I have shared many friends, and when a ‘breakup’ like ours occurs it can be problematic for mutual friends. People have asked me what went on between us, and all I can think about is how we spent two years as such close friends. No matter why we split, I cannot ignore those two years, cannot say they meant nothing. And so I try to honor them, and you, by telling people merely this: “She said some things that I can’t bring myself to forgive.” I leave it at that.
If I didn’t forward you those messages, how did you get them? Did you conjure up his password or was it mine? What else have you read while on our accounts, what have you deleted or changed that we’ll never know about? Either way, you surely know from checking one of our accounts that I sent him a message asking him what, besides his friendships with me and the person he used to call his best friend, has changed since he came to know you. And as I asked him that, I couldn’t help but ask myself.
I came up with five names right off the top of my head: Mandy, Tommy Thrash, Tracy, Tyler, and Tommy Hampton. These are all people that I used to talk with, laugh with in bars, consider friends before you told me things about them, things you said they’d done to you. You told me these people said unkind things to you, about you, and because of the way you told the story, and because I thought you were someone I could call my best friend, I believed you without hesitation. I judged these people based upon your evidence. Who else should go on that list that I can’t recall, or that I’m not even conscious of?
And now I am hearing “evidence” about myself that you’re giving to other people: that I call you on the phone and am unkind, or that I forward messages, and I can only think of two things. One is, WHO ELSE is she telling this to, WHAT OTHER complete fabrications is she conjuring up and spreading about me? Because I’ve caught some sideways glances from some mutual friends of ours since the split, which I had chalked up to general awkwardness, but now I’m starting to wonder what lies they’ve been fed. The second thing is, WHAT of the things you told me while we were friends ABOUT OTHER PEOPLE was also entirely made up? And that’s when the real shame and guilt sets in, and I realize that I was an unwitting accessory in your framings. That’s why I’m giving copies of this letter to the people I feel I judged wrongly. I deserve a little public humiliation for what I’ve done. They deserve apologies and I’m going to make sure they get them, from this letter as well as from me personally the next time I see them in a bar and buy them a beer. If they can bring themselves to forgive me, that will be radical. If not, I’ll just have to live with what I’ve done, but at least I’ll know I tried to make it right.
I guess the only other thing I keep wondering is how you allowed this to happen. Why, first of all, you said those unkind things to me and never cared to apologize for them or take them back. Sure, you apologized for the fact that I was hurt by what you said, but let’s not kid ourselves – that’s not a real apology. I know from what you have told me that you hate any comparison to your “crazy mother” or when people try to look at your battle with cancer, issues with your fathers, or other problems in your life as a basis for your behaviors. I’ve been there for you when you cried about this in the past. It seems that someone who is conscious of those challenges wouldn’t allow herself to be affected by them… but then you also told me other things that I’m now wondering about the truth of, and I know you’re telling at least one person things about me that are utter lies. I wonder what it must be inside your head that makes you think it is acceptable to conjure up these bizarre untruths and spread them around. I wonder if you realize they are untrue as you spread them or if you yourself actually come to believe them and live them.
I’m writing you to ask you to stop. I know the very idea is silly, that maybe you can’t and maybe you simply won’t, but I have to ask. I have to ask because I’ve tried to honor what I thought was a great two-year friendship by not saying a single negative thing about you, Becca, not to anyone. All I’ve ever said is that we had a disagreement, or that you said some things I have trouble forgiving. I leave it at that. I remember asking you to do the same, and I remember you telling me you would, but now I hear otherwise.
You know I write a poem every day in the month of April, and you know that in 2008 I wrote a poem about/for you. Well I did it again in 2009, when we were still friends. I enclose it now to remind you of what was lost. I always knew I was only as close to you as you allowed me to be, that I only knew of your life what you wanted me to know; I always felt you holding me at arm’s length. But I was all right with that. I wanted only to be your true friend, your solid supporter until the end. When you pushed me away, I tried to respect and honor that. Of course it’s too late to save what we had, Becca, and that’s not why I give you this poem, or why I give copies of this letter to the people who deserve to read it. I do it to hopefully help things in the future. I can’t know whether any of this will actually make sense inside your brain, after the many things people have told me since we’ve ‘split up,’ but I have to try. I have to do it for the future friends you might have, the future hearts you might break, the future friendships you might dissolve.
