What Happened to the Subtitles?

I moved.  Again.  No, I mean again after that.

Yes, I know there was a post here telling you to go to my new blog. Sorry, I killed it. No worries; I wasn't attached yet. I didn't like the name. Life on the Island is a great running joke here in Costa Rica because of all the times we get asked what it's like living on an island, even though it's not an island, but I don't think it's that funny if you don't live here. I just wasn't feeling it.

So that's that.  Do over!

For reals this time, my new place: What Happened to the Subtitles?  Add it to your lists. No, really. I won't move again. I signed a lease. Seriously.

What? It's not like I ate your secret stash of Oreos. Just add it. Por favor.

Happy Independence Day, Costa Rica

(Which was a relatively peaceful event, but into every history, some asshats must fall. This particular one came from Tennessee.)


On this day in 1821, Costa Rica, quietly obtained its independence from Spain, as did most of Central America, with the exceptions of Belize and Panama. Costa Rica abolished its military in 1948, and people here are very proud of the reputation they've built as a peaceful, tranquilo country. They've avoided many of the hardships suffered by their neighbors, starting with colonization. Not that the colonizers didn't come. Of course they came. They just didn't amp up the raping, pillaging, and murdering to the levels they enjoyed elsewhere. They did pass around some smallpox because that's just the colonizer's calling card. A given.

When that genocidal asshat, Cristóbal Colón, (You may know him as Christopher Columbus) came a-sailing in 1502, he dubbed this place Costa Rica, meaning "rich coast", believing it to be rich in gold.  It wasn't. Nor were there enough indigenous people for old Cristóbal to pull his usual stunt of enslaving them and forcing them to work their own land for his pleasure and profit. The settlers on the seemingly Rich Coast were largely left to their own devices, meaning they had to do their own work. Needless to say, Costa no-muy-Rica was mostly ignored while the Spanish colonization *cough genocide cough* continued in golder pastures.

Likewise, Costa Rica hasn't been affected by military conflict, dictators, corruption, or the effects of the drug cartels to the extent that its neighbors have. They did have to fend off an attempted takeover by one William Walker, a member of the Southern Confederacy who hailed from Tennessee. Willy decided he wanted a couple of Central American countries of his very own, by gawd, so he pulled a Cristóbal and decided to just go take them. Willy planned to convert Central America into a slave territory, extending the land of cotton right on down to the land of bananas.

Manifest Destiny wasn't just heading west, y'all.

He declared himself president of Nicaragua in 1856, and then set his sights on his neighbors to the south. The Costa Rican president rallied his people and raised a substantial militia in short order. Armed with farming tools, rifles, and (of course) machetes, they tracked down our Nashville native and commenced an ass-whooping. The Battle of Santa Rosa lasted about 15 minutes, ending with the would-be usurper high-tailing it for Nicaragua.

They followed him.

This is where the story takes on the stuff of legend and folks start with the toasts. Having cornered Walker and his men, President Mora asked for a volunteer to carry a torch and set fire to the building in order to drive the evil-doers out. A humble drummer boy, Juan Santamaría, bravely stepped forward, asking only that his mother be cared for in the event of his death. Our courageous boy-soldier did his duty and, tragically, met his end, but he succeeded in flushing out ol' Willy and his merry band of assclowns.

Costa Rica prides itself on its claim of being the only Latin American country whose national hero is a campesino, a humble laborer, rather than a politician or military hero. Juan Santamaría was also of mixed race, being partly of African descent, though you won't find that reflected in any of the statues. (French sculptor. What are you going to do?) Our main airport is named after Juan Santamaría, so if any of you head down, now you know the story behind the name.

This is the Costa Rican national anthem. I like how it reflects peace, the beauty of nature, and working the land with your hands. It briefly mentions defense in the context of the pueblo -- here meaning the people -- exchanging their tools for weapons to defend the country's honor, in the tradition of the militia that schooled William Walker.  No rockets' red glare, no bombs bursting in air. I like the idea of a national anthem being about peace, work, nature, and the land providing sustenance and shelter for its people.

The video has some nice scenes of Costa Rica. Give a listen. It's short and sweet. (Lyrics in the comments)

The anthem sounds sweeter to me this year, as I just received notification that my Costa Rican citizenship has been approved. In about a month, I should have my cédula, or national ID card, making me an official, card-carrying citizen of Costa Rica, or as my favorite taxista likes to say, más tica que gallo pinto. (You're more Costa Rican than the national dish. Yeah, flattery, but I'll take it.)

Feliz Día de la Independencia, Costa Rica.

Language Arts

Using another language on vacation is a whole different thing from living your life in another language.  After a trip, sure, your brain is mush, but then you go back to handling life in English. And that's that.

Try moving, though.

There is no "going back to English". Your new normal is brain exhaustion. But you keep plugging along, hoping someday you won't sound like a third grader. You master the basics. But you soon realize that those happy chats with taxistas and market vendors are not fulfilling. You have opinions, you are interested. You miss feeling intelligent. You miss being heard. You want depth, an exchange of ideas beyond the weather and the price of papayas. You resolve to fill your days with deep and fascinating conversation. Enough of this Spanish 101 business.

It's time to level up, bitches.

But despite having a somewhat steady grasp on the nuts and bolts of the language, you are blissfully unaware of the number of factors at play here:

Focus
You know how in your native language you listen to things without even trying? You talk on the phone while you check Facebook. You text and watch a movie. Or you update your blog while belting out some sweet harmony with your boys, the Eagles. You listen to your fifth-grade teacher perfectly well while reading A Wrinkle in Time, hidden inside your science textbook. (Curse you, Mrs. Dunkle. Give me my book back. Still got an A on your dumb test.) Yeah, well, forget all that. That's over. If you want to know what the hell is going on now, you have to focus. Your mind cannot wander. Multitasking? No. Done. Thinking about what to make for dinner? Sorry, nope. Full concentration mode. All the freaking time.

Background Noise
If there is music or TV in the background, forget it. You know how a sound engineer can adjust the volume on different audio tracks? Bring up the lead vocals, bring down the drums, mute that guy who coughed? Yeah, well, that's not you. Your brain cannot yet filter different tracks in your new language, let alone adjust or mute tracks. You never even knew your brain was automatically filtering out noise in your own language, did you? Now it's all on one track. Everything. Music, the person talking to you, the convo at the next table, TV, traffic, barking dogs, ticking clocks -- just one big, cacophonous assault on your ears.  If you're a noise-sensitive person (hello), this is anxiety hell.

Groups
If more than one person is talking at once, same deal. Your brain cannot filter that shit. In a group, there is no pause for "your turn". This is not call and response, people. By the time you formulate a sentence, the point you wanted to address is three sentences back and someone else has the floor. You do a lot of smiling and nodding. Which you hate because you are not a passive, smiling nodder by nature. Groups are often in places with -- you guessed it -- background noise, as well as our next factor: alcohol.

