Of Many Worlds

Papa

2012-02-07T23:27:00.000-08:00

We checked into the Mission Inn Hotel and Spa today.

I’m not simply having an overly indulgent week (first LACMA, now a hotel day). TOPITR had a one night gig at UC Riverside and they offered to put us up for the night. Who would turn down a free night at a historic hotel? Granted, it’s Riverside, but I’m so tired of my neighborhood these days that I could spit. Yes, spit.

More importantly, there is history here. Not just the obvious: a hotel built in 1880, orange groves, settlers, but family history.

In the late 1940’s, my paternal grandfather (Papa) landed in Riverside. He was from Alabaster, Alabama. One day he had a run in with a white man and dared to strike back. Needless to say, he had to leave town that night. With family at March Air Force base, he headed to Riverside and eventually to the Mission Inn. He was a dishwasher—his first job in California.

He would go on to dabble in auto dismantling and then truck driving, which my Dad eventually helped develop into a family business. My parents ran that business until very recently, and it not only kept us fed and clothed but entertained and even a little spoiled every now and again.

It all started with the sudden will to fight back. One risky move enabled us to grow.

I am eternally grateful.

The three of us walked around the grounds today and I stood outside one of the restaurants and stared into the back door that led to the kitchen. There are five restaurants here and I'm not sure which one Papa may have worked. But I imagined him there. Miles from home, scraping a new life together. Greater than anything I've ever faced.

Just around the corner, we discovered a bust of Booker T. Washington. Apparently, he took a tour of Southern California in 1914 and was invited to speak at the hotel. Another great black man graced these grounds, but under very different circumstances. I think they're equally inspiring. Each discovered something beyond the will to merely survive--valuable beyond words.

My parents and brother joined us for dinner tonight at the hotel. Then we picked up cupcakes (no city can escape the cupcake craze) and had dessert, talked and played with the baby in our room.

“I bet Pop used to wonder what these rooms looked like when he was working here,” my Dad said. “Now his granddaughter and great-grandson are here.”

Here I am, sitting in this hotel room with my laptop and a glass of wine. Perhaps I should feel miles away from my humble roots, but I don’t. I’m educated, live in a comfortable home and have had the privilege to choose at least a few aspects of my life. I’m not a rich woman, but I had the option not to merely cultivate my bank account, but my soul. I’m a dancing, blogging, yoga teacher after all. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been supporting myself for some time now. There were many tables waited on, floors mopped and phones answered in between. Perhaps that is why I don’t feel much distance from the past.

Sure, I was able to eat in the restaurant tonight, rather than wash its dishes. But, if it came down to it, I’d scrub with the best of them to take care of my boy. That is what I am most grateful for.

The will to fight lives on.

The Great Debate (or not)

2012-02-06T20:22:00.000-08:00

I found myself a new "mommy" friend.

TOPITR, Cy and I were at a first birthday party last weekend and, just as we were about to leave, we met another couple with a son just a couple of months younger than Cy. She (mommy friend) and I got to talking, clicked and were exchanging numbers within minutes. I think we sensed it in one another: the need to commune with someone who "gets it."

We met up at LACMA to take in the new surrealist exhibit and let the boys do their thing. Cy loves being around other babies and nearly jumped out of his skin when he met the little guy for the second time around. It felt good to give him that joy and to give myself some adult time with someone who doesn't mind the interrupted pace (did I ever mention the time I had to abandon an entire cart of bulk items at Costco?) and sudden moments of improvisation that come along with an infant.

It's also a good practice to compare notes every now and again: "How do you find the time to take a shower and brush your hair?," "Will your baby take a bottle?" And, the loathed, yet seemingly necessary, "How is he/she sleeping?"

We are a co-sleeping family. There I said it. In some circles (usually privileged) of parents in this city, the so-called "family bed" is like a bad word. When people admit that their baby sleeps in the bed with them, they hang their head in shame for a moment or suddenly avert their eyes and lower their voice. So, my new friend and I were somewhat relieved to hear that we were coming from the same place. No need for shame or to discuss the merits of attachment parenting versus the alternative. It just is.

Good because I'm sick of the discussion. Co-sleeping versus crib sleeping. Bottles versus nursing. Cloth versus disposable. And then of course there is the Ergo baby carrier versus the rest. The former has become a badge of the elite around our neighborhood. I'm surprised they didn't check our credentials at the door when we bought ours.

Back to the matter at hand.

I slept in my parents bed and I like to think I'm a well adjusted, independent human being with healthy sleeping habits. When I talk to my mom about the whole debate I know she must be laughing inside at the ridiculous amount of discussion (and stress) surrounding it all. There wasn't a coined term attached to it when she and my dad were raising us. It was simply the way they did it.

Cy started in a co-sleeper though I was still taking him out of the room for feedings. One day TOPITR suggested I just nurse him in the bed to make it as restful as possible for myself. "Brilliant," I thought. I did get more rest, but once our boy got a feel for the real bed, cozy and warm in between Mama and Daddy, he wouldn't settle for anything less. We've tried the crib since. Cy was up within an hour, tears in his eyes, looking at me as if to say, "I am not where I belong." And so the story goes. We don't mind it. I really can't imagine anything better than seeing his face first thing in the morning.

And there was no need to defend that argument with the company I kept today. It was a relief. Call it what you will. I just call it doing what works always with your child's best interest at heart. Cribs are wonderful, but if they won't sleep in it, thank God for a king sized bed.

Joy and Pain

2012-02-01T20:08:00.000-08:00

Don Cornelius, the creator and host of "Soul Train" was found dead, from an apparent suicide, this morning. It is a sad day.

Perhaps some would disagree or because of their distance from his influence, are simply indifferent. I mentioned Cornelius' passing in mixed company this evening and one person didn't know who he was while others found the idea of "Soul Train" humorous. I suppose to some, it was a silly show of the past that they associate with impromptu "Soul Train lines" at high school parties.

But, as so many have noted already, Cornelius was a visionary. At a time when the world of music was still very much segregated, he created a dance party in Chicago that would go on to national syndication and showcase some of the greatest black artists of the time.

That legacy didn't end in the 70's. Saturday mornings were special even for two young girls growing up in the 80's and 90's in the Inland Empire, which provided little else in the way of excitement. Those two girls were my sister and I--two of the whitest (or perhaps racially indiscriminate) looking black girls in all the land. Mom is white (allegedly) and Dad is technically bi-racial, though he has never identified as anything but black. That left my sister and I to move through the world outside of our family often explaining or defending who we were, how we identified and the straight hair that baffled others and tormented me for years. I've since come to terms with it. Oh, how I wished I had a reason to use Afro Sheen.

But on Saturday mornings at home, the two of us danced on that rust colored carpet with no explanations necessary. This was our music and our people and I dared you to tell us any differently. I know we missed the glory days of the 70's and MTV and BET were right around the corner, but those Saturday mornings made a difference.

Maybe it helped that, by that time, the show had become more diverse as even more shades of existence were on the screen. We all wanted a little piece of that joy and Mr. Cornelius was responsible. And the "soul train line" wasn't silly, it was brilliant.

Thank you.

Lunch Out

2012-01-16T22:04:00.000-08:00

I never understood the importance of camaraderie more than I do now.

That's not to say it wasn't important before. But when you're caring for a little one it becomes more apparent in those moments when you're exhausted, full of questions or feel like you've temporarily lost contact with the outside world.

Today I had to get out of the house, so I went to a local cafe for a hand pie and a latte. I ran into a woman from one of my old prenatal yoga classes. Her son was three months old. Her eyes were a little heavy with fatigue, but even more full with a tenderness for her son. Like most new moms, she was elated and exhausted all at the same time. We chatted for a moment.

"How's it going?" she asked.

"It's going well. We figure it out a little more every day."

It's hard. Isn't it?" she said with wide eyes and a sigh.

"Yes. It's intense," I agreed.

Then she sat down to lunch with her friend. I couldn't help but notice that her son woke up as soon as her food arrived. My sister says babies have some sort of radar that detects that very moment. She handled it gracefully and her friend (whose baby was still asleep) held the baby while she ate as quickly as possible. I notice moments like these now, where they never entered my consciousness before. Empathy is a powerful thing.

When Cy was just a newborn, a fellow mom in the neighborhood asked me if I had joined a "mommy group."

"A what?" I asked.

I knew they existed, but had never given it much thought. I took prenatal yoga and a few "baby and me" classes. It was nice to share experiences with the other women in the room, but I hadn't made any great connections. So, the answer was, "No. I haven't."

She looked at me sideways with a sort of disapproving and sad expression.

"You really should."

"I'll look into it."

I never did.

Sadly, the majority of my friends with children are still in New York, so I'm waiting for more of my West Coast friends to get started. Los Angeles, in it's great expanse, is not the easiest place to build community. It's far too easy to become isolated in this city of cars if you don't make a concerted effort to dig a little deeper and make it happen. One of the things I miss most about New York is the constant contact. Making friends was effortless.

I digress.

I understand the importance of being in contact with other mothers. It is an world you cannot completely understand until you've experienced it. I have beautiful friends who are patient as hell when I'm running late because of an impromptu changing or nursing or who will come spend time at my house because they know some days it's just easier than going out. Still there's nothing like being able to compare stories or to simply look at someone and know they know the "feeling."

I imagine communities of mothers are something that have and still do happen organically. But when you live in a metropolis full of transplants, this is another thing that has to be manufactured. Hence the "mommy group." I'm not saying there's nothing wrong with it. It is what it is. It just feel slightly forced and more than a little bougie and I'm just not there yet.

This weekend my sister visited with my two nephews. The five of us went out to lunch and my sister and I juggled and fed three energetic boys while sneaking in as many bites as we could for ourselves. Everyone was nourished, there was only one spill (a nearly full bowl of chocolate ice cream on the carpet below) and we even managed conversation until my two-year-old nephew let out a high-pitched scream. That was his signal that it was time to go. The afternoon was nuts yet beautiful, and it was reassuring to have someone there who also knows this to be normal.

The witching hour is a real thing.

"And to think I ever took a quick lunch out for granted," I said to my sister.

Happy New Year

2012-01-01T00:25:00.000-08:00

It's 2012.

2011 presented me with the greatest gift/challenge/love of my life. That being said, it was also a year of trials, tears and wandering in indecision.

I count on this year being just as challenging, but I also hope it is one of clarity.

Tonight we had a New Year's Eve dinner at a local favorite of ours. They were booked in the dining room, so we ended up in the lounge, otherwise known as the bar. That is where we always dined prior to having a baby. But there we were again, with a 7 month old in his pajamas. He was already bathed and we figured it would be much easier to get him to bed if he was already dressed and ready to go. Not to worry--they were his fanciest pair of P.J.'s.