The next time you start to fabricate a hurtful lie about someone, do try and see if you can stop for just a moment, take a breather, and ask what that lie might cost. This letter can’t save our friendship, but I can use it to thank you for the important lesson you taught me at least, and I can try to apologize to the people I hurt because of you. If I can also cause you to at least consider change, well then that’s three wins, and if not, let’s just remember the important lesson we learned from Meat Loaf: “Two outta three ain’t bad.”
God forgive us both,
Ginna Funk Wallace
cc: Mandy, Tracy, Tyler, Tommy Thrash, Tommy Hampton
April 24, 2009
Poem to Make Becca Jane Smile 2
Here’s the thing of it: I don’t know how to write a poem about you
without saying Every time I tell you that I love you it’s a lie.
Man nor God never invented any word to tell you what I feel
and love feels so cheap it’s a curse in four letters. I want to say: Sister,
remember that time we got in the car and we drove all day to Kentucky
and whether we went so you could see a boy or so I could forget one
doesn’t matter anymore all that matters is stopping in Loretta Lynn’s
Country Kitchen on the way back for an impromptu photo shoot. That’s closer
to the kind of love I want to convey, I want to say At least once a day
I think about the time we turned that corner and saw the four women
praying to end abortion and I said Girl just look down and we turned into the lot
and walked inside, hand in hand. I’m getting warmer. I try: I’m glad
your brilliant academic career fell flat on its face so I can at least still see you
even if it’s only once or twice a month and we can sit in the sunshine and talk
about our lives like that’s actually what we’re talking about instead of
why on earth they say the Greek had four words for love and the Eskimos
have twenty or so and I don’t have a single one that can tell you what I mean.
Now I’m getting really warm. If I say the word Friend it’s a sorry excuse.
If I say Soul Mate it’s trite, overused, and Best Friend always fit better
on a key chain anyway. I’d tattoo you on my heart but no one would be able
to see it, it’s important to me that everyone see it so I say: No one has ever
made me feel so completely KNOWN, I say: Comrades, Cohorts, Compadres,
say: the best day of my life was that day when I called you crying on campus
because I was afraid you were good as dead already and you answered
and you cried right back and you’ll always be the strongest woman
I’ve ever known. Say I want to be you when I grow up, say you knew
all of this before I even wrote it, didn’t you? Say I love you
isn’t strong enough but I love you anyway.
Monday, July 20, 2009
O SNAP I MADE A BOOKS
Most of you know I've been working on putting together a new collection of poems for a little while now. It's finally printed. You know just as soon as I got done having people read it, peer edit, grammar/spell check and whatnot, I print fifty copies, go to a poetry reading, read one of the poems aloud and... find out I typed "hope" when I meant "home." It's fun for me. So now each of the little books has my own handwriting with a sharpie covering that P up with an M. Gives it character, personalization.
Some of you also know I lost a really wonderful friend lately. I was able to print these books way way on the cheap due to some benefits that come with being a university student again. I bought the paper, then went to school and copied my little heart out. Still have to figure out where/how to staple or bind however. But they're ready to be read at any rate.
So if you want a copy, shoot me a message with a way to contact you. Since I was able to print for so cheap, and since it's technically two little books that are companions together, you can get both for $5, or whatever you want to donate. The wonderful friend of mine who passed was only twenty years old, and her mother is now SURPRISE saddled with something like six grand in costs to bury her only child. No one can be prepared for that. I'm giving all the funds my book raises to this poor woman.
Read some fun poetry, help a beautiful kind woman through a tough time.
Some of you also know I lost a really wonderful friend lately. I was able to print these books way way on the cheap due to some benefits that come with being a university student again. I bought the paper, then went to school and copied my little heart out. Still have to figure out where/how to staple or bind however. But they're ready to be read at any rate.
So if you want a copy, shoot me a message with a way to contact you. Since I was able to print for so cheap, and since it's technically two little books that are companions together, you can get both for $5, or whatever you want to donate. The wonderful friend of mine who passed was only twenty years old, and her mother is now SURPRISE saddled with something like six grand in costs to bury her only child. No one can be prepared for that. I'm giving all the funds my book raises to this poor woman.
Read some fun poetry, help a beautiful kind woman through a tough time.
Monday, June 8, 2009
WAKA WAKA WAKA
I realized while I was there that I'd been to lots of several-day-camping festivals before
and lots of outdoor, lots-of-bands music festivals before
but never a several-days-lots-of-bands-outdoor-camping-music festival before.