Alcohol

There is mother-tongue tolerance and there is new-language tolerance. Never the twain shall meet. You have a window of opportunity. One or two drinks: you're killing it. You're confident, you're conjugating, you're clever. Hola, mi compa, dónde está el baño, te ves guapa mi amor, siempre tomo el bus los miércoles, tengo un lapiz, regálame una birra, mae*!  You are in the zone. Okay, stop drinking now. Trust me, this is the best your language skills get. Order that next drink, and it's all downhill. It will hit fast, too. Like mid-sentence. Do not miss your window.

Accent
You know how in English, talking to someone from Boston is a world apart from talking to Honey Boo-Boo? How Scottish English is just a wee bit different from Texas English? Same thing. Costa Rican (tico) Spanish was, for me, a difficult accent. It's a river of softlyconnectedsoundsrushing past my ears rather than clear.distinct.separate.words. Then there are regional accents. You understand one guy easily, turn to his buddy and ... nada. Awkward. I quickly discoverd that no podía entender ni papa. Literally, "I couldn't even understand a potato". Which brings me to the next factor:

Slang
Every Spanish-speaking country has its own slang. I never know whether I'm learning standard Spanish or tico Spanish until I talk to someone from another country and they don't know what the hell I'm on about. Then there's pachuco, which is the really street tico slang. My husband is a librarian. I'm not very street in Spanish.

You

DeviantArt: panelgutter

If you are tired, stressed, sick, or angry, you can't even. This is why I still fail at arguing in Spanish, which is a pity because that shit would be satisfying as hell, pendejos. It's exasperating because the times when you are stressed, sick, tired, or mad are exactly when you need communication to be effortless, but nooo, your brain just shuts down. Access denied. That bastard retreats into its skull-cave to hibernate and leaves you to deal with the situation. Brainlessly.

Other factors
-- When people mumble, turn their head away, or cover their mouths.
-- Volume. Your brain can't fill in missing pieces like in English.
-- PA systems and microphones.
-- The phone. You can't see gestures, facial expressions, or the person's mouth, and sometimes audio quality sucks. If I don't pick up, take the hint. Leave a message.  Better yet, text me.



So it's a process. Sometimes it's just easier to smile and nod.

It feels like doing life with your brain all tangled up in giant bedsheets.

Sometimes it actually feels claustrophobic, and you go all spastic-freakout in your head, trying to mentally Bruce Lee your way out of the tangled covers so you can fucking breathe, but they're not real. You can't throw them off. The only way out is to calm your ass down and keep trying. Which is maddeningly slow and frustrating.

But it's also fun and satisfying with a lot of fuck, yeah! to it, like when ...

• you realize you just watched the news ... and totally got it. 
• you have a conversation without thinking about the language. 
• you've gone from "Rains. No parasol" to "If I'd known it was going to rain, I would've brought my umbrella." 
• some guy catcalls you and you cut him off without breaking stride. 
• you can read novels. (Yes, of course with the Kindle dictionary. What am I, Merriam-Webster?)
• you can finally talk to someone in a crowded bar with music playing. (What is it with the 80s music? That shit just stays popular in other countries.)

Right?  Fuck, yeah. That's what keeps you plodding forward. Incrementally.

So listen up, friends. When you hear people speaking with an accent and making mistakes, don't you judge them. That shit is hard. Their brains can never relax. Their brains are probably fucking exhausted. And if they sound like a third grader, do not assume they're not intelligent. They could be a rocket scientist in their own language. Maybe smile at them. Maybe ask them what they think. Catch their eye. Maybe pause your own mouth for a minute so they can arrange their thoughts into words you can understand. Maybe include them if you're in a group and they're smiling and nodding a lot.



I started this draft almost four years ago. Now I can say "I speak Spanish" without feeling like a fraud. A lot of the factors above aren't such a big deal anymore. I'm not going to lie, though; sometimes they still kick my ass. People ask if I'm fluent, and I never know how to answer. According to criteria online, I guess I am. Sort of. Maybe. In my own mind ... um ... no, I don't feel fluent. Hey, perfectionist here. Blessing and curse, people.

My accent is getting better. Thankgawd. What I wouldn't give to have a sexy accent. Italian, Spanish, French, Hungarian. Face it, of all the world's accents, the gringo* accent has got to be among the ugliest.  We are the nails on the chalkboard of accents. And that's what I'm working with here, folks.  No matter how fluent I become, that accent will still be there, assaulting Costa Rican ears like an enthusiastic child learning violin. On an out-of-tune instrument. After guzzling Mountain Dew.

Last week, someone asked if I was French after we'd been talking a while. (I know, right?) Seeing my expression, he amended it. Swedish? Not ... Dutch? I said I was from the States, and bless his heart, he was surprised. Apologized! I was like, nooo, no apology necessary, good sir; just let me shine those boots up for you and build you this pedestal real quick. Hey, I know what the accent of my people sounds like. I'm under no illusions. I totally took that shit as a compliment.

Granted, it was probably just in comparison with the hordes of gringos who move here and never learn to speak beyond Yoh kee-ay-roh Tack-oh Bell, but still.  I'll take it.

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*Gringo/gringa is not offensive or derogatory in Costa Rica. Took me a while to get that, but it's just what people say here. No negative connotation at all.  Now, if someone calls you yanqui ... okay, not good. 

*Mae = dude.  It's like güey in Mexican Spanish. 

*Alcohol-induced, in-the-zone Spanish: "Hey, my friend, where is the bathroom, you're looking good, baby, I always take the bus on Wednesday, I have a pencil, bring me a beer, dude!"

Paradise Lost and Found

view from the laundry room window

How many prodigal-blogger posts does this make?  Whatever. 

I found an assload of drafts in here. Apparently, I wrote a bunch of shit while strapped to the roller coaster that is culture shock, after blithely setting off for paradise with nine suitcases and a dog. 

I almost deleted them. But this is how I felt at the time, and this was my path from there to here.

I wrote this three years ago.  I'd forgotten the post, but I remember that night so clearly.
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Paradise Lost and Found

It's March. 2012.  Seven months since the exalted move to Paradise and entering into wedded bliss with the proverbial Latin lover.  Who needs Calgon?  This chick probably spends her perfect days on the beach, being served cocktails in a coconut by her surf-instructor husband, listening to toucan calls and the spicy strains of salsa music while all her troubles are borne away on a sultry, floral-scented, tropical breeze.

Bitch probably has a pet monkey, too. 