We had a good time, besides a few odd stares. And, as we sometimes do, TOPITR and I took turns eating, while the other held Cy who was nearing the end of his daily rope. After we made it through our entree, it was clear that it was time to go. Cy was getting antsy and beginning to whimper. He was sick of the noise and ready for bed. He made himself very clear and we followed in his footsteps.

The clarity of a child.

Now he is sleeping soundly and we were home in time to light a fire and watch it and the old year burn away before the backdrop of the city scape. Thanks for getting us home, sweet boy

Yes. I hope for clarity, not only in my actions but my reactions to this world and others. And the clarity to be just as generous and patient with myself.

Life is in progress as we are. Lord, give us the sight and good sense to remember that.

I'm keeping it short and sweet.

Happy New Year!

Holiday Reminders

2011-12-28T23:30:00.000-08:00

Christmas is over and though I'm always a little sad to see it end, I can breathe a little easier now.

In the last few weeks, I was anxious and slightly overwhelmed by gift shopping, cooking and social expectations--in addition to work and baby.

Every year, TOPITR and I (like most couples) have to negotiate seeing both of our families ,friends and so-called friends. And every year, I get increasingly anxious, from Thanksgiving until Christmas, as we figure out how we will navigate it all. I want to make sure that we both get to spend quality time with our people without feeling rushed. I hate being rushed.

This year we took it relatively easy. TOPITR's sister threw a party on the 23rd, we took Christmas Eve off (except for staying up past 2 a.m. to prepare for Christmas morning), and then we had the usual Christmas Day fare--brunch at his Mom's house and dinner with my family. We usually make it to a third gathering at the end of the night, but I refused to drag Cy to yet another location in one day. For that matter, I refused to drag myself.

The 23rd was a gathering of family and friends. My parents and little brother even showed up. There was good food and good company with a few exceptions. The main culprit we'll call Adam. He didn't leave a great impression on me the first time I met him. This time around wasn't much different, except now he was snapping a hundred photos per minute (capturing "divine" moments) threatening that he would be holding Cy by the end of the night and referring to himself as "Uncle Adam." He is not "Uncle Adam."

My anxiety level was already at an all time high and he nearly sent me over the edge. So, I did my best to avoid his camera and make sure my family was fed and comfortable.

It only got better when he asked for a ride home. Cy cried the whole way and Adam provided me with motherly advice as to how to deal with it--like hovering over Cy's car seat and nursing in the moving car. As Cy screamed, Adam then flashed his iphone in his face and asked if he'd like to "look at art." I almost grabbed the phone and threw it out the window.

TOPITR is much more social than I and has more tolerance for annoying quirks. He understood my frustration, but could also access some empathy for Adam. "Every party needs an Adam," he told me the day after the party. You know: a little too loud, a little too close and personal and, in this case, adorned with snake skin boots and shimmering pants. It was a holiday party, after all. TOPITR had the holiday spirit--peace on Earth, good will toward men, even when they're off the chain. In my family, the equivalent would be a drunk uncle reliving the days of old.

It mostly looked up from there. I took a long walk with TOPITR and Cy on Christmas Eve morning and baked like a mad woman until I got too excited, dropped my hand mixer and broke it. That's when I decided someone was trying to tell me something and I stopped.

On Christmas morning, I felt like a five year old again. I woke up occasionally through my few hours of sleep to see if Cy was stirring. I couldn't wait for him to wake up. Yes, so he could open his presents, but mostly to say Merry Christmas to him for the first time. He woke with a smile and we eventually made our way to the tree. In perfect baby tradition, Cy was much more interested in the paper and boxes than any of the gifts. And again I was reminded of the true meaning of the holidays--family and simple pleasures. Leave it to a child.

Quiet brunch with TOPITR's family and wild dinner with mine as it usually goes. I did my best to worry less about the timing. We'd make it eventually. Cy played until he crashed well beyond his bedtime and we were the last to leave the house. I drove away and looked back at my parents in the rear view mirror as they saw us off in the chilly night. It was the perfect end to a Christmas night--elated, exhausted and full of memories of holidays past. "It's over already. Again," I thought.

I drove home with my sleeping boy and was overwhelmed in the best way. The Christmas story--no matter what you think of it--is beautiful. It is one of family, sacrifice and the extremes we will go to to protect those we love and the ideals we hold dear. It's the love of a mother for her child--no matter the struggle that comes with it. And, in that, I suppose it's also one of tolerance.

Tolerance is a good reminder when the holidays become a little too stressful and you're stuck entertaining a drunk uncle or a friend running amok with a camera. After all, every party needs an Adam. They always mean well.

And now, I'll sit in the darkness, stare at the tree and enjoy the lull before the New Year.

Projects

2011-12-14T23:28:00.001-08:00

In the last few days, I've been doing, filling my time with as much as possible.

I've succumbed to the holiday pressure that I do every year. This is mostly my baking like a mad woman, making sure I don't arrive empty handed to a single gathering and shipping off a care package or two.

This year the pressure has multiplied as it's Cy's first Christmas. He doesn't care much about baked goods at this juncture (though he smacks his little lips and hopes for a taste when he watches us eat them), so I made sure the tree was up on time, his personalized stocking was made as well as his first ornament. The list goes on, but these are just a few things to commemorate the event.

And then it occurred to me as I was prepping to teach my yoga class this evening that the doing has gotten out of control. Yoga is all about awareness, from the ground up (or from the breath and beyond) and yet I was letting my need to accomplish things send me into a frenzy bubbling just beneath the surface.

Yes, I'm doing this because I want everything to be special for my boy. But I have also succumbed to a somewhat crazed need to get as much done as possible--for the sake of getting it done. This is all while being reluctant to ask for much help along the way. This is what we women do, right? Were multi-tasking queens at heart.

But tonight, I decided it's time to soften. In my yoga classes I have talked about finding the "edge" a countless number of times. The edge is that place where you are challenged, working, engaged without throwing yourself over the cliff. I often watch students push themselves to force the more difficult variation or posture simply because it was suggested or because the lithe young thing next to them is doing it. Others are completely unwilling to accept corrections. That gotten in their mind that they're doing it correctly and they don't need the help or instruction. I try to subtly remind them that these postures are just an exploration, a suggestion and we have to be willing to accept the the lessons of the body and mind and the help that is offered us if we hope to find some peace in the practice.

I should listen to myself more often. I'll try.

Thanks

2011-11-24T22:50:00.000-08:00

I love food. There is something about cooking and especially baking that calm me and allow me to create in a tangible way that nearly anyone can enjoy.

And every Thanksgiving I bake at least two pies. I usually try something new every year, but I always stick to the tried and true sweet potato pie. It's not that I have perfected the recipe because I don't follow one and it changes slightly every year. My grandmother made amazing sweet potato pies and never followed a recipe. I was given a general list of ingredients by my Aunt a few years ago. She gave me the basic order of things and confirmed that I was to buy yams (not the tuber labeled "sweet potato" in the store) and boil them in their skins. Beyond that, I was told I just have to go with it until I get it right.

Every year I try again, and the ultimate test is asking my Dad to taste the pie. And every year he starts by paying me a compliment that is followed with a piece of friendly critique so that I might get it "just like Mama's" one day. Nothing like a boy and his mama--even once the boy is grown. And in my asking him every year, I suppose I'm still looking for Daddy's approval--even when the girl is grown. One year he told me I got the crust "perfect." I'll never forget that moment.

My Mam-ma's pies and all of her cooking, for that matter, were a thing of legends. She and my grandfather passed away nearly 15 years ago (just months apart) and we speak of them often. Even the grandchildren who came along after their passing feel like they knew them. But around this time of the year, Mam-ma's cooking is sure to receive a nod of respect. Her creations were fierce, flavorful and made with love (even when she was in a bad mood). I can still smell the aromas, feel the earthy warmth of her kitchen and hear the smoke detector blaring as it did when she really got down with a Sunday morning breakfast for the family. She was our matriarch of sorts and those meals were our call to order.

Though she was not southern, my grandfather was from Alabama and the hallowed pie was one of many things that she learned and perfected to suit his tastes and her own as well. A seemingly simple creation, but much more complex beyond the surface.

This year I considering doing without the sweet potato pie. I knew my Aunt with the ingredient list would make two of her own, so why overdo it? But, I couldn't let it go. It's not just a pie, it's homage--to my grandmother, to my family, to the generations that have come before that have made me and this life of freedom possible. On one hand I refer to physical freedom. Just a few generations before me were those born into slavery. But beyond the physical, I speak to the freedom of choice, the ability to shape myself and my life in ways that they never thought possible for their own.

So next year I'll do the same thing. I'll make one pie to satisfy my culinary curiosity, but you can be sure I'll be boiling yams in their skin on Thanksgiving Eve. Can't forget my roots or my root vegetables. Give thanks.

Oh, and this year Dad said, "It's good."

"But?" I asked.

He squinted his eyes and press his forefinger and thumb together delicately as he said, "A little less cinnamon next time."

Adventures in Nursing

2011-11-17T19:20:00.000-08:00

Having a child is the ultimate improvisation. Traveling with a child ups the ante.

We are in the Dominican Republic this week for the Festival de Cine Global Dominicano and the we began on Tuesday. This was not Cy's first encounter with air travel, but it was the first international trip and the longest thus far. I woke him at 4:40 am to dress him and give him a good nursing before heading to LAX. The flight was nearly seven hours long and I was doing my best (unsuccessfully) to prevent Cy from touching anything. Planes have always made me feel a little gross, but now with the baby I'm more paranoid than ever.

We stopped in Panama for a quick layover. It was crowded and hectic and what would normally have been a fascinating crossroads for people watching became a bed of germs of which a six month old might be susceptible. We made it through.

Our first full day was filled with festival related activities and we didn't venture far from the hotel. But today we were able to get to the Ciudad Colonial. That's when it got tricky. Just minutes after we were dropped off, the sky opened up. We took cover at a pizzeria as it had the largest awning on the block. There was a time when we might have kept walking in the rain, but having a baby changes things. The first instinct was to protect. In the D.R., unexpectedly enjoying pizza and The Beatles, while the few guest around cooed and smiled at the Cy Boy. When he got antsy, I took him outside (the rain) had cleared and he lit up and began talking incessantly as he noticed a palm tree overhead. Then he heard a dinging bell on an ice cream cart. He's revealed the beauty of simple pleasure to me unlike any other.