IT WAS RAD.
Almost too big, but just manageable.
The two best things for me were that one, every single day I saw a completely different band that I had never ever heard of before and they blew my fucking mind so hard that I ended up spending food money on buying a CD, and two, every single day I got to see DIIIIRTFOOOOOT.
Other highlights were trying to estimate the per-capita number of people with dreadlocks there, and realizing that the per-capita number of curly-haired people was much higher than in the real world. Driving out to Ozark for the first time in something like a decade was fun, too, since I used to go camping out there all the time back in high school. On the way back to my regular life I stopped and tooted around the town a little bit, having flashbacks every three blocks.
There are some seriously weird people in the world. I didn't get photographs of nearly as many of them as I'd have liked. Also sometimes people do a lot of drugs. All I was interested in was my whiskey, my rum, and my herb, but the morning after the first night there I heard a gentleman walk through and catalog the drugs he'd done the night before. He listed having smoked marijuana, opium, and cocaine (I thought when you smoked it it was called crack???) and having eaten rolls, mdma, and acid. I can't remember whether he said anything about mushrooms. And that's not all that was there, of course people had pills of all sorts, and one night as I was meandering back to my campsite, a gentleman said simply, "Nitrous?" No thank you, crazy bastard.
I camped with my friend Lacy Lou and her boyfriend and a team of friends of his that were all cool people and fun to be with, so that was a pleasure. I also got to spend a lot of time in the Dirtfoot camp, once I realized exactly where it was located, so that was even more fun.
THE GODDAMNED MOON BALLOON. was a large orange globe strung to some vendor's tent. It was fun watching all the people who were screwed up on one drug or another pointing at it and going LOOK AT THAT BEAUTIFUL HARVEST MOON. No, my friend, the moon is the giant white thing over there. That orange thing you're looking at, with seams and a long string tailing from it? That's a balloon.
THE LITTLE HULA GIRL THAT COULDN'T. There were lots of hula-hoopers there, and some of them were pretty good. One of them was mind-bogglingly awesome and spun with three hoops going different directions at different times. Most of them were TERRIBLE. Drunk or stoned or just awful naturally, but trying so hard and failing consistently. I heard a story about one girl who kept trying to throw her hoop up and catch it somehow. She hit three different people before someone finally talked her into stopping.
POST YOUR MEMORIES HERE.
and lots of outdoor, lots-of-bands music festivals before
but never a several-days-lots-of-bands-outdoor-camping-music festival before.
IT WAS RAD.
Almost too big, but just manageable.
The two best things for me were that one, every single day I saw a completely different band that I had never ever heard of before and they blew my fucking mind so hard that I ended up spending food money on buying a CD, and two, every single day I got to see DIIIIRTFOOOOOT.
Other highlights were trying to estimate the per-capita number of people with dreadlocks there, and realizing that the per-capita number of curly-haired people was much higher than in the real world. Driving out to Ozark for the first time in something like a decade was fun, too, since I used to go camping out there all the time back in high school. On the way back to my regular life I stopped and tooted around the town a little bit, having flashbacks every three blocks.
There are some seriously weird people in the world. I didn't get photographs of nearly as many of them as I'd have liked. Also sometimes people do a lot of drugs. All I was interested in was my whiskey, my rum, and my herb, but the morning after the first night there I heard a gentleman walk through and catalog the drugs he'd done the night before. He listed having smoked marijuana, opium, and cocaine (I thought when you smoked it it was called crack???) and having eaten rolls, mdma, and acid. I can't remember whether he said anything about mushrooms. And that's not all that was there, of course people had pills of all sorts, and one night as I was meandering back to my campsite, a gentleman said simply, "Nitrous?" No thank you, crazy bastard.
I camped with my friend Lacy Lou and her boyfriend and a team of friends of his that were all cool people and fun to be with, so that was a pleasure. I also got to spend a lot of time in the Dirtfoot camp, once I realized exactly where it was located, so that was even more fun.
THE GODDAMNED MOON BALLOON. was a large orange globe strung to some vendor's tent. It was fun watching all the people who were screwed up on one drug or another pointing at it and going LOOK AT THAT BEAUTIFUL HARVEST MOON. No, my friend, the moon is the giant white thing over there. That orange thing you're looking at, with seams and a long string tailing from it? That's a balloon.