Well, sort of. I don't live anywhere near the beach.  Or even a pool.  The esposo is a librarian whose swimming skills are about in line with my salsa skills. We are, however, surrounded by coffee fields and volcanos, and we do enjoy the occasional coconut with a straw.  Or box of cheap wine. The breeze, while often floral-scented, has not borne away life's troubles, but it does occasionally deliver volcanic ash or monstrous insects through the screenless windows. There are banana trees (which are not actually trees), palm trees, mango trees, papaya trees, avocado trees, and fifty-eleven-jillion types of flowers, birds, and butterflies. Sunshine. Always.

No pet monkey, though.  Sorry.

I live in paradise.  I wake up to sunshine, birdsong, and warm tile floors every single day.  Except sometimes I feel like I'm supposed to feel like I live in paradise, and I am secretly guilty if I'm not 100% ecstatically happy all the time.  Like I have to live up to living the dream, you know?

There really is no magical place that is paradise, though you can be coaxed into believing in it when you're vulnerable, when you're shivering under a Snuggie, alone in your vast expanse of king-sized bed, listening to the endless rain beat down on the new roof you just paid for in your soon-to-be-foreclosed house, and it's dark by 4pm.

You can sure as fuck believe in paradise then.

I moved to Costa Rica, but my kids didn't.  My friends aren't here. I feel isolated, emotionally and linguistically. I'm getting better at Spanish, but it's like communicating with your head wrapped in a thick, wet blanket. That shit's hard, people. I now have a husband to have and to hold till death do us part, but marriage doesn't magically transport your ass to the pages of Harlequin any more than taking a salsa class magically makes you Shakira. (Yeah, that shit didn't work. Turns out they don't actually put those footprints on the floor for you to follow.)  I traded in my big, empty bed for the challenge of managing marriage across two languages and two cultures, after a largely long-distance courtship.  And that, my friends, no es nada fácil. We could be a weekly sit-com, trust.  Yes, I walked away from my job -- how great is that?  Everyone's dream!  But I also walked away from my own pension and salary, stepping into the role of a housewife completely dependent on her husband in a machista part of the world.  And that kind of messes with your head.

The separation from my kids and friends ... ain't enough paradise to fix that. My insides try to rise up and choke me if I let myself go down to that cellar where the real feelings live; oily, snakey things, locked up tight, away from the daily business of life.  As a single mom, I got pretty good at compartmentalizing, at handling shit while appearing sane and competent, at keeping that padlock snicked shut. Tight.

Until I'm alone.

Because then no one has to know. 

So one night I'm cooking dinner (because I'm a housewife now, y'all) and my iPod pops up this lullaby I used to sing to the kids when they were babies, in that big rocking chair that got left on the porch of my now-foreclosed house.  It was fast, too -- James Taylor reached out and gut-punched me with a baby's song, hard, and the padlocked things slithered out, into my consciousness where they don't belong, except I'm not alone now, because I moved to paradise and new husband is sitting over there playing computer chess, and James Taylor is singing "and you can sing this song ... when I'm goonnnne," and now I'm the one who's gone, and freaking James Taylor slams me back into the rocking chair with that soft, chubby baby in terrycloth sleeper pajamas, except it's not real because now the baby has a goatee and a job and college and  bills and is doing it alone, without his mom, because she's in paradise peeling beets ...

... and then I'm in the laundry room of this tiny apartment, trying to get it under control because I need to be in control, but it won't stop, and I'm looking out at the coffee plants and banana trees (which aren't really trees) under the moon, with the mountains blocking the low stars, and this is paradise, where I'm not alone but I'm a different kind of lonely ... and then new husband is in the laundry room, probably hoping like hell it was nothing he did to make this gringa volverse loca in the laundry room (possibly wondering if this is an appropriate time to practice the "go nuts" phrase he just learned in English), and I try to tell him it's just that I miss the kids ... I just miss the kids ... only it's hard to speak clearly when you're crying and James Taylor is crooning his freaking baby's song, and I'm speaking in English because I can't think in Spanish when I'm crying, so it's harder to understand me, and we're doing that "¿Qué? ¿Cómo?  What?" thing, and I want to punch James Taylor but I secretly believe I deserve to feel this way because (you wouldn't be missing them so much if you hadn't LEFT THEM) really, who deserves to be happy in paradise?

And that's how it hits you. Like a fucked-up, run-on sentence that won't stop.

Anyway, I've been doing a lot of thinking about paradise and happiness and relationships and about how where you are affects how you are.  I'm having a pretty hard time, to be honest, living without my family and my friends.   I was prepared for the whole culture shock thing; I didn't Pollyanna that shit. I know the drill, I've done international moves before.  But not without my kids.  And in those places, there were other transplanted people who got it.  And who spoke my language. 

How can you feel sad when you're "living the dream"?  I feel like an ingrate. I mean, you quit your job, moved to a tropical country and found love to boot?  Bitch, shut the fuck up and get back to your fairy tale before I throw a mango at your ass.

Goddamn.

In Seattle, I had people whom I loved more than life, but I wasn't happy.  I had happy moments with my people, but I wasn't really happy in general.  I don't think most people know how deeply Seattle got in there, what it did to me. It was sucking the life out of me, sucking the me out of me. 

Here in Costa Rica, the sunshine restores me, I feel better, I feel more like me.  I feel happy in general.  I have someone who loves me.  I have my dog.  I have time to breathe. It's warm.  It's yellow and red and so many greens and nothing is grey or cold or damp.  I just miss my kids, my friends.  Sometimes almost to the point of panic if I can't keep it shut up tight, where it belongs.

Even in paradise, life is trade-offs, people. Always.

I feel like I'm healing something, being here.  It's a process, but I feel it happening.  A location isn't really paradise, but it does make one hell of a difference.  There will always be stuff, but sunshine makes handling the stuff easier.  At least for me.  I'm that freaking Seattle crocus escaping the cold, snowy ground, basking my ass off in the sunshine.  Alive.  Sunshine is so fucking good.

Now if I can just find an agreeable monkey and teach it to ride on Batman, we'll be golden.

Escape From Bitch Mountain

I actually forgot the password to this blog.  So it's been two years.  That has more to do with my surrender to Facebook than with me quitting my job, cashing in my meager contribution toward the retirement I would have enjoyed at age 87 or so, moving to Central America with my dog and nine suitcases, and marrying a Costa Rican socialist.

coffee fields around the corner from my apt. with requisite volcano in the background

Oh, please. Don't act so shocked, most of your asses are on Facebook too.  You've seen the status updates.

Maybe I need a new blog. Even the colors on this one reflect those years in Seattle.  The grey years.  Maybe my long cyber-absence and the idea of a new blog are just ways to separate myself mentally from that time, I don't know. 

