When on the Eve of Your Birthday...

I trust by now the stupor of Cinco de Mayo has subsided.  Cinco de Mayo.  Mexicans don't even celebrate the holiday in the way Americans do.  I've often wondered if that joy of food and drink would be seen differently if, for example the Germans and the Japanese celebrated Pearl Harbor day by stuffing themselves stupid with hot dogs and Miller High Life, you know to keep it authentic.

Transitions, transitions.  Everybody seems to like a bit of change.

When on the eve of your birthday like I am, transitioning to a more wiser state of being and thinking naturally takes hold.  Why can't every birthday after 25 feel just like turning 25?  Maybe for some of you that one age of "possibility" may have come earlier, or later and maybe for some of you, not at all.  Turning 25 for me was supposed to be that age where the world opened to me like a flower.  All of my dreams would simply come true: well known and respected writer, you got it.  That one movie with Keanu Reeves that births two Academy Awards, covered.  But somewhere between the champagne and the trip to Holland to finish my last semester of my post graduate studies reality erased those can't miss ideals of success with saran wrap. Mafia style.  Then, my father died.

Admittedly, every year from 26 to the day before my 32nd birthday has been like a smoke-filled haze. Sometimes I think I may never fully awaken from it.

How does purpose find those covered in fog?  Like, is my dream to write that fog?  I can't help but wonder. But at least for now this here and whoever of you these words reach feels like a step in the right direction.

As a token of my optimism, please feel free to enjoy copious amounts of food and drink on my behalf.  If we are traveling a path to nowhere we'd might as well treat it like a holiday we just don't understand.

Social Cueness

Can I get a this just in?  Well shit, how were we supposed to know Donald Sterling has Prostate Cancer?  Being sick may not redeem you.  But it does get you another shout out on my blog.

I'm sure this news must have been released in an effort to explain away the Sterl's *cough* reality *cough* that he has well and truly been outed as a racist that, "gives money and food and clothes and cars to the black players" that used to play for him.  What else did the chemo do?

I hope this will be the last we hear of Donald Sterling.  If you're somehow not satisfied:

I quit.  It's Friday.

Stabbings and Stereotypes

Yesterday, I was going to post something that is completely useless.  Today, I'm letting my heart do the talking.

There but by the grace of God...

Maren Sanchez in March trying on her dress for the Junior Prom.  She died last Friday.

Sixteen is a difficult age.  It's tough to deal with hormones, homework and house chores.  Nobody can understand you in the way a good friend can.  And, friends can be keepers and losers in the blink of an eye.

When I was sixteen I developed a massive crush on a classmate, (for more on that story checkout La Douleur Exquise) and even though he didn't feel the way I did about him, I never allowed myself to become swallowed by my disappointment.  I never let the disappointment turn into obsession.  I never let obsession turn me into a killer.

Friday, April 25th.  At 7:14am, Maren Sanchez was at her locker in the hallway of Jonathan Law High School in Milford, Connecticut.  At that very moment her classmate and friend, Chris Plaskon, approached her and invited her to their Junior prom which was to occur that same evening.  Maren, who already had a date declined his invitation.  At 7:15, Plaskon alledgedly wielding a knife, began mercilessly slashing into Maren's face, neck and chest.  Maren lay on the floor in her high school hallway bleeding.  School security guards ran to her aide removing Plaskon from the scene.  The school nurse and teachers attempted to save Maren.  After arriving at the hospital in the neighboring town of Bridgeport, Maren was pronounced dead.

Why am I telling you this story that has already been told dozens of times through different news outlets?  It's because of the color purple.

My favorite color is purple.  It is a color that is considered regal.  Those who adore this color are considered to be ambitious and of good judgement.  They are creative.

Maren Sanchez's favorite color was purple too.

Maren was a singer, paintball enthusiast and athlete.  She does a cover of Phillip Phillips "Home," that frankly is better than the original track.  In the You Tube video Maren literally looks like a beam of light performing on a stool with her guitar, accompanied by microphones.  But, there comes a point where even royalty deserve their privacy.  And, I don't think she's been receiving it.

When I was a journalism student in University, one of the first things we learned about reporting the news was the importance of the connection.  Every piece of news has got to be connected to where you come from in order to get others to pay attention.  Mulling over this story personally, I became sickened by the continuous stories that talk about the things that have been happening since Maren Sanchez died.  First, it was the tribute her classmates paid her taking a picture donned in their prom clothes while holding her dress, pictured above.  Then, it was the outpouring of support from people in the community.  Then, it was that Chris Plaskon would be tried as an adult for killing her.  Then, there was a lady who randomly showed up to leave flowers at a memorial staged at Sanchez's and Plaskon's high school.