THE LITTLE HULA GIRL THAT COULDN'T. There were lots of hula-hoopers there, and some of them were pretty good. One of them was mind-bogglingly awesome and spun with three hoops going different directions at different times. Most of them were TERRIBLE. Drunk or stoned or just awful naturally, but trying so hard and failing consistently. I heard a story about one girl who kept trying to throw her hoop up and catch it somehow. She hit three different people before someone finally talked her into stopping.
POST YOUR MEMORIES HERE.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
This Weekend
Friday I came home from taking my last final and a friend met me at the house with something for us to put a lighter to. After we had, I started looking around my house and getting a little disgusted with myself. When I'm busy, or when I'm stressed, or when I'm depressed my house gets messy. I've been all three lately and let me tell you this place was looking condemnable. I ran him off and started cleaning.
Completely rearranged my front room while vacuuming all around and under everything. Tore the room apart, picked up papers, books, clothes, everything. It looks nice now. I also got maybe two thirds of the way through my kitchen, so that was also awesome. Some friends came by bringing me food (moving out of dorms, didn't want to take it home) and another couple of friends, and then the first friend came back with that flammable stuff again and THEN
my gay boyfriend got there. He's in AA and part of the way he deals is to get me super drunk and laugh at me. He did, and I was, and he laughed and it was great. We went out briefly and had some great antics and talked about life and our feelings because that's what we do and it was wonderful.
I woke up Saturday and got ready to head to Hot Springs for a visit. My BFF is going through radiation for a breast tumor so I've been trying to go back more frequently lately because it kindof sucks for her and she's having a crappy time of it. We hung out until she had to go to work, and then I did a TON of laundry that I brought with me at her boyfriend's house. Let me just take a moment to mention what an angel her boyfriend is and how amazing they are together - I'm super happy about them.
I met her at work and we went to the bar. I didn't think I would get shitty since I already had the night before, but people were happy I'd come to visit and these shots of my favorite whiskey kept getting passed my way. I think grand total I had six or eight or so? Smoked an Oliva Serie V cigar and it was the second best cigar I've had yet. So delicious. Flirted with a cutie and danced to an amazing band. I took some poetry books back because I needed gas money and thought I might sell a few to drunk people - it worked. My BFF and I took a ton of pictures (other people did with the camera too) and there's a lot on there that I don't exactly remember. We got super sauced, we were in rare form, and it was perfect. Lots of great friends were there, lots of hugging and laughs and fabulosity.
I woke up the next morning still drunk and I'd promised to go to work with her. It's my old job before I moved away and the chef was going to be short a hand in the kitchen so I offered to come back and wash dishes for shits and giggles. I made myself throw up the last of the whiskey and went with my BFF to pick up donuts, a gallon of milk, and chocolate syrup to make chocolate milk with. We took it in to work early and had nibbles and sips and then I worked a shift as the happiest dishwasher in town before getting fed some delicious Atlantic salmon and a dark green salad made of local leaves and house dressing.
Nothing in this entry is really important, except that I had an amazing super fun weekend and I love the people I got to see. I'm also really glad that I got to spend some quality time with my BFF. I still have three or four papers to write before I'm done with the semester, though, so it's bright and ugly tomorrow morning for me!
Completely rearranged my front room while vacuuming all around and under everything. Tore the room apart, picked up papers, books, clothes, everything. It looks nice now. I also got maybe two thirds of the way through my kitchen, so that was also awesome. Some friends came by bringing me food (moving out of dorms, didn't want to take it home) and another couple of friends, and then the first friend came back with that flammable stuff again and THEN
my gay boyfriend got there. He's in AA and part of the way he deals is to get me super drunk and laugh at me. He did, and I was, and he laughed and it was great. We went out briefly and had some great antics and talked about life and our feelings because that's what we do and it was wonderful.
I woke up Saturday and got ready to head to Hot Springs for a visit. My BFF is going through radiation for a breast tumor so I've been trying to go back more frequently lately because it kindof sucks for her and she's having a crappy time of it. We hung out until she had to go to work, and then I did a TON of laundry that I brought with me at her boyfriend's house. Let me just take a moment to mention what an angel her boyfriend is and how amazing they are together - I'm super happy about them.