So I've lived here now for seven months, and the mental transition ... let's just say it's a process.  There's a part of me that is still surprised to see the sun every day, that doesn't truly believe it will really come back in the morning.  A part of me that even on muggy days, when my deodorant has raised the white flag of surrender, still mentally pays desperate homage to the weather gods so they won't take it away.  I still avoid the shade, and am weirded out when I see Costa Ricans using umbrellas against the sun.  They probably think I'm an idiot, trotting down the sunny side of street like some clueless tourist. Dumb gringa. Never mind, even the tourists have the sense to walk in the shade with their visors and backpacks and Hawaiian shirts.  And maps.  They all have maps.

Which doesn't help much because there are no street names or house numbers here.

In Seattle, people literally call in sick on sunny days.  No, really.   Because you never know when it will happen again, and there's a kind of giddiness that hits you.  Hey, I'm talking about a place where you literally may not see sunshine for a month, and then only that fleeting phenomenon locally known as a "sunbreak" before you're back in the grey. 

It's really not possible to explain the effect of living like that. There's this irrational fear:  don't waste the sun, if you don't appreciate it, it will go away.  And once that gets inside you, it apparently can't just be switched off by escaping to a tropical climate.

In Costa Rica, summer runs from December to May, roughly.  What they call "winter" is really just the rainy season.  The idea of a rainy season struck fear into my Seattle-scarred heart, but it really just means it rains every afternoon.  You still get sun almost every morning.  Of course, "rain" here can mean torrents that wash your house into the river as opposed to nonstop drizzle, but I repeat: sun basically every day.  (That house-river thing happened about a five-minute walk from us.  Rain does not play here.)

Going through said rainy season with no car, no dryer, and no furnace sheds a whole new light on rain, but that's another story.


So in December these trade winds, vientos alisios, arrive and the Costa Ricans, or ticos, as they call themselves, get all nostalgic and happy because it signals the beginning of summer and the arrival of Christmas. (I know.  Still trying to wrap my head around that combo.)  They put Christmas lights on palm trees, and these nativity scenes pop up everywhere.  Even in the bars.  The manger itself stays empty until the night of the 24th when the holy plastic child makes his blessed appearance. Even in the bars.

You know how the first snow and that crisp smell of smoke from the chimneys make us feel all happy and Decembery?  The vientos alisios are like that for ticos.  Except with no fireplaces or furnaces against the cold that rides in on them. The winds are insane.  Laundry dries in half an hour, but holy hell, can it be chilly at night!  The esposo loves it.  "Ah, ¡qué fresquito!"   I scowl and pull on my giant, fuzzy robe.  The one you all laughed at me for bringing.

I guess when you live your whole life where heat and sunshine are a given, every single day, those winds do seem refreshing, a relief, especially when they mean Christmas and summer.

It's hard to imagine ever feeling relief instead of dread at the arrival of cold winds or rain.  Even happy Christmas trade winds. I suppose someday I'll get there.  Until then, the sunny side of the street feels just fine.

She Lives!

Not to be confused with the religious hymn, similarly titled.

I've been missing out on all of your lives. Unless you're on Facebook. You know who you are. And you've been missing out on me bitching about the requisite lack of sunshine, the infamous This Old Motherfucking House, and other adventures in the land of rain.

I ask you simply this: is it so wrong to consider up and leaving TOMH and moving to Costa Rica? For reals, people. Also, it appears that your favorite bitching blogger may be, finally, working on her love life. But it's complicated.

Also, I've lost 37 pounds, can run almost three miles and will be happy as hell in about 20 more pounds. Although the aforementioned love interest says to stop now with the weight loss. Gotta love that, eh ladies? Nice being seen through a non-US-beauty-standards lens. So yeah, it seems that military training has kicked in, overpowered the Seattle slump that was clinging to my ass like a Puget Sound barnacle, and I'm currently kicking my own ass all the way to finish line.

Hoooah, bitches.

I leave you with these thoughts, for now I must make the rounds and catch up on your lives. I have missed you, contrary to my apparent slackassedness and lack of interest, and will return shortly.

Where's My Fatted Calf?

And lo, the Prodigal Blogger hath returneth. Actually, you can scratch that fatted calf deal, given my vegetarian status. After a record hiatus, I figured I at least owed you a catchy title.

And by record hiatus, I mean I haven't hollered at you all since Santa swept down my chimney. In my defense, it's been hard for me to tell the difference, given that my Christmas decorations are still up. Don't judge. It's been that kind of a year. After a while, I quit seeing it, to tell the truth. I'd be sitting here doing homework, and suddenly feel a troop of nutcrackers, staring down at me from over the stockings. Like a festive line of Chuckies illuminated by Christmas lights, which, by the way, are still going strong, and do give a nice ambiance, if I'm honest about it.

Yes, by record hiatus, I mean about three months. Exactly the length of, oh ... say, winter quarter at one's local community college. This non-traditional student gig sucks ass, people. Especially at your place of employment. Yeah, instructors also being your colleagues ... just a little added fun.

I don't know why I thought taking a full load this quarter, on top of working full time, This Old Motherfucking House, the offspring, and the four-legged beasts was a good idea, but I did. Even then, it would've been okay had one class not turned out to have a two-legged beast of a brutal-grading instructor. Do not let anyone tell you that graphic design is a fluff class or "just an art class", people. This was the most time-consuming, stressful class I have ever taken. And that includes organic chemistry, as well as advanced anatomy and physiology. Yes, worse than cadavers staring up at you while you examine their muscle fiber. Graphic design was no joke, people. I wanted to pop my instructor over the head with my final portfolio by the time it was done. If I even think about taking GD II, somebody slap the shit out of me. Hard.


Side note: Dear Mom and Daddy, you were right. I should've finished school when I had no other responsibilities. You were also right about that: I had no responsibilities then. Also, you were right when you said that if I got married young, chances are I would not finish school. You were also right about that whole getting married young thing, just as a bad fucking idea in general. As well, you were right when you said I should have my own money and make an emergency fund for myself, if I was going to insist on getting married young. You were also right about my pride being my downfall with that whole, "I don't need your goddamned alimony! Just take care of your children!" thing. It is true that going to school later in life is fucking hard, and worse when sitting in a classroom of bored 19-yr olds who think their lives are hard, while staring at an instructor who is also your colleague, and who is secretly wondering what the fuck you're doing there. It makes me feel even older than I am, which is quickly becoming "pretty fucking old". So basically, you were right. Even though you're now crazyass teabagger right-wingers, you were right about school. If I could go back in time and kick my own ass, I would. I'm surprised you didn't.


Okay, so, in other news, I will also be spending this next quarter researching the ins and outs of foreclosure. Yes, you heard me right. That whole, "You can never go wrong buying property" thing? Bullshit. Worst decision of my life. I haven't decided for sure yet, but the more I research it and run the numbers, the more I'm having to face the fact that there doesn't look to be another solution. My credit score was almost 800 when I bought this bitch. That's about to change. Anyway. That's all I have to say about that.

