Happiness Challenge, Day Two

Today I found my happiness in a tiny 84 year old woman who questioned me thoroughly about who I had "set" my hair. She chuckled when I told her it was what I was born/cursed with, clearly disbelieving me. Her cheeks pinked when she asked me if she could give it a tug, and I got a full-teeth smile when I told her she could, but not to tug too hard. "You could sell this," she told me. "I'd want to be first in line!" A nurse came and wheeled her behind a curtain, to wait on the doctor to step in to see her. I heard her say, "Did you see that nurse I was talkin to out there? Well I was trying to get her to tell me who does her hair, but she won't give it up. Smart girl!", I chuckled to myself.

Then, after Lauryn's fantastic belly dance class (which is a happiness unto itself), I saw the sun shining full blast through the heaviest of downpours. It was beautiful and strange and I stored it away in my memory of things that are both strange and breathtaking.

This is easy!

White/African/American

The Medical & Dental School of New Jersey should hang its head in utter shame and disgrace. They booted out a student who described himself as a "white African-American", saying that it was offensive and inflammatory.

But, er, he is. He is white, Mozambiquan and American.

He was born in Mozambique, and holds American citizenship.

HELLO JERSEY: THIS JUST IN, A SPECIAL REPORT: THERE ARE WHITE PEOPLE IN AFRICA!!!!

Seriously?

Be ashamed, Jersey. BE VERY ASHAMED!!!

Let's Talk About Racism

So what's bugging me right now is the subject of "institutional racism" as portrayed in the media in regards to a comparison between the new first lady, Michelle Obama, and the first lady of talk, Oprah Winfrey. Apparently, an innocent blog comparison between the two, written in praise of Michelle's galloping global success, became an overnight pariah for all things institutionally racist.
The issue?
Well, we obviously can't just go around, blatantly comparing two influential black women, now can we? Such a thing is concretely indicative of the seething hotbed of undercurrent racism that still flows through the veins of everyone Caucasian.

Wait, whaaaaat?

So as a biracial woman, who grew up in the South (Georgia, to be exact), I get racism.
I get that it is a very alive, very potent, evil.
I get that tolerance and acceptance of all persons and cultures and races should be the order of the day, and we should lovingly educate and correct (in brotherly love) those for whom it is not...

My point, however, is that I think we may be so hyper-vigilant and overly-conscious of our none-too-distant history of hatred and ignorance that we are creating racism where there is none, or where only misunderstanding dwells. We are so quick to point the finger at a "racist" incident, that I'm afraid we may be launching a modern day witch hunt. Not to mention trampling all over our first amendment rights as well.

For the Belly Dancers

This poem has revolutionized the way I view bellydance. I share it with you, offering all of the appropriate acknowledgements. I found it on Donna Mejia's website. It was written for her by a student. If you are a dancer, and especially if you are not (yet!) I urge you to savor this slowly. Take it in and digest it. Let it live in your skin.

For the Bellydancers

This dance comes from sword and sun-cracked land.
In her journey, she discovered oceans, thunderstorms, mountains of green.

She comes to you, shoes filled with motherland sand
so her feet will feel at home wherever they walk.

She appears loose in her skin. Too many women have asked to try it on
and tossed it back when they found it too big for their cameras.

Let your body be a place she can rest joyfully,
a peaceful ground of curves like the dunes she’s homesick for.

But from the back of the studio, I can see you avoiding your eyes in the mirror
the way my daughter does when she knows she’s about to be scolded.

I say nothing.

A dancer knows there is no greater punishment than her own shame.
Your body wants to please you, and you can only point to where it fails.

You demand the same from me:
break dance into a thousand scattered pieces for us to examine and collect!
See, teacher! Look, I got this piece, and this piece and –

No.

Our bodies hold language clenched like an immigrant child’s native tongue.
Your muscles lie silent. Start talking!

This is an immersion class. You will stumble.
Your spine will not take orders easily.

You and your body are speaking different languages, and I am not your translator.
I can only show you what can happen when you listen.

First, you will uncover beats:
your hips will twitch when they hear thunder,

your feet will fall into step with raindrops,
and your sapling arms will move with small breezes.