I met her at work and we went to the bar. I didn't think I would get shitty since I already had the night before, but people were happy I'd come to visit and these shots of my favorite whiskey kept getting passed my way. I think grand total I had six or eight or so? Smoked an Oliva Serie V cigar and it was the second best cigar I've had yet. So delicious. Flirted with a cutie and danced to an amazing band. I took some poetry books back because I needed gas money and thought I might sell a few to drunk people - it worked. My BFF and I took a ton of pictures (other people did with the camera too) and there's a lot on there that I don't exactly remember. We got super sauced, we were in rare form, and it was perfect. Lots of great friends were there, lots of hugging and laughs and fabulosity.
I woke up the next morning still drunk and I'd promised to go to work with her. It's my old job before I moved away and the chef was going to be short a hand in the kitchen so I offered to come back and wash dishes for shits and giggles. I made myself throw up the last of the whiskey and went with my BFF to pick up donuts, a gallon of milk, and chocolate syrup to make chocolate milk with. We took it in to work early and had nibbles and sips and then I worked a shift as the happiest dishwasher in town before getting fed some delicious Atlantic salmon and a dark green salad made of local leaves and house dressing.
Nothing in this entry is really important, except that I had an amazing super fun weekend and I love the people I got to see. I'm also really glad that I got to spend some quality time with my BFF. I still have three or four papers to write before I'm done with the semester, though, so it's bright and ugly tomorrow morning for me!
Monday, May 4, 2009
Whoops.
I woke up Sunday wishing I could remember what my mother's voice sounded like. She used to record stories for the local library, and you could call a number to hear it over the phone. I knew they used her stories for years after she left the job, so I called it up. It was a new voice telling a bilingual story. Guess they finally got with the times.
So I hung up. Checked my email and found a message from her.
It was hit and it was miss. There was a line in particular that gave me deep pause, but I won't go into it here, mostly because when I replied I neglected to edit out my signature with the link to this blog in it, so it's possible she's finally found it and maybe even stalking me right now. Ooooooh, spooky. It's a bummer because this has been a place where I felt free to talk about it and write it out. I may migrate over to my livejournal to do this in the future.
But I do want to catalog the things that helped me get to the place where I am today, and that is a place where her memory can no longer hurt me. I just found myself here recently.
1) Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood. The movie works better than the book for my specific purposes. The book is a little too different from our particular problems, but the movie is general enough to apply. I watched it and wished somehow someone would knock me out and take me out of my life and explain everything about her and what made her the crazy woman she became. Never happened.
2) Big Fish. Another movie about a kid who hates his/her parent for the person s/he perceived the parent to be and how s/he goes about reconciling that issue.
3) Postsecret.com and a few secrets in particular that resonated with my situation. One said "I am sorry I can't be who you want me to be, Mom. It's a shame cause I kinda like myself the way I am." Another said "Waiting is painful. Forgetting is painful. But not knowing which to do is the worst kind of suffering." It's nice to know that even though other people are having lives completely different from your own, our individual sufferings match up on overall themes from time to time. I made one card about us and sent it in, but I never saw it posted on the blog. Lame.
4) Rachel McKibbens's "Central Park, Mother's Day."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WlqQzKBfNFE
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o-k-d-dbWHI&feature=related
Neither of these are as powerful as the version I heard for the first time at the finals of the National Poetry Slam in Austin in 2007. It was the first time I really thought about our situation from her point of view and thought, gee, maybe she didn't *mean* to fuck up so badly.
5) A documentary my father gave me about forgiveness. I can't remember the title right now, sorry, but it got me thinking about the process and working toward it.
6) Writing lots of poems about her.
7) Writing lots of letters to her. I never sent the poems or the letters, of course. Because at the end of the day, they were really just for me.
8) This American Life episode 175:
http://www.thisamericanlife.org/Radio_Episode.aspx?episode=175
The story that starts at 32:49 wasn't about us at all at first. It wasn't until it got to 53:36 that the neon signs lit up, and they were all arrows, and they were all pointing right at me.
I'm doing this catalog just in case we do meet up, and it turns out to be a terrible idea and nothing but negativity comes from it. These things (and a few more, but these have been the real beacons) can help bring me back to this place where I realize that she quite probably did the best she honestly could, and I can't hate her any more if her best was really that awful. I don't know what happened to her to make her who she was, and it may happen that she's someone else entirely today. Here's hoping.