Seriously, isn't it enough already?  I mean really, why aren't we talking about how it was this boy managed an obsession so strong that it made him a killer?  Why aren't we talking about how we as school systems, and we as communities continue to fail our children with silence?  You think security is important?  Open up your eyes and ears to the things you think is only, "kid's stuff" because if it wasn't before it is definitely clear now: Kids are killing kids like it ain't no thang.

This story breaks my heart because these children were me at sixteen just like they were you.  How did we make it and they didn't?  Take that feather and place it in your cap.  I bet you won't have the words to call it anything but...


Stereotypes are dangerous...

"We live in a culture...we have to live within that culture"--Donald Sterling

Today Donald Sterling was banned for life from the stadium where the LA Clippers play and, sanctioned owing 2.5 million dollars per racist comment made about the black people he employs and, the black people who love basketball.

Until a few days ago, if you asked me who Donald Sterling was I'd shrug and keep it moving.  It's no secret to those who know me that the game and business of basketball is as interesting as watching paint dry while watching golf, in an office full of certified public accountants talking numbers.  However thanks to his ex-girlfriend, V. Stiviano, everyone and his grandma not only knows who Donald Sterling is, they want to meet him outside in the parking lot after school.

The Jewish owner of the LA Clippers and a former attorney was outed as a racist after some taped conversations miraculously and probably lucratively made its way into the hands and ears of the yellow media machine.  Now quotes like, "I don't want black people at my games," and my favorite, "Do I know the players are black?  I give them money and food, and clothes," are making the rounds in media outlets corporate and common.  Is it shocking that yet another white person is found to be racist?  Personally speaking, no it isn't.  But what is shocking is the undying cycle between whites and blacks, that, "whatchumean you racist, I'mma kick yo ass," with no real change to the acceptance and evolution of color and cultural difference.

Here we go.

Donald Sterling, knowing that he employs black players for the LA Clippers should understand the sophistication of tact.  Dude, you are getting awards of thanks from organizations like the NAACP.  Get real.  He however admittedly understands that certain cultures exist in a society which rules are followed.
And, it is in this way that black people are just as guilty.

As a minority, I am fully aware of the intricacies of race relations.  Sometimes, I get caught up in the reverie of stereotypes.  Most of the time I shake my head wondering if anyone else thinks the way I do.

If it is such a problem for ant person to speak of minorities based on stereotypical views, logic would follow that the very people viewed negatively would change those glasses racist people see out of by evolving their culture, you know the development and improvement of the behavioral characteristics of a certain social, ethnic or, age group.

Raise your hands if you've watched Basketball Wives.  Raise your headphones if you really get the evolutionary message of HipHop music.  These are only two of a variety of cultural characteristics that show all people the "idea" of black people.  Their reach beyond the TV and radio is prolific.  Now, think of the Jazz Renaissance, think of Billie Holiday's "Strange Fruit."  Think of celebrated writers Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston.  Think of Rosa Parks.  Think of Motown.  Think of Eric Jerome Dickey.  Think of Toni Morrison.  Think of Stevie Wonder.  Think of Maya Angelou.  Think of Neil Tyson DeGrasse.  Noticing a difference here?

It's true, Donald Sterling made really racist remarks about black people.  But how was he equipped with the ammunition of stereotype?  Sure, part of the stereotype struggle is found in how we as people are nurtured yet, in a global society that grows smarter by the second something is tweeted what does the black culture have to offer, what is popular?  I'd argue it shouldn't be snatching weaves and fighting while listening to the hottest new album where the material is superficial as best.  We as minorities are playing into the system built for us to keep us down.  Racists are never going to change, but we can.

As so far as I'm concerned, Donald Sterling is as forgettable as a bad movie.  We've always had the ball in our court and if nobody has really noticed we can play.  Well.

Stereotypes are dangerous.  Weapons we wield and get attacked by.

Who is going to stop first?

     

Another Good Read

Now on Wattpad: The Ticket, Pt. 1

Lorelei stood in front of the police station looking upon it like a tourist.  She took a deep breath in, reached for the black wrought iron railing and began her ascent up the stairs.  The smell of polished wood and fresh paper copy met her as she opened the door and walked in.  Lorelei took the five extra steps to the receiving desk.  An officer at the desk looked up from his newspaper.

"Good morning," Lorelei said to the officer tidying the loose heair strands behind her right ear.  "I have an appointment with Detective Sanchez.  My name is Lorelei Green."