Male Offspring switched to the Running Start program, which is where high school students can take college classes for joint high school and college credit. This means he is also attending classes at my place of employment. Of course, I don't see him in any of my classes, him being in the engineering track. He's about to take the 3rd level of chemistry, and has moved past pre-calc to straight up college calculus. I'm still contemplating that "Math Anxiety" course. On the bright side, he's a reasonably good shot at financing my beach house when I'm old and infirm. He's also discovered swing dancing. Pretty cool. He actually dons suit and tie, and goes with his friends down to a ballroom in Seattle for swing and salsa. He helped start a swing dance student club, and even started taking classes at a local ballet company and is taking a swing class on campus. They love having a wrestler-slash-football-player who can actually lift the girls and do the steps! So if the engineering gig doesn't make the boy rich, there's always Dancing With the Stars.

Oh, also, all that community work I've been doing the last few years? The son is about to take on the school board with his own cause. Next Tuesday he will speak at the board meeting with other students from the gay-straight alliance, asking the board to allow high schoolers to talk to the middle schoolers about the National Day of Silence, and for staff/administration to support student participation. They made a video they want to show to the middle schoolers, but the m.s. principals are not all down with that. Feels pretty damn good to just attend the meeting, and not have to do a thing but watch certain principals and administrators squirm.

Teen Demon (who is now two years past teenhood) is back in school, has transferred out to a university in central WA, and is doing well. For those who didn't know, she was in a horrible accident at the end of summer, in which she made it out, but lost her best friend. I don't have any words to describe that tragedy, and the effect that it has had on TD and her friend's family. I don't even want to try, here. I just want to let you all know she's back in school and seems to be healing, as well as can be expected. She likes her classes, she's been getting outside in the sunshine, and got a job working with young children in an after-school program. That ties in with her major (education) and she's making a difference with the kids -- they are mostly Latino kids, and she was warned that the kids were "hard to handle" and that she'd need to "take a firm hand" to get them to "behave". TD is having none of that, says the kids are great and just want someone to actually give a shit and be a mentor. Plus, Spanish is her minor, so she does well with the communication. Super proud of her. I don't know how I'd do, going through what she went through. She is something. Tomorrow is her friend's birthday. Today is mine. I'm really sad about that.

The Bohemian is about to graduate college. I know. She's trying to decide whether she'll go straight for her masters, or ... y'all best sit down. Sitting? OK, she's trying to decide whether to go straight to grad school or join the military to pay for it. I know. I told you to sit down, didn't I? She's been on a full academic scholarship the past 4 years, with a stipend, and has gotten used to that. She says if she doesn't get grants/scholarships to cover grad school as well, it's ahoy matey she goes. I suspect it's less about paying for grad school and more about her dream of running away to sea that she cooked up when she was 10 or 12. She was one of those kids who, in addition to inventing her own language for the fantasy stories she wrote, and keeping a sketchbook, also kept a journal of life goals that she swore she'd never forget like people tend to do when they grow up. Like Peter Pan without that racist bullshit of the Lost Boys or chasing after Wendy's lame ass. I suggested that she become the musician for a cruise ship for the summer, put that fancy piano degree to use, but that suggestion was met with disdain. Cruise ships are about as far away from the pirate's life as you can get and still be on water, I guess. Cruise ships are not badass. Also, they tend to be overrun with rich white people. Yesterday, she called me, and I was having trouble hearing her.

Me: Where are you?

Bohemian: What?!

Me: Where are you? What's going on?

Bohemian: Oh, I'm at a protest.

Me: A protest for what?

Bohemian: An anti-war protest.

Me: ... you do see the irony here, don't you?

Bohemian: Yes, yes, I see it, OK?!

I worry about how an anti-war protesting, outspoken, progressive extremist, kick-ass, openly pan-sexual young women will deal with shifting herself enough to deal in the military. I have no doubt she will succeed, I just worry about what it will cost her. Not to mention what our government -- yes, the current government, not just the old one -- is doing with the troops. I can't even think about that. Going to college was supposed to keep her from that life. She spent years in a military environment, it's not like she's clueless about military life, and she's grown now. She's done well with everything in her life, and regardless, I'll support her ... I just don't want it to cost her too much. Plus, you all know I will have to mock her for being a Navy puke. I mean really, the Navy? They can't even march in cadence. And those dungarees. Please.

In other news, it looks like there's trouble in paradise for the Ex and his bride of not-quite-three years, but I'll have to update you all on that another day if you know what I mean, and I think that you do. Hang tight.

So that's my update. I should be around more often now. There's been a lot of bitching building up, and you all know I can only go but so long before it spills out. Happy Spring Equinox, by the way.

On a Cold Winter's Night ...

Another Christmas come and gone. Sitting here with the Bohemian, bathed in the glow of Christmas lights and our computer monitors, Nora Jones adding to the late night ambiance after a long and good Christmas day. The Ex is back at his hotel, Male Offspring and Not-So-Teen Demon are dreaming of sugarplums snug in their beds, dishes are done, dogs are tuckered out, wine is poured ... it was a good day.

Tonight, during a break in the dinner preparations, I went outside for a few minutes, and thought about passing time. It was one of those rare Seattle nights - crisp, clear, glowing moon, twinkling stars, the whole bit. Maybe the rarity is a good thing; when you add Christmas lights, slightly chilled Shiraz, and the distant sounds of a busy kitchen to the aforementioned twinklyass stars, it all adds up to one tall glass of melancholy. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about.

Anyway, I'll leave it at that, and just say I'm exceedingly glad for the time with my family today, glad that we're healthy and together. I'm thankful for my children. I'm thankful that their dad could come spend Christmas with them. I thought about people I miss today, and people whom I know only via the wonders of The Internets. I'm a slackass blogger; you all know this. I entertain myself with thoughts of you accepting this as an endearing foible. Hey, my blog, my fantasy. Whatever. Seriously though, merry merry to all my cyber friends. Connections are important, whether in the flesh, or in the heart. So here's to making it through another year, and to connections that help maintain our tenuous hold on sanity. Merry thoughts, all.

In My Blood Like Holy Wine

Damn you, Joni Mitchell.

Just ... why?

Why would a foreign language instructor assign her class to write a paragraph about "a place you'd like to go", when we haven't yet learned future tense, and we're supposed to be practicing two different past tenses that we HAVE learned? I mean -- and I'm just coming up with this off the top of my head here -- wouldn't it have been better to write about a place we've been?

Just wondering.

All Hail the Power

You know, I'm really fucking sick and tired of "God" getting all the credit for anything good that happens, yet none of the blame for any of the bad shit that goes down. Am I the only one who notices the disparity here? What kind of sense does that make? Seriously. It's bullshit, people. You can't have it both ways.