After a leisurely lunch, the sky cleared up a bit and we headed out again. An hour or so of walking and the droplets began. Cy was no longer tolerating the stroller. TOPITR and I took turn carrying him in one arm and holding the umbrella in the other until we made it to a hotel lobby where we encountered a pack of drinking and smoking pilots and flight attendants. Another time, we would have headed straight to the bar. Tonight, we searched and scrambled to find the driest, smoke-free nook available for diaper changing and, of course, more nursing. We found a cushy bench to take care of business while TOPITR went back to the pizza joint to retrieve our car seat, which they were kind enough to stow away for a time.

Cy fell asleep and I watched guests and hotel workers move in and out of the elevators just a few yards away. A few of the hotel maids walked by as I nursed Cy to sleep. Their smiles of empathy told me they were mothers as well. If we were at home in the U.S. most people would have averted their eyes so as not to see the woman (gasp) breast feeding in public. Here, I received eye contact and a smile. I was just a woman caring for her child. This was one of the highlights of my trip. Life has certainly changed.

After a Cy cat nap, we eventually peeled ourselves off the bench. He tolerated the stroller this time around. We pushed him across the cobble stone sidewalk and avoided cars on the dark street with a caution that I've never known before. A little more walking and a quick stop in an art gallery, we were at another restaurant for dinner. Cy was giddy and tired and we took turns eating, while the other walked him around the restaurant to calm him down.

A beautiful meal of stewed crab meat and camarones de la criolla and it was time to call a taxi. We waited five minutes and the first cab arrived. Though it looked like this car once had seat belts, they were no longer. Where did they go? I don't know, but we weren't getting in that car. Another time we would have jumped in without a though, but not with our baby. The folks at the restaurant called for a second cab (I'm sure while rolling their eyes at the pansy Americans), which took longer than expected. As we waited on the corner, Cy got hungry again. Nowhere to sit, I stood there and nursed him to sleep. Just as he drifted off our taxi, with seat belts, arrived.

Back to the hotel with a sleeping baby, the day's adventure was over--until he woke up five minutes later. It continues.

Who better to share the world with? This place is still so new to him and he finds joy (and gives it) in unexpected places and is very clear when it is time to move on. No, traveling will never be the same.

Tantrum in the Streets

2011-11-10T19:50:00.000-08:00

There was a time when young, American students stood up for things like the "Free Speech Movement." Perhaps those days are over. The so-called riot you see above at Penn State last night was an embarrassing movement that seemed to advocate the right to protect a pedophile--if you're a college football legend, that is.

This week, it was revealed that former assistant football coach, Jerry Sandusky allegedly sexually abused multiple boys, several of whom he met while mentoring as part of Second Mile, a youth organization he founded to help disadvantaged and at-risk kids.

Former graduate aid (and now Penn State receivers coach) Mike McQueary witnessed Sandusky abusing a young boy in the campus showers and reported what he saw to head coach, Joe Paterno who in turn reported to athletics director, Tim Curley. But none of these men took the necessary steps to protect these children. McQueary didn't stop the act while it was happening (perhaps in his shock) and Paterno and Curley didn't notify the police. Who and what were they trying to protect? Sandusky? The school's image? Whatever it was, Sandusky retired from Penn State in glory in 1999 and continued to work at Second Mile until 2010.

Paterno announced he would retire at the end of the season amid the scandal, but he was fired before he could do so. That was when the swarm of ill-informed students took to the streets. Rather than demonstrate an ounce of sympahty for the victims, they pulled together a tremendous amount of energy to show support for "Joe Pa."

In light of the riots, lawyer Ben Adreozzi who is advising the alleged victims fears that they may be intimidated to come forward considering the amoung of anger Paterno's firing has created.

Paterno has an image. He is the most "winningest" coach in college football history. He is a legend at Penn State who helped create an acclaimed athletic machine. He is largely viewed as a stand-up guy who puts education first. People love him. Some love him (or who they think he is) enough to throw a tantrum in the streets, all while missing the big picture: by keeping quiet, Paterno and the rest protected the wrong person. Even seemingly good people are prone to bad judgement and they have the power to hurt others. In this case, it was these young boys.

How can that be overlooked? Has athletics taken such precedence in our cultural realm that these students are blinded to the harm that keeping quiet created?

Not all Penn State students are walking around in a blind rage. The university is making an effort to show support to the victims. Saturdays' home game against Nebraska would normally be celebrated with a "white out," where everyone wears white t-shirts in solidarity. But school officials and students have encouraged a "blue out" to stop child abuse. A t-shirt has that reads "Stop Child Abuse, Blue Out Nebraska" in on sale and all proceeds will go to Prevent Child Abuse Pennsylvania. While it seems to be a surface effort (there's a t-shirt for every cause these days) to divert some of the negative attention, it's a start.

Perhaps somebody's heart will be in the right place.

On Camera

2011-11-01T20:39:00.000-07:00

Being a mama is real. Motherhood is beautiful, profound, joyous, 24 hours and--yes--difficult at times. I want to be the best I can. I want to be there for my son, provide for him in every way to make him feel secure and so that one day (not any day soon), he will be self sufficient and good on his own. There's some pressure there, but I have nothing but the best intentions and I trust that that combined with my love for him will guide me.

That being said, I am fortunate to have an older sister with two boys and a mother who is still around to call up when I'm questioning or just need a bit of support. For some, that support isn't available or just not enough. The L.A. Times published a report about mothers who are volunteering to be videotaped interacting with their infants and then analyzed by psychologist to determine how they might better relate to their babies. The method was initially developed to help mothers who are "impoverished, severely depressed or otherwise at risk." But now the practice has opened up to mothers who are not "at risk" but hoping (like all of us) that they're doing it right.

I can see how the analysis could help a mother struggling with the incredible adjustment of motherhood, but I (in perfect LeTania fashion) am skeptical. Therapy is important and understanding child development is as well, but it seems the more we "know" the less we are able to trust ourselves. Guilt is not hard to come by in motherhood and it seems like this method may be another way to dig it up. Ruth Newton, a psychologist quoted in the story said the method is a way to make sure we aren't repeating our parent's mistakes despite our best intentions.

I'm not sold. Unless an extreme case presents itself, it seems there must be a less invasive way to go about parenting. I question myself, I know that I will make mistakes and I know there are more phone calls to more experienced mamas in my future. But mostly I think I'm going it right and I look into Cy's eyes everyday to convey to him just how great my love is. I think it's working.

When I was pregnant I posted about getting unsolicited advice from mothers to trust my intuition. I made fun at the time but, really ladies, trust your intuition.

It does take a village, but I'd rather my village was not watching me through a screen.

In Addition

2011-09-30T23:18:00.001-07:00

Maybe it's my "Mama brain" haze, but I seem to have left out the most important point in my last entry and something I am have been pondering for weeks now.

I could not be any more grateful for the love and attachment that Cy and I share with one another. This so-called sacrifice is not at all. Yesterday a friend asked me if there was anything else I could try to remedy the situation, but I was beyond that.

Point being, there is nothing to fix. This is just as it should be. This time is precious and, in the big picture, it is just a blink, a brief moment in our time together. Every day, he becomes a little more independent and though I am thrilled for his development, I can't help but be a little sad that he doesn't need me to hold him quite as often as he did the week before.

I am grateful beyond words to mean so much to this beautiful little creature.

Bottles and Bedtime

2011-09-30T21:20:00.000-07:00

My baby won't take a bottle.

There. I said it. Somehow, I have been ashamed to admit it until now. I wasn't ashamed because it is any fault of his own, but because I feared that if I had just tried a week earlier or been more diligent about it all he would have taken it with ease. Somehow, I thought that this made me inferior as a mother. Look at all these babies around town taking to Medela bottles with ease! He took it initially. It was absolutely effortless. But after a day or two off, it became a struggle. I tried different bottles, different nipples and continued to milk myself like a cow with no luck. Meal time was comfort time and a synthetic nipple wasn't going to get it. People warned me that some babies just won't take a bottle. It may be out of my control.

Then, after many tries we got him to take it for a second round, which ended after our trip to New York. The pump stayed at home and his tolerance for the bottle was left behind as well. I suppose he knows what he wants and what he wants is his milk directly from the source.

This means a lot of things, but mostly it means that--for the time being--I am the only person who can get him to bed at night. He wants the comfort of Mama, and as the days get shorter bedtime has become earlier. I need to be home in those moments and therefore my days of late evening yoga instruction have come to a close.

We tried getting him to bed earlier, taking him on evening walks while I was away and (of course) the dreaded bottle, but the last several weeks I have come home to a crying and exhausted baby. Last week it finally hit me that I was fooling myself and the answer was staring me in the face. I had to give up the class.

Was there a lesson in all of this? First, I'll say that I had to do what is best for my boy, and he is worth the sacrifice. Secondly, I'll attribute it to the seasons. Fall is always a time for new beginnings. School starts, work gets back into gear and lives are generally shaken up in one way or another. I can only look forward and though this chapter is ending, I'm doing my best to have confidence in new beginnings--the most important one being the sleeping baby whose sweet breath I am listening to right now.

I'll miss my class, I'll miss my students. I am grateful to them and proud of the hard work I put in to build up the class to where it stands today. But I must admit that I was relieved when I didn't have to leave my boy on Monday night. It's time to hand it over and move on.

In the meantime, I'll keep trying the bottle. You never know.

Sons and Daughters

2011-09-11T20:11:00.000-07:00

Days, weeks, months and years of reflection have led up to this day: 9/11/11 or the tenth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks. In the last few weeks there have been any number of television specials, new features and magazine editions to document the thoughts and lives of those most directly affected by the attacks. News publications have even asked everyday readers of any sort to write about where they were on that day, in those moments.

I was in Berkeley. My girlfriend's mother woke us with an early phone call and told us to turn on the television. It was a surreal moment. Its magnitude was so great and the reality so gruesome that it did not seem like it could be real in my lifetime. But it was. When I went to work that day my boss told me--quite proudly--that her daughter had declared that, "We should go in and get rid of all of them."

"We" being Americans, "them" presumably being anyone of Arab origin. And this reaction was in lefty Berkeley. I was appalled by her comment but not surprised.

Every year around this time, I become particularly focused on the event, its significance and what has followed. On one hand, our country considered itself more united and some of us got in touch with something called compassion. On the other hand, we have entered two wars and have witnessed embarrassing moments of xenophobia and religious intolerance. But, today more than before I realize how the attacks are etched into my every day consciousness. It has affected how I view my security (I was paranoid about flying this weekend) my relationship to this world (how am I judged as an American) and, now, how my son's life will be shaped by this event and the tangled, messy history that led up to it. Will he live with a sense of fear or will the breakneck pace of distraction of this generation "save" him from that? Only time and the course of his life will tell.