Dance is the art of making peace. A moving body only becomes a dance
when your blood-rivers refuse to carry

any more ships armed with self-hatred and harsh thoughts.
A body cannot roll without breasts, ribs, belly, hips and fingertips.

This dance was not born from your (white) body, but treat her like an honored guest.
Give her entrance to the place you’re afraid to touch;

she will not hurt you.
Let her play with you.

Tell her she looks good on you.
Tell her out loud.

She will wear each drop of sweat like a jewel in her crown, so work until you both shine.
Speak to your reflection as though you’re courting a queen

and if you’re kind enough,
she’ll ask you to dance.

Dane Kuttler, 2008
Writer, Wandering Minstrel and
General Mischief-Maker

Home Is Burning

they dont really get on

well together
cant talk without a
fight
she doesnt hear him
and he wont hear her

so they raise their
voices to hear
themselves over the
other
then presume the

other is yelling

then the defense
kicks in
and their voices just
spiral upward
and drift around
them
like bits of hot ash
burning where they fall

they dont seem
to get on so well
together
and their skins
are covered
in many small burns
in various stages
of healing

Adventures In Cookery

Is it possible? Could I be allergic...to...cooking? (*gasp!*)

Yesterday morning, I was putting together a buckwheat pancake mix for hubby and myself, when I was seized by a sneezing fit.

Being prone to the occasional sneeze, I did not worry until after the fifth sneeze. Three is my usual max.

Another six sneezes later, I was annoyed. My annoyance was compounded by the fact that I was inclined to chase Leila through the house, since she had just nabbed a perfect blueberry buckwheat pancake, and was very generously distributing it all over my house.

So there I was: running and sneezing, spatula in hand, apron flapping, like some sort of doofus.

Having successfully cornered the pirate dog, and retrieved my pancake (for the trash, not to eat!) I gingerly sniffed the air. Yup. I was definitely burning something.

I raced back to the kitchen to find a forgotten pancake cemented to the pan, smoke clouding the kitchen.

I began to choke, and gag. I started to wheeze. Loudly.

My pulse rate climbed, and my breathing became rapid and shallow. In short, I was freaking out.

Thirty minutes went by and I was still wheezing. I began to wonder: had I developed asthma? Or did I have some sort of allergy?

It wasn't till later, after hubby wrapped me in a blanket, stuck a lime mineral water in my hand, and deposited me on the sofa (with the almighty remote control) that I decided it was definitely a cooking allergy. Or at least a pancake-cooking allergy. And he couldn't deny it. He was a witness. So unfortunately, all subsequent future pancake breakfasts will be made by hubby.

I played the pitiful princess the rest of the day. Hubby finished cooking breakfast and cleaned the kitchen.

This is definitely one "allergy" I can adjust to....

Growing Up

I am sitting at my kitchen breakfast nook, packets of seeds littering the table, pen in hand, planning our garden for spring.

We put in a small (2x6) test garden last summer, with four tomato plants, two watermelon plants, four zucchini plants, eight pepper variety plants, and four herb types. The purpose of this "test" garden was to see if we could, indeed, coax anything from the earth.

We framed out the size of our garden, tilled up the earth, mixed in organic gardening soil, and stirred in a witch's brew of bone and blood meals to nourish our new plot. We said magical incantations ("Please, please, work!") and held our breath. We kept our fingers crossed.

We cheated.
We transplanted small plants, purchased from a local market. We were actually just trying to get the gist of gardening, and see if we could keep our produce alive in the ground. We held our collective breath.

It was a success.

We actually had tomatoes, a wealth of zucchini, and a few small, (think wad of notebook paper sized) watermelons. Our peppers were plentiful and our herbs proliferated.

We were highly pleased with ourselves.

So now, at the veritable close of the gardening year, our thoughts turn to next year. The things that we didn't do, and the things we're going to do next time. The things we planted and didn't plant. It's very exciting, leafing through the Farmer's Almanac, planning our "for real this time" from seed garden. It's going to be bigger, and we're planning more vegetables.

It occurs to me, having spent the last two hours planning and dreaming of this future garden, that this growing of one's own produce, could become quite easily addictive.