So anyone who wants to tell me that bad times are the perfect times to turn to some spiritual guidance, you know what? Fuck you. And the cloud you rode in on. If your deity isn't man enough to step up and take responsibility for the bad shit, then he's apparently not allfuckingpowerful enough to have had anything to do with the good. And if he were responsible for the good, that means he could've damn well prevented the bad, but didn't. Seriously, could it be any more clear? So no, thank you.  Been there, done that, woke the fuck up.

And that's all I've got to say about that.

Just Call Me the Snug Meister.

I bought a Snuggie, people. Yes, as seen on TV. This accursed PNW weather has finally pushed me into the the desperate realm of the oft-maligned Blanket With Sleeves.

I know. I hear you mocking me. It's okay, I understand. Until a few days ago, I was a merciless mocker of Snuggies myself. Besides, the offspring beat you to it. They were first, second, and third in the mockery line. And you know those kids were raised on the milk of sarcasm, so it's been more like running the damn mockery gauntlet around here.

It's all good though. Mock away, bitches, this thing is warm. I mean warm. Like swine-flu-fever warm. Like I-have-to-crack-a-window warm. Bite my snug ass, Seattle weather -- go on, bring your best. Rain, sleet, snow, never-ending dampness, go ahead. Because this winter I'm armed with the chocolate brown folds of the sleeved shield of glory. That's right. Just call me the Sleeved Avenger. Yeah, you heard me. Let's go, Seattle weather. Consider yourself served. By a Snuggie. We'll see who comes out ahead this spring.

Columbus: Still a holiday. Still a Genocidal Asshat.

I'm humbled and, frankly, shocked shitless, that many of you apparently remembered my 2007 rant about Columbus, bold discoverer of genocide and thievery.

If you want some truth about Columbus, check it out: Columbus: Bold Explorer or Genocidal Asshat? I even reread it my damn self, just to see if it still had the same effect on my blood pressure. Check.

Also, as some of you know, I've been attempting to butcher learn the Spanish language. As such, I've plowed through some simple articles, most of which kicked my non-comprehending cerebrum in the dirt, but I laboriously learned some cool stuff about various revolutions and other historical tidbits.

Like the fact that in Venezuela, Hugo Chávez renamed it Día de la Resistencia Indígena in 2002. A couple of years later, some students celebrated that auspicious October day by toppling the statue of Columbus that had stood in Caracas. Nice. One year on Oct. 12, Chávez gave 1.65 million acres back to some of the indigenous peoples in particular areas. I think it'll be a cold day in Alabama before we see anything like that here, but it was nice to hear that someone somewhere realizes that celebrating this man's "contributions" to the world is just a shameful way of condoning genocide.

Anyway, click the link if you haven't read it. No, you know what? Click it if you have. We all need to remember...

'Tis the Season.

You all know what time it is.

Mom? Is That You?!

My mom is on Facebook. See previous post for relevance.

Yeah. Some of you understand my dilemma. Sis friended Mom. Sis and I are friends, both relatively new Facebookers. Sis and I are both friends with Atheist Uncle, Mom's estranged elder brother by 11 months, and his heathen, albeit hilariously witty, wife and kids. Yeah. I'm sure that's already caused some family drama under the surface, which will assuredly be masked by LOLs and :-)'s. Mom refused to attend cousin's wedding because it was performed by a Wiccan priestess in a deconsecrated Catholic church. Yeah, that pretty much sums it up. That whole atheist-evangelical dynamic? The proverbial oil and water.

So, I'm a horrible daughter if I don't friend my own mom, and I risk letting myself and possibly the Freedom School kids in for some hurtful comments if I do. And truth is, I would love to be friended up with Mom to share pics, small life details, and overcome that blasted time-zone + work hours communication differential. I just don't want it used as a platform to force my ass to see those political/racial/religious emails that I delete without reading.

In fairness, I don't know that my mom would do that. Maybe I'm just being a bitch. She misses us, she feels out of contact with me and the kids. And I'm the first to admit that I suck ass big time at keeping in touch. I'm really shitty in that department. I should do better. My mom is sporting major stretch marks because of my ass. Well, more specifically my head, but you get my gist. Facebook would make it much easier for me not to suck at that.

I friended her. Yeah. I think she's already got her privacy ettings up though, because neither I nor Sis can write on her wall. And Sis is a religious Repub, although a very cool open-minded one.

I have adjusted my privacy settings accordingly until I can ascertain her intent. I hope I'm just being a pessimistic bitch of a horrible daughter. I really do.

Dear Mom, Yeah, It's Racist.

Recently I opened an email from my mom. And felt so sick I couldn't sleep.

It was titled What Every White Person Needs to Hear. I knew I shouldn't open it. I never open them. But we'd recently had an okay conversation about race, and I thought maybe I could use it as a jumping off point for another conversation. Get an idea of where she's coming from.

I shouldn't have opened it.

And now, I can't erase from my brain what my mother, my children's grandmother, really thinks. What she thinks I should think. It was pretty awful. A video, a Black guy, a pastor at some Harlem church. J@mes D@vid M@nning. I won't link to him.

Think Rush Limbaugh + internalized oppression, and imagine how that might look. Makes Clarence Thomas look like a progressive Panther. The things this guy was saying, the words he used, the way he stirred White people to action, to knock the chips right off those Black folks' shoulders! Knock 'em OFF!! To hear this man telling White people they didn't need to put up with the attitudes and arrogance of Black people, that they're justified in stepping up to do whatever needs to be done in order to feel comfortable around Black people, to stop walking on eggshells ... I don't even want to write more about what he said.

 It was sickening, in a literal way.  It made me wonder, what has happened in that man's life?

When something like that floats around the Interwebs, you can click it closed, shake your head, and move on. When something like that comes from your mother ... what do you do with that?

I know my mom would say it's not racist, it's someone's opinion. She'd say we're all the same, all given the same opportunities, that race shouldn't be a factor. In fact, how can it be racist, if a Black man said it? How could I possibly find fault with it?

It's weird how people are willing to listen to Black man's point of view, even use the speaker's race to validate his words, IF it's supporting what they already think. There could be 1,000 other people of color with studies and evidence and data, with researched, logical, statistically supported points saying the opposite, and the Right will come back with that doesn't count; they're just saying that because they're Black. They're biased. But let one Black man come along and echo their bootstrapping, assimilation, racism-is-over, the-system-is-fine rhetoric, let one Black man come along and say that you don't have to change anything, that it's Black people who need to do the changing, and watch how quick they now laud that Black man's point of view.