I know why I was disturbed by my boss' words that day. The blind hatred for a group of people was unbelievable to me. I know why I am still troubled by the words this day. Now, I'm a mother. When I look at my son, my love is without bounds--a feeling I am certain traverses any religious or regional lines. To wish death upon a people is to wish death upon sons and daughters, and that tears me apart. I can only hope that my son and his generation will know better.

Merchandise

2011-09-01T22:36:00.000-07:00

I have a swing to sell. You know, one of those electric powered, automatic baby swings--one which I now regret buying. I debated for days (maybe even a week or two). I suspected it may be a waste of money and was annoyed with the overabundance of plastic and bunny themed plush material. But after weeks of Cy's very short cat naps, I thought it would be worth a try if it would possibly aid him in sleeping for longer than half an hour during the day. My sister told me it may be my "lifesaver," while also warning me that her first born couldn't get enough of it, but her second hated it. I figured I had a 50/50 chance.

Cy, you ask? He hates it. Every time I've tried he looks at me as if to say, "Why are you strapping me into this torture chamber?"

I took a break for a few weeks and then tried again--still no luck, so I'm giving up.

This is just one of the many products that parents swear by and others shun. Since I found out I was pregnant I quickly learned that babies (like it or not) are an industry and most parents fall freely into the trap.

We recently went to Jazz at LACMA and before I knew it, I overheard TOPITR discussing the Moby wrap versus the Baby Bjorn. Cy was really digging the Moby at that time and the other baby in question was all about the Bjorn. This is not to mention the latest and most fashionable of the bunch--the Ergo. If you don't know what the hell I'm talking about, they're each a different version of the same thing--a way to strap your baby on and walk with your arms free with baby in tow. Shopping, cleaning, walking in the park are ten times easier this way. And though the babies to have preference as far as comfort goes (Cy really like nustling close to me in the Moby), I suspect the preferences have more to do with parental preferences than anything else.

While that conversation was going on, we were also surrounded by a sea of $700 modern, ergonomic strollers of varying models. These pieces of modern design on wheels not only cart a baby around but, answer "the call of the modern, mobile parent" according to one website. And the movement traverses neighborhood lines. From Brentwood to Echo Park, modern babies are hip and on the go. With the right product, even a hipster can get away with being a parent.

There seem to be two classes of baby product. The often hideously designed products constructed with a bit too much plastic that get the job done and keep your baby safe or the designer friendly, chic products that are at least double the price, but will go nicely with your house decor or your brand new Prius.

We opted for the former. I figure why push around a stroller that is nicer than my car. And, as much as I might want my house to be put together--all the way down to the baby paraphernalia, I decided to go with what works. Of course, I'm pretty sure Cy has fabulous taste, but he's also a big fan of his jingling, squeaking, bright, primary colored toys. Baby is happy; so am I.

The world is full of status symbols. Children shouldn't be one of them.

Anyone want to buy a swing?

Hold On

2011-08-07T22:08:00.000-07:00

Yesterday TOPITR, Cy and I went for our daily walk and ended up at a local cafe drinking coffee and reading the paper. There we were, surrounded by a couple of dozen other fortunate souls with the the disposable income to allow for extras like marked up coffee and pastries.

We settled in next to a couple and eventually into a friendly conversation. What were they doing this weekend? Visiting a friend who was just laid off. They were going to provide a meal, some wine and conversation. I imagine there are a lot of those dinners going on right now. The national unemployment rate stands at 9.1 percent and though jobs have been created in the last month, the outlook is still dismal for those still looking for work (or have given up on the search altogether). That's what friends are for, right? Keeping it together when we feel like we're about to lose our shit.

I couldn't help think about my parents. After owning a trucking business for nearly 30 years and working tirelessly during that time to provide for us and create something of their own, they have watched their business dwindle with the economy. When they should be slowing down and settling in, they're putting their house on the market and downsizing to the essentials. This week, Cy and I drove out to the house to reclaim a few bins and boxes that I was conveniently holding in their attic until I was ready to deal with them (a day I was avoiding, but circumstances made it necessary).

The house was empty besides a couch and a few odds and ends. The light shone on the bare floor and seemed to wash out the last bit of life that remained. Soon I was knee deep in high school yearbooks, photos, letters, books and freakish porcelain dolls. While I flip-flopped as to whether or not to keep my copy of "Anthropological Theory Today," my mom watched me calmly, chuckling a little at my indecisiveness. She was keeping it together.

Now, this house was not my childhood home. In fact when my parents told me they were moving to Yucaipa I'm pretty sure I cried and asked if they had lost their minds. Why would anyone want to live there? But, I saw the house and the pride they had taken in making a change for themselves, which they had earned--hands down. The house became comfortable. It was the place I landed during breaks in my college years and where everyone gathered on the holidays. I was proud of their space, the fruit of their labor. When I found out they were going to have to sell, I was disappointed and sad for them. I stayed positive, but it didn't seem fair that after years of such hard work, this material symbol would be taken away. And selfishly, I was sad that Cy would not be able to grow up visiting Nana and Papa in their house and playing in the massive backyard.

But every time I see my parents they are doing their best to keep it together. There's disappointment and stress involved, but who they are is independent of anything they might have. They are not always peaceful, but are somehow at peace.

I know that when my sister and I were kids, Mom and Dad were masters at hiding the extremity of their troubles, whether it be finances, family or work. They kept it together (most of the time) for us. That's just what you do when you're a parent right? Sometimes I wonder if they're doing the same thing now, but I don't think so. They're concerned, but they're not plagued with worry. They're still keeping it together for the kids, but they're keeping it together for themselves and no one has showed up with a bottle of wine to help facilitate that. They much prefer margaritas anyhow. I should show up to their new space with a blender.

Cy may not play in the "big" house, but he'll be surrounded by what's real. I hope he'll appreciate it. I guess it's my turn to keep it together as best I can.

First Class Back

2011-08-01T22:50:00.000-07:00

Tonight I taught my first yoga class since Cy was born. I've had anxiety about it for the last week or so. I haven't been away from him before today, he is refusing the bottle and I was convinced he would raise hell while I was away.

I suppose I was also coming to grips with these dual roles. Since May 16, I have been the "Mother of Cy," as TOPITR's mother likes to call me. But, I am also this yoga teaching woman who, as much as I didn't want to admit it, was missing it. I wondered how I could reconcile missing life outside and being so happy with the boy. Well, it just is. We all play many roles, and I would like to think this yoga lady is part of the mix, which is going to make me an even better mother. I'm sure one day Cy will come to appreciate some of these pieces of me.

So tonight, I got Cy nice and full and TOPITR strapped him into the Baby Bjorn and they took a long walk, a very long walk. It worked. He slept (for the most part) and was even calm when I arrived home after speeding through the streets to get here. But his eyes were red and had that "I've been crying tonight" look. TOPITR called it a "rite of passage" and I guess he has a point. I reopened a door into my life and he and Cy entered a new and beautiful phase in their life together.

Nevertheless, it was good to be home with my boy. I've never missed anyone quite so much. Yes, I'm multi-faceted but, it's true, I'm the "Mother of Cy" first.

Push

2011-07-29T23:30:00.000-07:00

Cy and I have been overly stimulated this week, which became apparent this afternoon. After a birthday dinner and back to back lunch dates, he let me know during today's meal that enough was enough. The restaurant was too loud, too air conditioned and there was too much to take in. While he normally loves soaking in a new place and new people, today was the exception. I thought we would make it through the walk home, but he wasn't having it. My friend who met us for lunch walked us home, waited with us during an impromptu street nursing and very sweetly pushed the stroller uphill while I carried a not very happy Cy.

We made it home eventually and not long after that Cy fell asleep and napped for three hours, which is a rare event for my daytime baby. He woke up with a smile on his face as though the whole thing was forgotten. I felt better, forgiven, as though the slate had been wiped clean. As he smiled so sweetly, I was reminded that I could move on as well. I could be forgiving--even of myself.

I've been pushing the last few weeks to be good for Cy, good for this household while pushing myself back into the world. But the push became a thrust. Running errands, attempting to keep this house clean, meeting friends and my impending return to teaching. It all sounds like trivial, simple stuff but it adds up and then exhaustion sets in. And, now I think I can learn to forgive myself for that.

Cy is good enough reason to slow down. We're having a weekend in.

Shaping

2011-06-30T23:13:00.000-07:00

I'm learning that there is a lot of trial and error involved in parenting. On the surface it's not that complicated. I am here to love him, take care of his most basic needs and serve as his first entertainer.

But, suddenly all of the things I used to take for granted have become more complicated. Going out, for instance. Little Cy is not a fan of his car seat at the moment. Leaving the house is a process. We have to make sure he is nice and full ("top him off" as I like to say) and preferably sleeping before we strap him in and head out. It's usually fine getting out of the house, but things can turn very suddenly. Last week we we had to quickly pull into a Carl's Jr. parking lot in Koreatown for a nursing session.

Last night, we took a trip to the South Pasadena Farmer's Market (whoa stroller land). Cy was content at the market, as he was tucked snugly into his Moby wrap. As soon I pulled him out of the wrap, put him into the seat and began driving it was all over.

We quickly made our next stop for a diaper run as he screamed and looked at me as if to say, "Why are you sitting here staring at me and not picking me up?" By the time we stopped he and I were both crying. He from the hunger and lack of snuggling, me from the heartbreak of his screams and the fear that I had permanently traumatized my son. Maybe it's the hormones (it takes a long time to get back to so called normal), maybe the sleep deprivation, but we were both sitting in the backseat of the car sniffling for a good five minutes.

The drive home seemed like it would be okay, but just as we entered the freeway it took a turn for the worst. He wasn't hungry this time, just pissed off about being in the seat again.

I don't know how long these moments register with him, but I wonder how each moment of his life, every move that I make will shape the person he becomes--even at this very early stage. What I do know is that I want him to feel as secure and safe as humanly possible in these early moments of his life. As my ten year old brother said the other day, "He's still not used to this world, LeTania." I hope I'm making this transition into the crazy place as smooth as possible.

When we got home, I pulled him out of his seat and carried him up the stairs as his cries subsided and turned to a whimper and he struggled to catch his breath in little gasps and fits. Despite the fatigue, I felt energized and strong again. My back didn't ache anymore, and he felt even lighter than usual as he tried to come back down to earth and we both held on tightly. When I tried to change him a few minutes later, his hands grasped my arm. Cleanliness would have to wait and I held on. One day he won't cling in the same way.

There are so many things that are out of my control, but I am doing my best in those things that are. No matter how he is shaped in the end, I hope a piece of that comfort and trust shine through.

Sharing

2011-06-16T23:47:00.000-07:00

I stepped away for a time and was (outside of school and obligations) writing only for myself and my "Peanut"--the unborn child that we were anxiously awaiting. As much as there was to write about and to share, I moved inside. Maybe too far inside.