The saddest part is that I've found two amazing substitute moms and I've loved them so much and valued having them in my lives more than I can ever tell them. One lives on a mountaintop outside Hot Springs and always gives the best hugs and the hugest heapings of unconditional love and delicious tea and is so giving and so loving. The other is actually a transgendered woman (gets her pussy this week, god bless her!) who is the ass-kicking I-got-your-back kind of mom who doles out brilliant amazing advice and delicious dinners at the same time.
I worry that they may suffer in this. Either my bio-mom will turn out to have changed into someone I can have a relationship with and I'll neglect these amazing women (unlikely, but I'll surely have guilt anyway) or she'll turn out to be the same person she always was and these women will have to help me rebuild myself all over again.
Dear God: Thanks for the amazing mothers you've sent me. Do please keep an eye on me for a bit while I deal with this. Love, Ginna.
So I hung up. Checked my email and found a message from her.
It was hit and it was miss. There was a line in particular that gave me deep pause, but I won't go into it here, mostly because when I replied I neglected to edit out my signature with the link to this blog in it, so it's possible she's finally found it and maybe even stalking me right now. Ooooooh, spooky. It's a bummer because this has been a place where I felt free to talk about it and write it out. I may migrate over to my livejournal to do this in the future.
But I do want to catalog the things that helped me get to the place where I am today, and that is a place where her memory can no longer hurt me. I just found myself here recently.
1) Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood. The movie works better than the book for my specific purposes. The book is a little too different from our particular problems, but the movie is general enough to apply. I watched it and wished somehow someone would knock me out and take me out of my life and explain everything about her and what made her the crazy woman she became. Never happened.
2) Big Fish. Another movie about a kid who hates his/her parent for the person s/he perceived the parent to be and how s/he goes about reconciling that issue.
3) Postsecret.com and a few secrets in particular that resonated with my situation. One said "I am sorry I can't be who you want me to be, Mom. It's a shame cause I kinda like myself the way I am." Another said "Waiting is painful. Forgetting is painful. But not knowing which to do is the worst kind of suffering." It's nice to know that even though other people are having lives completely different from your own, our individual sufferings match up on overall themes from time to time. I made one card about us and sent it in, but I never saw it posted on the blog. Lame.
4) Rachel McKibbens's "Central Park, Mother's Day."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WlqQzKBfNFE
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o-k-d-dbWHI&feature=related
Neither of these are as powerful as the version I heard for the first time at the finals of the National Poetry Slam in Austin in 2007. It was the first time I really thought about our situation from her point of view and thought, gee, maybe she didn't *mean* to fuck up so badly.
5) A documentary my father gave me about forgiveness. I can't remember the title right now, sorry, but it got me thinking about the process and working toward it.
6) Writing lots of poems about her.
7) Writing lots of letters to her. I never sent the poems or the letters, of course. Because at the end of the day, they were really just for me.
8) This American Life episode 175:
http://www.thisamericanlife.org/Radio_Episode.aspx?episode=175
The story that starts at 32:49 wasn't about us at all at first. It wasn't until it got to 53:36 that the neon signs lit up, and they were all arrows, and they were all pointing right at me.
I'm doing this catalog just in case we do meet up, and it turns out to be a terrible idea and nothing but negativity comes from it. These things (and a few more, but these have been the real beacons) can help bring me back to this place where I realize that she quite probably did the best she honestly could, and I can't hate her any more if her best was really that awful. I don't know what happened to her to make her who she was, and it may happen that she's someone else entirely today. Here's hoping.
The saddest part is that I've found two amazing substitute moms and I've loved them so much and valued having them in my lives more than I can ever tell them. One lives on a mountaintop outside Hot Springs and always gives the best hugs and the hugest heapings of unconditional love and delicious tea and is so giving and so loving. The other is actually a transgendered woman (gets her pussy this week, god bless her!) who is the ass-kicking I-got-your-back kind of mom who doles out brilliant amazing advice and delicious dinners at the same time.
I worry that they may suffer in this. Either my bio-mom will turn out to have changed into someone I can have a relationship with and I'll neglect these amazing women (unlikely, but I'll surely have guilt anyway) or she'll turn out to be the same person she always was and these women will have to help me rebuild myself all over again.
Dear God: Thanks for the amazing mothers you've sent me. Do please keep an eye on me for a bit while I deal with this. Love, Ginna.
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