Yes, I've let her know how offensive the religopolitical email stream is to me. I've let her know it doesn't help to "bring me back to the Light", and if anything, pushes me irreconcilably farther from it. I've let her know that the racial "jokes" and commentaries are hurtful and damaging. That I don't want to see them. I've said to her, Mom, your grandchildren are Black ... they are not exceptions, they are the people targeted in these emails. I've written her long and heartfelt letters on more than one occasion asking her to stop forwarding things to my work email. She finally did, but I think it was more about inappropriate use of state resources threatening my job rather than the fact that it was hurtful to me. When I wrote to her I did not tit for tat. I've never sent her anti-conservative, anti-religion emails in return. Not once. I've asked her to please respect my values and beliefs as I have respected hers. I've done unto others, and I'm not the Christian here.

And still, she sends these things to my home email. Why? Seriously, Mom ... why?

My mom used to be a left-wing, war-protesting agnostic. Then she was a mainstream caring Christian. Now ... somehow my parents have come to be of similar thoughts as the Birthers and Tea Baggers. It's taken me some time to admit that to myself. How do I reconcile that?

She's my mother. I love her. I miss her. A lot. She was a fantastic mom, I had a good childhood. If you've got some image of a crochety, mean old lady stewing with hate in her housedress, you'd be wrong. Someone knowing nothing other than The Emails, wouldn't know the whole of her. My mom is lovely, young-looking, with a radiant smile and laughing eyes. My mom is hilariously funny. She's kind and smart. And yeah, she was a big reason why I came up believing racial prejudice was a bunch of bullshit. How does that change so drastically?

And it's more complicated: my mom was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis years ago. Stress can easily present in the form of physical exacerbations, causing the MS to hit her body harder, even to the point of hospitalization. I can not be a cause of additional stress for my mom. So a big lay-it-on-the-line discussion is not happening here.

I don't have the $ to fly me and the kids out for regular visits. My mom can not travel. She's an early-to-bed person, I'm always out late for work or community meetings or kids' sports, plus I'm on the wrong end of the time zones. So we do weekend morning phone calls. Not even every weekend.  Not even every month.

It's hard to discuss things like race on weekend morning phone calls from opposite ends of the country. From opposite ends of the political, religious, and ideological spectrums. Without causing stress that could affect her.

But it is so deeply hurtful. It hurts me to my core. I look at my children, I think of the things they have experienced, that they will experience, and it just kills me to know what my mom thinks White people need to know. And I don't know that there's much that can be done. Which makes me incredibly, broken-heartedly, sad.

Adventures in Spanish Class

So I'm taking two classes this quarter, including Spanish. Given the work I'm doing with the school district and the commissioner position with the city, I figured I need to get off my ass and hablar. My German and Hungarian aren't doing me much good these days.

Please. Look at me, acting like I ever could ever actually speak Hungarian.

This is the first time I've tried to learn a language without living in a country where that language is spoken. Immersion is the way to go, folks. Also, having learned other languages is an advantage because concepts are familiar, but it's a disadvantage when the teacher calls on you, and you  pop out with something like, "Igen, tengo harom Kinderek," or some other fucked-up linguistic amalgam.

The instructor is excelente. He's a native Spanish speaker who doesn't baby you or move at a snail's pace. Thankgawd. My kids' high school Spanish teacher was this white lady with the absolute worst gringa accent ever. Like when you jam pencils in your ears to make it stop. School districts won't hire qualified native speakers but will hire less-proficient people to teach a language. The only native speaker in my district is the Chinese teacher, and I bet you $10 that's only because they couldn't find a non-Chinese person who speaks passable Chinese. Sounds kind of like affirmative action for white folks.

But I digress. So, my class. It's amazing, the comments that fall out of people's mouths. The instructor sometimes mutters under his breath that he only has X number of years before he can retire. He gives "cultural points" for extra credit. You have to write about one of his recommended books, films, restaurants or dance places.

I wish he'd never assigned that shit.

Classmate 1 (raising hand): So, for the cultural points ... does Azteca count?

No. Not even kidding. But that was fine compared to what came later.

Classmate 2 (to me): Well, for my cultural points, I had a coffee date with a Spanish man!

Me: (ohmyfuckinggod) I ... didn't realize you had a friend from Spain.

Classmate 2: Oh, he's not from Spain! I wish!

Me: (here we go) So, he's not Spanish.  He speaks Spanish.

Classmate 2: (blank stare) Um ...

Me: If he's not from Spain, he's not Spanish.

Classmate 2: Well, he's ... where is he from? Oh! Brazil! He's from Brazil.

Me: Brazil? And he speaks Spanish? That's interesting ...

Classmate 2: Well, not really, seeing as he's from Brazil!

Me: They speak Portuguese in Brazil.

Classmate 2: (blank stare) Well ... I don't know about all that, but a date with a Spanish man should work for cultural points! And, he was muy caliente!

Then there was the time she slipped me a note about our instructor that said, "He's such a Latin macho! But I like him!!" Yeah, I'm sure the professor will be thrilled that he meets with your approval in spite of his alleged machismo. The reason he has been pegged as such is that he insists on proper grammar and pronunciation, and doesn't do a lot of hand-holding.

 I'm thinking that makes him a "good instructor" rather than a "Latin macho", but what do I know.

So I go to this study group the other day. I was invited by a woman who speaks English fluently after only two and a half years in-country. Spanish will be her fourth language. I figure she knows how the hell to learn a language, I'm studying with her. Another woman in the group, a self-professed conservative Republican proceeded to trash President Obama, informing the younger students that the President is a socialist who's gotten the country into debt. Yeah, honey, I think the last eight years had something to do with that, actually. Anyway, she had these gems to offer:

Classmate 3: Well, my introduction to this culture was dating a Spanish man for five years. I was practically a member of his family! But I never learned the language.

Me: (Again with the Spanish man.) So ... he was from Spain?

Classmate 3: Well, he was half Mexican and half Apache on his father's side, so you know ... [waves hand, dismissively] but his mother, she was born in Spain, so ...

Me: So he was Mexican as well.

Classmate 3: Well ... anyway, you know how most Mexicans have, you know, Aztec or Maya background? Well, he had Apache, so he had the very defined cheekbones. He never cut his hair; his father told him never to cut it because he was a warrior, you know. I got in touch with him some time later, and asked if his hair was still long, and he was all [mimes annoyance] "Yeeesss...", and I was like, dude, you're 55 years old now!

Me: That's his culture, it doesn't have an expiration date.

Classmate 3: Oh, totally! I know! He was just beautiful! So exotic! Anyway, the reason I'm taking this class is so I can move somewhere and teach English as a Second Language. I want to get certified to teach Spanish too.

Another classmate: Really? Where?

Classmate 3: Well, I lived in Arizona for years, but never even crossed the border, because you know, [dismissive wave] Mexico, I just didn't care. But Spain or Argentina ... I'd love to go there! Yep, much more interested in Spain or South America than Central America or Mexico. But I wouldn't say that to my friend!

Everyone else: ...