But, now here we are. Peanut has landed and he is our beautiful Cy who is a month old today. My life has changed entirely, forever, for the better. I was reluctant to share him with the world, at least electronically, but I have succumbed. I refused to post a facebook birth announcement and resisted posting photos until last week. And that was after going through each of my so called friends and removing the extraneous and the creepy. I just figured the important people in my life already heard from me directly or would in the very near future. But, after awhile, I just couldn't resist.

And though I won't be posting by the hour or even by the day, I'll just try to embrace the ability to share my joy in any way that is available to me. I am amazed by the love that I have for this old soul, sweet Cy. Swimming in those eyes every morning I find new energy for him and this life. The connection that we had from the moment I learned about this life is confirmed. Not a bit of this is by chance. Every moment with this boy is a reminder of life's precious nature and the need to simply love it without clinging--even though it goes much too fast. Cy's rapidly growing body and open gaze, which contains a little more understanding every day, are a daily reminder of that.

I'll do my best to record our moments, my thoughts and even doubts. I'll share when it feels right. But, mostly, I'll breathe in this tremendous love and send up a prayer of thanks.

Trust Your Intuition

2010-12-30T10:24:00.000-08:00

Maybe more than anything on this earth pregnancy and child rearing bring on a host of unsolicited advice--most often from people that you've never met before in your life.

When I tell people I'm having my baby at a hospital because that's what my insurance will allow (thank God I have it), they suggest the latest all natural birthing center.

"Really. You should just think about it."

I've thought about it, but the reality is I can't afford it. I'm tempted to tell them they should think about paying for my labor and delivery and throw in a chakra healing doula while they're at it.

I've even had a man look at me sideways, when I ordered my doctor-approved single cup of coffee per day. I think he got a pretty good idea as to where he could take his advice in that instance.

I know it all (mostly) comes from a good place, but it gets pretty old, pretty quickly. The best moments so far, were the other night.

I was at a party where there just happened to be two mothers in the room. One of them still had her baby in a sling strapped snugly to her body that she wore like a badge of honor that implied, "I am a mother, honor me."

It didn't take long before the suggestions started flying.

"You know, once the baby is here you should really try to sleep when they sleep. And try to get rest now when you can. You're going to want to get down on your hands and knees and scrub base boards, but try to rest."

"Yes. But, if you have that urge and that energy, you should just go with it. It's amazing."

Then it came.

"But, you know what? Don't take anyone's advice. Because you'll just know. That intuition kicks right in."

That bit was followed by another round of advice.

"Now, I don't put any sheets or pillows near the baby--just to prevent suffocation."

"I just kept my babies very high up on the bed, so neither one of us could roll over over on them...but you'll know."

Yes. I know. I'll know. I'm mostly confident and completely clueless. I assume I'm right where I need to be.

Moving

2010-11-13T23:23:00.000-08:00

I was able to take a dance class today for the first time in a long time. The classes I was taking previously were cancelled this season and I was left with few resources. And given the grad school schedule, I have little time for the other things that matter.

That being said, I made it to class but now had this new body to deal with. From the outside looking in, not much has changed. I'm not "showing" per se, but things have shifted and I feel a new responsibility in caring for my body. Now I find myself asking, "Should I be doing this?"

It has made me a better listener.

On a normal day, this class would have been right up my alley. It was an exploration of formlessness. In other words take your technique for a ride by falling completely (or as close as you can) into disorientation. I know it sounds like a hot mess, but it was actually an innovative way of thinking about dance as a state of being rather than just innovate movement vocabulary, which in turn create pretty interesting movement. People were throwing themselves around on the floor, limbs were flying and everyone was pushing themselves beyond the point of tired with just enough faith that the intelligence of their bodies would protect them.

I have faith in my body and I wanted to thrash around a bit, but I was more interested in listening to what was going on inside. I danced hard but in a completely different way than most of the people in the room. I'm not dancing with myself anymore and I had to find some happy medium between release and protectiveness. It gives a whole new meaning to mind-body connection.

Most of all, it shed a new light on my ego. I wanted to do what I've done before, but I had no choice but to let go and accept that this is where "we" are. As much as I worry about what I'm eating and what activities are safe, I can't help but think about what is happening to my body and if I will find normalcy after the the baby is here. Physical prowess and strength--these are two things that I have always been able to count on.

In yoga, we talk a lot about finding our edge, which inevitably changes every day. The challenge in the practice is pushing when you haven't found it and accepting when you have. The latter has always been more difficult for me. I've slowly learned how to confront my ego and to recognize those hidden bit of richness when choosing to "back off." Going to deeper is not always as simple as moving harder. I'm on the fast track to learning that.

Not diminished, just moving in new and maybe even interesting ways.

News

2010-11-03T12:50:00.001-07:00

Note: This was written some time ago as I debated whether or not to announce on the blogging scale.

Just a couple of weeks ago, I received news that changed everything. Well, it changed me anyway.

When I started this blog, the concept was all about the many facets of self--the layers and labels that are given to us, that we strive for and strip ourselves of. All of those things that give us the ability to create, to make a contribution.

Now it's time to add another title to my list: mom.

After three home tests and several rounds of pacing, I started to believe it. The words on the screen are still a little unreal. But every time I tell someone the news, their reaction is like a pinch of reality. This is something I knew would/could happen eventually, but eventually is now and the reality sinks in a little more each day.

For now it manifests itself in paranoia about what I eat, drink and even what I say. I question what will happen to my body and am frustrated with the unparalleled fatigue that has already set in. I wonder, worry and smile when I think about the way life will change in the coming months, years and the rest of our lives.

Who will this new person be and who will this not-so-new person become?

I have no idea. But, I am certain of one thing--I want to be better, more mindful about what I do, what I say and everything and everybody that I surround myself with. I'm living for two, after all.

Much more than a title. What a gift.

Saucha

2010-08-23T22:19:00.000-07:00

We finally got a medicine cabinet this Saturday.

It doesn't sound exciting, but it was needed and it took far too long to make it happen. The handy Ikea creation had been sitting in a box in the closet for over two months and now it is a bit of organization and, on some level, sanity in my life and the house for a moment at least.

Prior to the cabinet, all our our toiletries were sitting in the tiny bathroom window sill and many of my things that I brought over from my old place were still sitting in a dusty box in the garage. Granted, I don't use my eye lash conditioner very often, but it's nice to know that I can have it if and when I decide to take my vanity to that level.

There is a certain amount of comfort that I get knowing that there is a place for everything, even when I am completely out of sorts. It's something that I need. At least once a week, I go on a cleaning rampage. A week's time is usual enough to bring me to the point where I can't take it anymore and I unleash the bleach to make things better. Saturday was one of those days. It brought me some peace to pull things together--especially as I begin the next semester of grad school. I know that soon it will be much more difficult to keep any sort of order or balance in my life. When things get stressful, they tend to get messy.

The last few days have been all about saucha.

Saucha is the first niyama (principles to live by) within the yogic philosophy, which refers to cleanliness and purity--body, mind and spirit. Whether you practice yoga or not, I imagine that most people could stand to benefit from the principle.

As this next phase begins, I'm determined to continue in this way. This morning, TOPITR and I walked the trail and then I hit the mat. Because the practice of saucha is associated with cleansing it is often accessed in the physical practice through lots of twisting and others postures that activate the third chakra or the abdominals if coming from a purely physical standpoint. Twisting cleanses the internal organs and builds heat. There's nothing like it.

So, that it what I did. It was time to wring myself out. Or course, I could stand to rid myself of physical toxins that are weighing me down at the moment, but it has much more to do with the symbolism of lifting the weight from my mind.

I'm beginning again. Last year's journey was, more often than not, a challenging, uphill and depressing battle. I'd like it to be better this time around. The third chakra is often called the "seat of will." It's good to be reminded that we have the choice to rid ourselves of those things or people that are no longer working.

They're tiny steps, but the beauty of the cleansing process is that you can return to it again and again. I'll do my best to pick it up and pull it together as often as it is needed.

The Last Day

2010-07-28T22:58:00.000-07:00

No, it's not my last day in Cape Town, just yet. But, Wednesday was my last day at the Cape Community Newspapers where I have been interning for the last six weeks. I'm not certain how I feel about it. I know that I did arrive with the romantic idea that I would be out in the field every day, covering stories that I found engaging.

The reality is that I did have to do some phone interviews and there were a number of assignments that I was given without my expressing any interest. I am an intern, after all. And, I know I wrote about language in a previous e-mail, but I didn't talk about the phone interview in South Africa. It is brutal. The accents can be quite tough and many, at least the people that I interviewed, speak very quickly. Often, my fingers could not keep up on the keyboard. And, the worst was when I had to stop a subject after several attempts of trying to understanding what they were saying and asking them to "please spell that, please" and they responding with an exasperated "C-A-T."

Yesterday, I finished up my internship with a 1,500 word story about alien pine trees versus native fynbos and the heated debate that has been wearing on for over four years about whether or not it is okay to cull the pines in favor of the fynbos that are presumed to be living beneath the pines, just anxious to emerge once the water-sucking giants are out of the way. Table Mountain National Park began plans to harvest the pines in 2005 and, since then, some residents have become quite emotional at the prospect of losing the pines that have provided them shade and a landscape that, despite the fact the trees are so-called aliens, has become second nature.

I don't think I would have ever sought out this story on my own. But, there I was with an assignment and suddenly I found myself interviewing botanists and local residents about their opinions regarding conservation versus the recreational and cultural significance that some feel is held in the pines. While the obvious answer seems like it would be to conserve these endangered plants, many contest it and say that conservation is merely a "human construction," and that the landscape is not static and the national parks must serve the needs of an ever-growing cosmopolitan city and nature.

The entire arguments seems to be a larger metaphor for the country. As so many changes occur, there is a need to romanticize what was, while moving on to what awaits. And whether you're taking nature, culture or government these topics get people excited, or "emotive" as one of my colleagues loves to say.

So, no the native fynbos were not my first choice, but they were certainly an interesting gateway to get to know some of the personalities of this city that I never would have encountered otherwise. I'm looking forward to my return.

Oh, and the fynbos are beautiful. It would be a shame to see them disappear.

Almost Out

2010-07-24T12:36:00.000-07:00

This week has gotten away from me and there is now less than one week left in Cape Town. Throughout this trip locals have been curious about what my impressions are of their country. At the beginning, most people asked me if I was here for the World Cup. They wanted to know if I was surprised by how safe the city is or how successful the event was. Just a few days ago, my cab driver asked me what I thought about the success of the World Cup and if I believed another major event would happen in South Africa. He also quickly reminded me that it was the first such occurrence on African soil and, though it would be a blessing if any African nation was given such an opportunity, that South Africa is the most appropriate because they have a far "more developed infrastructure."