The officer looked at her, then returned his attention to the newspaper.  He swiftly lifted his hand and pointed to the left of Lorelei.

"Benches."  He said, "wait there and I will page the detective."

"Mrs. Green?"  The detective's voice startled Lorelei.

She stood up from the bench and walked toward Detective Sanchez.  She met his friendly gaze and curled her lips into a half smile.

"Mrs. Green, I understand you need something signed to release your husband's life insurance proceeds," Detective Sanchez said.

Detective Sanchez led Lorelei into the conference room which offered them privacy.  As Lorelei sat down in one of the chairs surrounding the table, Detectove Sanchez went to retrieve her husband's file from his desk. He returned placing the file on the table opening the cover, then took off his jacket and sat down.

http://www.wattpad.com/47347358-the-ticket-pt-1

On Monday: Have you thanked Orlando Weir?

The Popular Post

Sometimes I think my teenage years would've been different had I been popular.

I was confronted by the thought again Sunday after I saw Maya Van Wagenen's Book, "Popular-Vintage Advice for the Modern Geek," and the book that inspired her journey to popularity, "Betty Cornell's Teen-Age Popularity Guide."  I wondered for a moment where these books had been during my dawning into adulthood.  I even picked up Ms. Cornell's classic guide, flipping through the pages until I returned to my senses.  (P.S. Betty, there is no such thing as being either large or, small boned).

When it comes to the timeless struggle of fitting in I will never understand how I haven't managed to cash in on my own experiences.  Middle school was hell, each year bringing a darker and deeper level of falling at the mercy of my peers for being awkward.  I can remember the day I started the sixth grade and hearing my bullies ask why I had returned.  And because I wasn't allowed friends to visit or phone calls, it was difficult to share commonalities with my peers.  And, when there were commonalities, I would press them so hard I'd end up alienated.  One time the queen of the debs and my lukewarm friend, Kayci, returned to school on a Monday after a weekend visiting with her dad.  She was excited because she had just seen Speed, you know the movie with the bus that could fly over gaps in LA highways.  As she spoke about it, my eyes lit up because finally there was something we had in common.  But that didn't last long and by that afternoon, I was back to the Jez thought to be trying too hard.  If Tina Fey had been at school with me that day, I'm sure I'd have been the inspiration for one of the funniest lines in Mean Girls:

Gretchen: That is so fetch!

Regina: Gretchen, stop trying to make fetch happen!  It is not going to happen!

In the seventh grade, I started skipping lunch so that Kayci and her friends could stop calling me their fat friend.  That whole year my weight was a problem for them, funny seeing as not a single one of these girls had a medical degree or intelligent advice to give.  They nicknamed me gorilla.
That same year the sequel to the Ace Ventura pet detective movie was released.  Being an avid movie goer because my dad was an avid movie goer, I got to spend about two hours of its opening weekend laughing until my sides hurt.  That same weekend, Kayci and her friends had gone to see the movie as a part of one of the girls' birthday treats, followed by pizza.  I knew this because they talked about it in front of me, and one of the girls asked the birthday girl to be, Nicole expressly to not invite me.  Nicole saw I saw their exchange to which she swiftly told me a lie, "oh, the only reason I didn't invite you is because we really don't know each other well."  Seriously?
That Monday (I'm seeing a pattern here), the girls decided to use their newly found ammunition to take me down unbeknownst to them that I had seen the very film they did.  Every one of Jim Carrey's jokes fell flat against me with each of them unsatisfied by my reactions.  Even with their shock that anyone would take me to see an Ace Ventura film, I couldn't get happy.  I wanted to, but such a small win in the war of respect seemed worthless.
The eighth grade was welcomed with a hair cut that also decreased my patience.  Of course Kayci and the girls tried, of course the idiot boys in my class tried, but it was tired.  I was tired and ready for the bigger and better things they could never offer, nor deliver.  That year I invited one of Kayci's friends called Cara to kick my ass if she could.  What incurred the invitation was a misunderstanding on her part, but that didn't stop her from opening her mouth to me.  As expected, she had no gall but the tide was surely turning.
By the time we left each other's company in June, I for the first time felt the respect I should've received years before.  High school found me in a safe position, neither geek nor god.  If only I had the pictures to show you all just what I looked like then.

So, what if things had been different?  I'd love to say I would have ruled with a firm and fair hand, but that would take away from my appreciation now as an adult.  Not an appreciation for the shitty kids I had to deal with, but an appreciation for myself and my strength at every turn.  Yeah, not a page turner and, probably not a bookseller, but it is the truth.  I sincerely applaud Maya Van Wagenen's effort to fit in, and I celebrate her handsome reward.