Classmate 3: In fact, another friend -- he's a very wealthy Argentinian -- actually said to me [mimes snootyassedness] "You're speaking with a Mexican accent!"  But I wouldn't say that to my friend, the one I was telling you about!

Me: What friend? (wondering how this chick is picking up a Mexican accent when our instructor is Puerto Rican)

Classmate 3: Oh, my friend who helps me with my assignments. She checks all my homework for me. She's Mexican.

Are you fucking kidding me? So ... your friend is good enough to check your homework, work on your assignments with you, and basically help you get an A in the class, but you don't want to pick up her accent or visit her country? In fact, you want to learn her language in order to move to one of the countries with a higher population of what you consider white people, and get paid to teach -- probably in a position where your friend, the native speaker who helped your ass pass this class, wouldn't be hired.

 What the hell, people?

Needless to say, she clammed up when I started up about how great it is that our instructor is a native speaker, because some schools pass over the native speakers to hire gringos, and then you don't get good instruction, because they're, you know, [dismissive wave] not as qualified.

I'm going to go off before I hit Spanish III, I just know it.

Help! I'm Being Held Hostage by Facebook!

I'm still alive. I've even been online. Just ... not here. Okay, let's just get this over with. I'm a Facebooker. I know. I know! Resistance was futile.

I only did it as a way to connect with a group of kids who went through this year's Freedom School. But it kind of sucks you in. Like the Borg. I was all, "I'm only going to friend the Freedom School kids. Oh ... and the adult community organizers, I guess they have to be on there, too." But then, I realized I can't not accept my kids' friend requests. And then these requests started coming in from real-life friends who were already Facebooking. So it was like, okay, but only these friends; it will be a great way to stay in touch, since I suck ass at that kind of thing. Then my uncle, aunt, cousins and sister were on, and then folks I used to hang with in Hungary, and then ... yeah.

Snowballed.

It's kind of chapping the ass of my comfort zone though. You can't be anonymous on FB. Blogging, yeah, anybody can see your blog, but they don't know it's you. Unless you tell them. And with a pseudonym, no one can search for you. It's safe. Like you have control. You don't have to worry about pissing off the mayor or your coworkers or your mom with your "crazy Left Coast notions". You may piss off strangers, but who the hell cares?

I found myself wanting a compartmentalized Facebook experience. Like, one FB window for my ultra-liberal homies, another FB for family who just want to know what the kids are up to but don't want to hear about universal health care, another FB for the official city/county people I do work with, another FB for the old crew, another FB for the youth we're mentoring ... you know, like that.

But no. That's not the way Facebook works. Oh, no. It's one big old cyberfest. La-di-da-di, everybody. It brings all your circles of contacts crashing into each other like a giant cyberpileup. So the atheist uncle is BAM, right there with your conservative Republican relations. Your antiracist friends? BAM! Right there with that guy you knew in the 90s who says "Heil Reagan!" Your kids, right there with the folks you used to hang with in that little bar with the ... well, you get the picture.

So I'm adjusting. It's completely different from blogging. And I've missed being here with you bastards. I feel relieved to be back in my Cowbell world, actually. But FB has it's own place, and ... I guess it's cooler than I thought it would be.

Holy hell, people, I'm a facebooker.

History

So this isn't so much a post, more like commentary to point you toward two others' posts.

Not long ago, I read a piece at PPR Scribe's place that shook me. The piece was about taking her two young daughters to the Underground Railroad Freedom Center in Cincinnati, Ohio.

PPR Scribe does these black and white photos on her site. They are always striking, but the photo of her daughters, in this place, taking this wicked history into their tender hearts, just wrenched my guts. I started to comment that it made me think of the Bohemian's trip to Ghana because ... but I couldn't make it mean what it means, so I deleted it and just said, "Thank you for sharing this" or some such lame nothingness.

Today, Scribe commented about the Bohemian, mentioning her own daughters, and the importance of role models. It got me thinking again about the histories that our daughters share. The Bohemian wrote quite a few posts about Ghana, but there were two that to this day make me feel like my insides are falling.

Yesterday we went to the River of the Last Bath. Basically, when the Europeans had marched their captives through Africa, they dunked them in this river so they'd be clean when they got to the coast, where all the buying was going on. A clean captive brings more money.

All the towns we passed through on the way had the the word "Assin" before the name of the town. In Twi, it means "passing", because the men and women the slave traders captured walked through there in chains. [snip]

I was afraid to go down there and look that in the face. I wished I could refuse to go. I wished that option was there. But of course it wasn't.

If you want to understand why people "can't just let it go", read about the River of the Last Bath.

After that, if you want to know why history still hurts, why it's not all-over-now-anyway, read about Elmina Castle, that splendid structure where the Portuguese, Dutch, and British processed enslaved Africans for their passage to the New World. The photo above is from Elmina.

Whenever we pull up to these places I'm never ready. I'm like, could we come back and do this later? After my lunch has settled - after the air gets cooler - after I take some pictures of the harbor - just hold on a second. But we go in anyway and see the castle, and because of the river I handled it better than I thought I would, but it wasn't something you could look at every day and still be human.

I don't know how anyone can read the rest of those posts without having a perspective shift, without having the air sucked out of them, but reading the words from my daughter ... holy hell, people. That hurts. More so knowing that I can't even understand it. Not really. She is my child, of my body, but as a white person, I can never know the pain she felt. Not really. I'll never be able to shield her from it or take it from her. It was her history, her experience, not mine -- she had to walk there without me, get gutpunched without me, internalize it, mourn it, fight it, and (try to) heal from it without me. She walked with her friends, her sisters, who carried that horrible heaviness with her. I can imagine it, I can think I understand it, but I can not. Not really.

When I read Scribe's post, read about her daughters' tears, about looking out the windows across the Ohio, another River, it hurt my heart to think of all the little girls and boys who have to face this history, reconcile it. Other little girls and boys get to choose whether or not to face it - and their part in it. But it made my heart glad to read about a parent who is teaching her daughters, who is there to walk with them, to share the weight of it. To arm them.

It must've been hard for PPR Scribe and the Bohemian to write these things down, to share them. I hope you take the time to read their posts. And teach your children. Thank you, ladies.

Pride Profiles, Bohemian Style

The Bohemian is doing a Pride Profiles series on her blog. For those of you who somehow missed the incessant, shameless bragging about the Offspring up in this joint, The Radical Bohemian is my eldest daughter, just finished her junior year at Howard University and currently working as an intern for NPR. She's a music major, kickass on the piano and her own vocal pipes, an activist, organizer, professional protester, world traveler, non-revisionist history buff, an artist, a reader, a lover of puppies, and general all around badass.

Anyway, I'm really liking her series, and thought you all might too, even if you're not as biased as I am. Which is pretty blatantly biased.

Here are her first two profiles:

Gladys Bentley

Dr. Sara Josephine Baker

Click, learn, enjoy.