Many people have expressed this sense of pride, but they also seem equally interested in what the world thinks about them and their country. I wonder if this interested piqued with this summer's event. I wonder how much this preoccupation with "what the world thinks" has to do with the fact that this is such a brand new democracy in a nation that has seen such mind-rattling change in the last 16 years.

There also seems to be a preoccupation with making sure the rest of the world is aware that this is not some infantile country in its first stages of development. Multiple people have asked me if I expected high-crime or "lions roaming the streets." Apparently, enough visitors have been ignorant enough to presume these things (the lions, that is), which causes locals to wonder if that is the general assumption. People with whom I have spoken are eager to dispel such myths.

Speaking of impressions, it should be noted that over the course of the winter/summer my editors at work have continually asked me if I am interested in writing about my opinions--as an American. They want to know about my American, outsider perspective.

The only thing I know for sure is that I have only began to scratch the surface of this country. I am inspired by its successes and am also disturbed by issues like housing and unemployment. I am aware that the government and the country has a long way to go as it relates to service delivery and creating a semblance of an even-playing field for citizens to engage.

I am inspired the vast array of culture and creativity. I want to know more about how people now identify in this country that was, at one time, dominated by such rigid notions of racial classification.

What is my impression? That this is still a place on the verge of so much change, which is at once daunting and exciting. The world has had such high hopes for this place and it seems that there is much to prove and to live up to. But more than anything, there seems to be a strong desire around here to make sure that the rest of the world gets it right. I hope I have done it justice.

The Arch!

2010-07-23T04:54:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I was able to slip in to a press conference held by Archbishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu. As of October 7, his 79th birthday, he will be with withdrawing from public life. As he spoke, people in the room definitely seemed intrigued, but not exactly surprised. After all, he’s put in a number of years. But, he is such an iconic figure and has had a powerful and consistent public presence. It goes without saying that them he will be missed.

Archbishop Tutu held the press conference at St. George’s Cathedral in the city center. The seats were filled with media types and others stood in the back, taking notes and photos. One family just happened upon the cathedral and just the right moment and the young son, maybe 12 years old, was able to take a few shots of the Archbishop. Most people had smiles on their faces as they listened to the man. The feelings of admiration in the room were thick.

One journalist jokingly asked if he thought he was a bit young to be throwing in the towel. And, this may have been my favorite moment of the conference. Not the journalist’s question, but Archbishops Tutu’s answer. He said, “I think I’ve done as much as I can and this will leave time for the other things I want to do.”

When he said he had done “as much as I can,” it was not a moment of defeat. This is just one opinion, but it seems to me that he meant it—he’s done it and now it’s time for something else. That something else, according to him, is reading books, having time for himself and his family and his wife, Leah. He said the “best decision” of his life as marrying her.

“Now I will have time to server her hot tea in the mornings as any doting husband should,” he said.

These days, most of us don’t take well to the notion of retirement. But, I suppose that has much to do with a need to keep creating, to keep feeling as though we are contributing. Sometimes we just need to be reminded that we are still alive and action is the most accessible route to that belief. It must be good to know that you have made your contribution and to move on to the next phase, to live on a new plane.

And, he spoke very clearly about moving on to make space for the next generation of leaders—both in the church and the government of South Africa. When asked if he feels that some in the country have an addiction to Mandela he did not characterize it as an addition but rather said that “sometimes we get attached and don’t give others the opportunity to be who they are.” He said it is now his time to sit back and let others take the reins.

“Mostly I will be shutting up,” said Tutu.

What timing? I’m glad I was able to catch him before that moment. What a voice.

Time in Between

2010-07-16T09:37:00.001-07:00

Archbishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu

What have I been up to? Strangely, I got incredibly behind while in Grahamstown, which is in the Eastern Cape. This small and very sleepy town is home to Rhodes University. In June and early July it also becomes to the National Arts Festival, which is filled with a number of mainstage and fringe productions all housed a numerous venues all over the Rhodes campus.

We arrived for the last three days of the festival. Which means we had three days to watch as many shows as we could take in, figure out a topic to base a multi-media project on and, of course, watch the soccer matches.

I think I made the most of the completely overwhelming performance schedule in Grahamstown. I saw more good than I imagined (you know how a fringe festival can be) and waffled again and again about what I might do my piece on. One of my flatmates, Kim teased me about this more than once. Alas, my indecision knows no bounds.

As I said, much of the work was really wonderful. "Mbeki and other Nitemares" took a darkly comedic and sympathetic look at Thabo Mbeki's tragic mistakes and removal from his presidency; Swan Lake, choreographed by Dada Masilo placed the original narrative into a new time and space; and "Deep Freezing" was a play about South African cannibals who freeze themselves to extend their life span and find themselves post-apartheid and looking for food. This is just to name a few.

Then, the festival ended. And, like a small college town does, it got very quiet and very slow. There were a few moments that I thought I might be in purgatory. The one saving grace was that I had my own cell-like room. That was glorious and worth the temporary liminal state.

Post festival came the journalism conferences. My colleagues and I initially found ourselves in a student conference that was filled with undergraduates. While there was valid information to be had, it was information that we were already very acquainted with. The next day I headed to the grown-up conference--Highway Africa, which got me excited. It was my first conference and though there were slow moments, I took in as much as possible--both to gain the information and to pass the time in what was becoming the never-ending week.

I was able to listen to exiled radio journalists from Zimbabwe and the Gambia speak about their work and how they have persevered over decades to produce it. And with all of the debate around citizen journalism, it was confirmed that it certainly does have a place--especially in the places that are too often overlooked. Organizations like Global Voices have are working hard to get this work on the map.

And, I listened as two journalists passionately debated the pros and cons of mining in Uganda. Both believed fervently in what they were saying. The angles of truth were daunting and sobering. How can we ever hear every side?

All in all, it was a good reminder of the importance of information and the great responsibility that comes with journalism. Though it was heavy at times, the gravity was inspiring. Arts journalism to mining on the African continent--it is important work and an honor to get a story right, because it belongs to someone.

And, the last night truly made it all worthwhile. I was able to see Archbishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu speak at the closing festivities of the conference. All journalists, we crowded as close as we could get and got progressively closer as his speech wore on. He spoke of the "freedom to tell the truth." Something well all know, but so often take for granted. I'll take it.

Oh, and I did finally decide on a project subject: Swan Lake. A work in progress.

Resistance

2010-06-28T07:04:00.000-07:00

When I thought about my internship here in Cape Town, I think I romanticized it a bit. I imagined myself covering pressing issues and roaming the streets with my digital recorder and Nikon in hand. Instead, I found myself primarily assigned to the northern suburbs of Cape Town, which I know very little about.

As time passes, my editors are handing me more assignments and I've even been able to pitch a few, which allows me to broaden my horizons beyond the beach towns lining the R27. And of course, I was informed, right away, that I would have as much access as I want to the arts and entertainment section of the community papers. Being a performer, it seems like the perfect match.

Yet, I've always been resistant to the idea of being an arts writer. I'm typically drawn to writing about social issues. When I say "culture" I'm not referring to the arts section in the paper. My response is usually, "I'd rather be making art than writing about it."

But the art in Cape Town is something new and I want to write as much as possible. That being said, I have written about a photo exhibition of Jurgen Schadeberg's work and today I interviewed a 17-year-old ballet dancer from Nyanga named Mlindi Kulashe. He was just offered a scholarship to attend the English National School of Ballet and will be competing in the Cape Town International Ballet Competition in July.

My editor thought I, as a former dancer, would be perfect. I said yes without any hesitation, but was worried that the experience would be a sad reminder of the ways I am not moving these days (despite the dance class I attended in town last Friday). But, I prepared my questions, grabbed my camera and headed to the University of Cape Town and it was anything but depressing. Kulashe is sharp, confident and a talented dancer. We talked for quite a while and I was grateful for the edge that I had, as a dancer, in my questioning.

As it turns out, Kulashe studied film and media for 6 months after matric. He is such a clear example of the many facets of talent and passion that can be contained in one body. I'm looking forward to writing about him and I'm reminded that as I write about art, I create it as well.

Learning Curve

2010-06-22T12:00:00.000-07:00

Reporting in South Africa has presented challenges that I didn’t anticipate. The first week of my internship was mostly about adjusting to a new work place, new people and convincing those around me that I am eager to work and fully capable of doing so.

Though I still feel just as capable, the reality of journalism and its intricacies have truly set in. I am learning that it’s definitely done a bit differently here. My first two stories were short, human-interest pieces. I covered a woman training for a 350 km bicycle ride to raise funds to counter rhino poaching in Namibia. Then I wrote a review for an exhibition of work by South African photographer Jurgen Schadeberg.

Those projects went pretty smoothly but then I got involved in longer form stories that have required me to speak with the city. Suddenly, I was interviewing people and dealing with two problems: struggling with accents and with a new code of bureaucracy that I have yet to understand. It took nearly a year to get solid sources in the L.A. City Council and now I am wading through a sea of councillors in Cape Town. Maybe it’s just me, but the system seems far more complicated. But, with the help of my fellow reporters, I’ve reached some great sources that have been more than willing to speak with me. I’m beginning to make a few connections and feel confident that I am asking the right questions, which I will count as an accomplishment.

However, I also made the mistake of calling media relations at the City of Cape Town. After conducting six successful interviews, I was feeling ambitious. I checked out the city’s website, found the general number and was connected to the media department. I was feeling more confident every minute, but the moment the media representative answered the phone, my confidence waned. He was not willing to help me, told me to submit my questions via-email but refused to give me his e-mail address. When I asked for the address, he responded “I’m not going to reinvent the wheel with you.”

I was then in the position of being polite without backing down. I remembered I am working in new territory, someone else’s territory. I wanted to be respectful, but needed information. Though South Africa’s constitution does call for freedom of the press, I realized I would have to take the harsh criticism and play by the rules. I am a visitor. I did manage to get the e-mail address, but I am working on the information—bureaucracy on top of bureaucracy. There is much to learn.

To Speak

2010-06-21T13:00:00.000-07:00

One of the most interesting aspects of being in South Africa is language. There are so many languages and dialects to absorb, and each has a history and life of its own. In my office, there are at least three languages being spoken at any given moment. Months ago, when I began telling people that I would be travelling to Cape Town, they would often respond with a stereotypical South African accent. While the impersonation is somewhat accurate, it does no justice to the multitude of languages and accents that are floating around in this space and the significance they hold.

There are 11 official languages spoken in South Africa. The ones I hear most often are English, Afrikaans, Zulu and Xhosa, which is most often associated with its use of “clicking.”