Something else, before I go.  Making the mainstream or, being popular is as much in the eye of the beholder as beauty.  Everything that is popular today dies like a rose bought in its bloom's peak.  As cliche as be yourself reads, it is the best defense against the tortures of pressure.  It's healthy to wonder how different things could be and healthier still just being how you're made.    



 

The Brand New Dirty Old Microwave

Attention shoppers:  should you be in need of an appliance and decide to shop for one, before you pay for it and take it home, open the box.

The other day, we bought a cherry red microwave for our galley style kitchen from Target.  We were so excited to have an assured way of heating our leftovers.  Previously, we've trusted our efficiency sized stove to reheat food with mixed results.  We'd recommend stove reheated fried chicken, charred on one side and ice cold inside.  Mint.

So I left my husband to do the heavy lifting and unpacking of our microwave.  I was in the living room tidying up when I heard him call out to me.
"Baby?"  His worried call got my spidey senses tingling.
"Is something wrong?"  I asked.
"Is the microwave supposed to look like this?"  My husband's sound blended into the smooth sound of puzzled.

I walked into the kitchen.  My husband motioned me over close to the counter where the microwave was sitting.  I couldn't believe what I was looking at.

I've never seen a new microwave look so used.

We paid the sale price of $59.99 for what we thought was a new appliance.  But there it was, someone else's used microwave neatly packed and sealed, and discovered like a plot twist in a bad movie.

..., Yeah.

We were so disgusted, but then we were amazed at the talent of the person who pulled the old dirty microwave as a new microwave trick.  I was impressed.

Target immediately marked the microwave as "damaged," when we returned it.  We were so close to not having stove reheated charred ice fried chicken.  

To the person out there who pulled this trick, you should be shopped for TV magic shows.  Since everything is reality based these days, I cannot imagine a network or ten that wouldn't pay top dollar to show people how they pull scams like this.  It could be like Punk'd meets Undercover Boss and in the end, there are only people left shaking and scratching their heads in disbelief.  Shit, I should've gotten a picture of that for dramatic effect.  

I guess this will have to do.

Yay! No more stove reheated charred ice fried chicken..., what? It's used?!

Wha the Wattpad...

Kiddos, come and see.

Have I told you about the Wattpad?  How about the myth some random contributor was discovered by a publishing company and offered an opportunity for money, after her poetry was read and loved?

Well, the last part is true.

I've since hazarded a try at the free publishing site.  There are millions of writers, loads of genres, lots and lots of fan fictions about One Direction.  

"Why do I care," you ask?  Well, I'm one of them.  Not one of the One Direction fan fiction writers.  That would be like me dropping Catholicism to worship clowns for fun.  #N*Syncforever

What I mean to say is that I am a contributor.  My first short story, Passing Notes, is an ode to my childhood.  Below is an excerpt for your literary pleasure.

“Thanks for doing this for me.” Monica smiled as she ran her fingers through her thick brown locks.

“Why do you two hate each other so much?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Monica answered raising a brow.  “I’m just glad we get to sit together so we get to be better friends,” she said.

We did become better friends.  It was me to secure her a spot at the front of the line when we would switch classrooms with the Eighth graders in the morning and afternoon.  It was me who would go to fetch whatever she needed from her coat in the cubby area.  It was me who entertained her when she was visibly bored with lessons.  And, it was me who dutifully delivered hand written love notes to Andrew, another in the list of potential suitors, and my heart’s desire. 

One day after days and, days of carrying notes back and forth between Andrew and Monica a rumor erupted within the world of the upperclassmen.  Monica was moving on from Andrew to another suitor.  After hearing, I sat at my desk white as a sheet and nauseous.  My “job” was in jeopardy.  I couldn’t speak to Monica because she had been absent on the particular day the news broke.

I wouldn’t get to talk to her either.  The sudden sickness I thought was due to becoming unemployed was actually an infection.  I spent the next three days in bed.

I got to school the next morning cranky and anxious.  I slammed my things on my desk.  Monica flinched.

“What’s that all about?”  She asked me as though I’d hit her.  Considering the mess that would certainly unravel, I wanted to.

“Did you read Andrew’s note?”  I asked her.

“No, I told you we’re over,” she said with an attitude.  She paused.

“You should be happy I dumped him,” she said, “now you can go back to your dream relationship with him.”

Bitch.

Before I could get my response out, the door swung open. 

www.wattpad.com/story/13646898-passing-notes

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