Afrikaans is a Dutch-derived language developed by the Dutch colonizers in this country. English, of course, was imported and the rest of the official languages are native to the land. As one might imagine, the people who speak these languages have long and deep attachments to their “mother tongue.” Afrikaaners considered the Afrikaans language a one of the most important aspects of the culture they developed in South Africa. Of course, apartheid was later developed as well, but it cannot be disputed that they possessed a sense of pride in their language. It was something to cling to, something to impose on the rest of the country and something to be resisted as well. The people in this country that speak native languages have a similar sense of pride. It’s not just a way to communicate but also a link to the history of this country.

Most of the people that I have encountered in the city do speak English. It is considered the global language of business and is spoken by a large percentage of the population. But, if a person comes across an Afrikaans or Xhosa speaker they will often revert to their “mother tongue.” I sit in between two Afrikaans speakers at work and most of their conversations are spoken in Afrikaans. Besides listening to the variety of sounds, there is a marked difference in their physicality when they speak. There is a different kind of emotion and punch.

This is not to say that English speaking is devoid of emotion or intensity when it is spoken here. It is fraught with it. That, coupled an accent that could be laced with several languages, has provided me with a very special challenge when it comes to reporting in Cape Town. I’ve had a few embarrassing moments where I have asked a source to repeat something several times. I’m listening closely, but some days are more difficult than others. Often times, I am simultaneously trying to understand the bureaucracy that is being explained to me and it takes a serious amount of concentration to keep up.

I’m doing my best.

Recently, I was able to have a long conversation with a group of women from all over South Africa. They were primarily black and each spoke at least three official languages. This doesn’t include the blend of languages that they have created over the course of their lifetime. According to them, when you grow up speaking various languages and dialects and constantly traverse the boundaries of those who speak them, you are bound to blend languages.

Based on my conversation with these women, it became more apparent that language and its deeper meaning is tied to much more than communicating words. Language plays a crucial role in the politics of identity.

All of these women were writers and therefore had what seemed an inherent love for language and especially the language spoken in the homes where they were raised. But, they each have had to accept new languages in order to negotiate their place in their respective worlds. One woman spoke of working endlessly to hide any trace of her so-called “mother tongue.” Others mentioned using a variation of accents and languages as a way to float between groups (whether they be ethnic, social or economic). Language is an emotion, a tool and a way of experiencing the world. It is an experience that gets even richer the longer I stick around.

Safe

2010-06-19T10:30:00.000-07:00

When going abroad, one of the first things to be considered is always safety. Before I arrived in Cape Town, people told me again and again to "be careful." I read about all of the precautions to take and have heard them reiterated since I arrived: Don't walk alone at night, don't use your cell phone on the street, don't leave your purse on the passenger seat while you're driving, don't travel in groups too large--you'll draw attention to yourself. And, a tip that I picked up on my own: cars always have the right of way in Cape Town. In fact, I am certain that most cars speed up when they see me crossing an intersection. It's a bit of race. And this all despite the fact that Cape Town is relatively laid back in many ways. While most people seem to be taking their time in most ways, it certainly doesn't apply when driving a car.

The most difficult aspect of all of this is the not walking alone part. I'm not accustomed to it and I really can't stand it. I enjoy being alone, always have. And, I generally feel quite safe exploring a new place solo. It keeps me sane. But, to be on the safe side, I have succumbed. I never walk alone after dark. I have had to accept the group mentality.

But, I generally feel safe here. Of course, I am more conscious of my material possessions. I keep them in my sight or on my person. But that is just common sense and crime happens in every city in the world. My cautious natures also has much to do with the fact that are hundreds of thousands of other foreigners in the country. I'll also admit that seeing a security guard on every corner in the City Bowl is somewhat reassuring. I'm not sure how much power they are really carrying behind those green uniforms, but they seem to be a fairly reliable deterrent.

Safety and law enforcement have been a huge topic in light of the World Cup. South African officials have been working hard to convince FIFA and the world that everyone will be safe over the course of the World Cup. So, far the extra security has been effective and according to The New York Times, the country has also witnessed a serious crack down in the courts. But the large questions is, will this last and how will crime be addressed once this month of madness has passed.

It is the heart of the crime that has to be addressed, which can be attributed to poverty, lack of education, drug abuse, gangs and a host of other factors. There is an extreme amount of pressure to perform in this country right now. Everyone is watching. My hope is that, whether or not the eyes of the world are watching, the country will continue to heal in lasting ways.

A Day in Khayelitsha

2010-06-14T06:03:00.000-07:00

Photo: LeTania Kirkland

This weekend, my colleagues and I drove to Khayelitsha to conduct a journalism workshop with a group of high school students from the Center for Science and Technology. COSAT could be likened to a magnet program in the States. Each of the students went through a highly competitive application process to get into the program. Once accepted, they were met with another four years of rigorous curriculum. The schools motto is “No excuses, just success.” Enough said.

The experience of working with the kids was incredible. This weekend, each of us was paired with a COSAT student. We had one day to move in, gather their story ideas, make a plan and move out in the field.

While there are competitive high schools all over the world, this program and these kids cannot be written off as "just another." Khayelitsha is one of the poorest townships in Cape Town. The landscape is dotted with thousands of shacks, many homes do not have indoor plumbing and corrugated iron provides little protection from the South African winter that is upon us. Makhaza, Khayelitsha is also the site of the recent “toilet wars” that have gained so much international attention.

Despite their circumstances, these teens have persisted. The theme for the workshop was democracy and, far from wallowing in self-pity, they all showed up on a Saturday morning to talk about what democracy means to them and worked hard to formulate a story based upon those ideas. Rather than falling victim to their conditions, they each seem to possess a vision that allows them to see far beyond their present obstacles.

But perhaps even more poignant than looking to the future, my mentee for the weekend, Iran made it perfectly clear that he also found solace in the present. Iran lit up when he spoke about Khayelitsha. He certainly isn’t blind to the community’s problems, but he wants the world to be aware of its positive qualities as well.

“I wish you could come to Khayelitsha on a Friday or Saturday evening,” said Iran.

He told me about the music and sense of community outside in the streets. And, as we walked around his neighborhood on Saturday he kept mentioning how he wished I could be there later in the afternoon—when Khayelitsha “wakes up.” I wish I could have been there as well.

Iran and I were reporting on the youth of Khayelitsha as they relate to democracy. After some brainstorming, we came to the conclusion that the youth are the country’s future democracy so we decided to investigate that further. There are lots of kids in the community. However, not all of them are attending school. Some are not being pushed, others find it pointless and some are motivated but don't know where they will turn once high school is completed. The point is that they need guidance, they need assistance.

And, for all of its problems, there was a vibe and energy in the township on Saturday. The community was moving, vendors were set up and a makeshift barber/salon was doing business. But, I wonder how much business is really being done—both from within and outside of Khayelitsha. There is certainly a contingent of motivated individuals living in the space, but how much can they thrive if they don’t receive the infrastructure and support they need? I am still learning the ins and outs of the housing problems that the country faces but it seems clear to me that housing must be top priority.

“You know. A lot of these people can afford to leave here. They just choose to stay.” Those were the words of our driver, Abdullah as we headed back into the city on Saturday afternoon. Maybe he sensed the heaviness that I felt as I looked out the passenger side window. He said that some people living in the townships chose to do so in order to remain close to family and a way of life that they know and understand.

That may be true for some, but I can’t imagine it is as simply as that for the thousands of people living in Khayelitsha.

Last semester, I spent a fair amount of time writing about housing in Los Angeles and talking to people in Jordan Downs—one of the most notorious public housing projects in South Los Angeles. The themes were similar. There was underemployment, crime and an obvious need for more focus on the young people in the community. Despite the issues, some residents still insisted on emphasizing what was good about their communities as well. I imagine that bit of optimism is needed if things are to ever have any hope of getting. People need to be reminded that some good exists. Otherwise, what will motivate them? Being reminded may just be a global need.

Day 1

2010-06-11T05:34:00.000-07:00

I know almost nothing about soccer. I probably never even hear of the World Cup before my late teens and certainly didn't understand the impact that it has on individuals and nations until very recently. I'm beginning to comprehend that intensity more clearly every day.

Of course, there has been much speculation (some of it from myself) as to what good this event really will do for the people of South Africa. Sure, there has been lots of infrastructure, but as one of my South African colleagues asked, "Will it continue once it is all said and done?"

I certainly hope so. Public transportation has been improved, security is beefed up and there are lots of aesthetic improvement that have materialized in this already beautiful city. But, homeless people also claim to have been shoved out of the city center and as of today a serious electricity outage in the township of Khayelitsha may prevent those residents who certainly can't afford tickets to the stadium from watching the opening game.

But the spirit in this place cannot be denied. While it might be easy to scoff at it all and complain about the FIFA mafia, people are energized. They are proud and united around their country. The questions is: will it last? I hope it's a seed for something. Off to the U.S. consulate.

Bafana! Bafana!

Robben Island

2010-06-06T14:54:00.000-07:00

On Friday morning, my group and I visited Robben Island. Until 1997, the island was a maximum security prison, which is where political prisoners like Nelson Mandela were held for decades during the reign of apartheid.

I wasn’t sure how or what I would feel and I think I am still digesting it all. But that island was a living example of contrasts. It’s a beautiful place, beautiful land that was home to such horror and pain.

After we boarded the ferry I snuck away from the group and joined sat on the top deck. The wind was cold and I was bracing myself for an eye-opening experience. Nevertheless, I was inspired by the Atlantic, its expansiveness and the excitement of being in a new place. Once we reached the island, we enjoyed the incredible view of Cape Town. It was striking, but being there left a sinking feeling in my stomach.

From the 1600’s until 1996, the sland had been used primarily as a place of imprisonment and banishment. From 1961 until 1997, it was used to imprison political prisoners in addition to criminal prisoners who, by the way, were held in the medium security prison.

We sat on a bus and toured the island, followed by a tour through the prison that was led by a former political prisoner held on the island. Prisoners were held in tiny, solitary cells. In addition to having their physical freedom stripped from them, their mail was censored and true contact with the outside world was taken as well.

The word that kept coming to my mind was “control.”

So many lives and years lost because of the need for control over this land. With the creation of apartheid white South Africans or Afrikaners segregated the land by racial distinctions. One was white, coloured or black and where they lived and the opportunities that were afforded them were completely dependent upon these unfounded physical distinctions.

What the defiance of freedom fighters and groups like the African National Congress represented was the loss of control of those who were reaping the benefits of that division. Many people lost their lives and precious time in their attempt to gain freedom and steer their country in the right direction.

Power is blinding and control is addictive. Fortunately, the strength of conviction outweighed those forces. I was happy to have visited, saddened by the reminder and struck by that conviction. I hope that I possess even an ounce of such integrity. Something to strive for.

Tour

2010-06-03T13:56:00.000-07:00

I walking tour through Cape Town today. Fortunately, it was not a typical walking tour--it was wrapped around issues of homelessness and development in the city. We were led by people from the Central City Improvement District. They took us to a few sights and talked some history, but mainly focused on the work that was being done to improve Cape Town--both in terms of preparing for the World Cup and addressing homelessness.

There are men in construction vests all over. Brick is being laid and a bridge to create safe passage to the stadium is being constructed. It looks like there is still a bit to do, but I bet there will be some overtime to make sure it is done.

Regarding homelessness, the people at the CCID say one of their primary concerns is getting people to shelters and informing them of the bylaws that exist in the city in order to maintain their personal "dignity" and keep them out of the community court system.

Having done a fair amount of reporting in Skid Row last semester, I was curious what the homeless demographic is like in Cape Town.

While social workers on Skid Row have witnessed a marked increase in women, children and families in Los Angeles, those in Cape Town are seeing more families and youth fill the ranks of the homeless in the city. According to Pat Eddy, social development manager at the CCID, the increase in young people has much to do with the use of the drug "Tik" in South Africa

Tik is crystal meth and apparently it is just as appealing in Cape Town as it is in the states. Tik isn't "pure." It is often "watered down," which, according to Eddy, means it is filled with ingredients such as rat poison and other harmful products that cause permanent mental damage. Eddy said she is concerned the city will end up with a "generation of psychotics."

I wonder what the pressure is like for the folks at the CCID at this moment. What will the rush of World Cup fans think they see when they look at the country? How much is at stake and how might this upcoming exposure affect the plight--positively or negatively--of the this "generation"?

Arrived

2010-06-03T07:27:00.000-07:00

I officially arrived in Cape Town on June 1st. After two days of travel, I am on solid ground. And solid would be the word for this place--at least in its physical form. Looking out from my new apartment window, I see Table Mountain. There is something about looking out to that mass of earth and rock that is comforting.

I'm feeling well, despite the brief waves of jet lag that feel like moments of floating, followed by bursts of energy.

The first night was about settling into our new housing. I have housemates for the first time in years as well as a roommate, which I haven't had since my freshman year in college. I vowed years ago that I wouldn't have another roommate unless I was sleeping with them. Well, some things are worth compromise.

After settling it was time for food. We ended up on Long Street, which is reminiscent of Venice in its bohemia-meets-tourism vibe. We met with some others from the group at Royale Cafe and, as it turns out, we came all the way to Cape Town to eat burgers, drink beer and listen to The Cure. I've no complaints. In fact, it was one of the best veggie burgers I've had in a long time. The world is getting smaller and smaller and with that come many new variations on the same theme. Seeing something new is not always as apparent as we would like. Burgers and KFC can still be found at the end of a long trek.

Post burgers, our energy was depleted and we headed back home. It's something like living in a dorm all over again. I'm finding it less obnoxious than I thought it might be. Instead, I'm choosing to soak up some of the energy that is surrounding me.

I managed to sleep for nine hours straight and the first full day in the city was spent with orientation followed by a drive along the coast and a lovely dinner on the coast on what felt like the edge of the earth (and the beginning of it).

In many ways, I didn't feel that far away from home. But this coast was certainly different and the sunset had a life of its own. As the time passes, I am certain this place will continue to reveal its unique character, idiosyncrasies and troubles in a way that no amount of reading could capture. My eyes are open.

Pictures to follow. The internet is a little finicky for the time being.

Off

2010-05-30T00:21:00.000-07:00

The last two days were about family. Yesterday afternoon, I squeezed my way through three hours of Memorial Day/overturned tanker traffic in Los Angeles to get to my little brother's elementary school musical. It was worth every minute.

I panicked on the way there, worried that I would not make it. I was determined to be there for him before I leave for Cape Town for two months, before I had even been defeated I was vowing that I would never forgive myself if I missed his moment. My neuroses, which I often attribute to my family, were in overdrive and I had to keep reminding myself that it was out of my control, that I would be better served if told myself that I would make it. All the while, I realized the mini-drama I was experiencing in the confines of my Ford Focus were minor in the grand scheme of things--especially considering the 18-wheeler engulfed in flames on the 91 freeway.

I made it and, miraculously, there were no injuries reported as a result of the accident. I was fortunate. My dad would call it a blessing.

This afternoon, I enjoyed a relaxing morning with the family, followed by lunch at one of our favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurants (the secrets of the Inland Empire). Afterward, we stood outside talking, hugging, saying our goodbyes. Before we left, I took a quick photo of them all to take with me on the trip. After I clicked, Dad stood back, smiled and asked, "Do you know how blessed I am?"

With all of our flaws, the struggle and our complicated connections to one another, he was overwhelmed with gratitude for our existence.

Tonight, I am moving in a surreal space. I am almost unable to believe the experience that lies ahead of me. I am completely aware that, though this life I am leading is somewhat foreign to my parents, it has much to do with the lives they have led. Their hard work, sacrifice and ability to recognize joy when it emerges has granted me the drive to hustle on this path and the opportunity to roam while I'm at it. A gift, maybe even a blessing.

Adventures of the Ethnically Ambiguous

2010-05-25T23:17:00.000-07:00

Tonight has been interesting. That is, interesting in the way that it has turned out to be nothing like I expected. This is my last night with TOPITR before I leave for Cape Town for two months. We didn't make any definite plans for the day, but kept it casual until the spirit moved us. We were hanging in the grey area, anticipating being apart in the very near future, but pushing it beneath the surface jut a while longer. That created a strange buzz in the air all afternoon. We moved quietly from one moment to the next, knowing something would happen eventually, but treading lightly in the hopes that time might slow down awhile.

Then something happened.

TOPITR got a call informing us his family's desert house had been broken into. Luckily there was nothing of value here, besides a case of Corona, which was probably the first thing to be swiped.

Besides a broken window, a mess to clean up and the disturbing feeling of knowing that some meth-head was rifling through the sheets that I am now reclining on, the damage was minor.

Even better, we made contact with the local police station and were again reminded of the words people let slip when they think they are among safe and, perhaps, white company. The officer, who shall remain nameless, arrived but there was little that could be done besides filling out a report.

We asked for advice: bars on the windows? more lights? security system?

Officer "No Name" offered some advice but reminded us that some people will get in, no matter what.

"The black guys now are kicking the front doors right down."

Once again, with no effort at all, TOPITR and I were passing. This is one of the many things we have in common--ethnic ambiguity. It makes for versatility and obnoxious moments like these when you want to ask "Do you have any idea who you're talking to?"

I've never had to explain to TOPITR how old the question "What are you?" has become. He gets it, on a level that digs deeper than the surface, and I love him for that.

We looked at each other, smiled and then TOPITR said, "Well, maybe I should put up a sign that says 'black owned' and they won't want to break in."

Officer "No Name" chuckled, but I'm afraid he didn't get it. That wasn't the moment that he realized he was talking to two black people, but rather the moment he realized he was talking to a couple of white people with a sense of humor.

Was it a moment of racism? Could it really just be the "black guys" that are kicking down the doors? Has it happened frequently enough to even label it a trend?

We let it go, he left and wished us a good night.

We will. Together. And we won't be kicking down any doors.

Movement and Madness

2010-05-20T22:46:00.000-07:00

Photo by Scott Groller

Last night I went to REDCAT to see Lionel Popkin's "There is an Elephant in This Dance." If this was more official I would wait until the end to tell you to go see it, but I'll tell you now: Go see it.

The piece possesses raw emotion, quirkiness and humor--it doesn't take it self too seriously to lend itself to laughter. And, in all of its confusion and somewhat tangled relationships, there is clarity--both in its physicality and emotion.

And, of course, there is an elephant in the dance--an elephant suit brought to life and movement by dancer Peggy Piacenza. Popkin also brings the elephant a life and, perhaps, death of his own at the end of the piece. It serves as the perfect "elephant in the room" and a critical layer of the other performers' existence of which they cannot (or will not) disengage.

The piece began before it began. While the audience filled in, Piacenza walked across the space, placing and re-placing pieces of her elephant costume on the stage and making eye contact with those in their seats. The chatter eventually died down and, in all of the noise, Piacenza was a fully clothed elephant. She performed a solo full of energetic and nuanced hand and foot gestures that eventually brought her to her knees on which she continued a series of rises and falls until finding a quiet place on her side. The dance began.

The stage went to black and Popkin entered from the first row of the audience. He performed a solo with hands in pockets and a series of spinal undulations, back bends and exaggerated inhales and exhales all with an eye on the audience. The movements were rigorous and, at times, took on an otherworldly appearance, but were performed with an ease and authenticity that made it just as believable as the elephant on the stage.

The solo is followed by a series of duets between Popkin and Carolyn Hall, in which the two waffle between fighting for control and partnering with ease. Each of their interactions revolves around one gesture: Hall placing her finger between Popkin's lips, which he tolerates at times and loathes at others. A continual wrinkle in the relationship.

The struggle continued over the course of the piece, as Piacenza's elephant moved in and out of the space. Most notably, she quietly walked through across the stage, costume in hand, occasionally dropping pieces and attempting to recover them just as quickly. But the course was set and the effects and layers of the elephant in the dance were felt. Like any complicated relationship, there was a strong force quietly at work in the background--blatant yet easy to ignore.

Popkin eventually adopted the elephant as an added layer. He moved on the floor and slithered into the head. From the earth to his feet, Popkin moved energetically, slowly, methodically and then with a certain amount of exhaustion. This he did while moving in and out of the elephant, until it gradually morphed from an entity of its own to an extension of the emotion stored in Popkin's movement. All the while, a projection played in the background featuring Popkin moving as the elephant and alternately removing and re-placing the layers of the suit.

Popkin slowly drew the piece to a close--elephant head in hand. Though the creature lost much of its luster and strength it was still very much a part of the moment and the dance--a remnant of what was yet very much a part of the person and environment left on the stage.

Joshua Tree

2010-05-18T20:22:00.000-07:00

Joshua Tree today.

Yesterday, a friend reminded me that traveling is a good thing because it reminds us of "how tiny your life is." She has a great point. Tiny yet significant. And, as it turns out you don't need to go far to be reminded. Getting out here, if just for a day, was just what I needed to do so.

TOPITR and I hiked to the top of Ryan Mountain inside of the Joshua Tree National Park. It was was a fairly steep hike, which I loved. We had to work for the view, which was even better.

First, there is something eye-opening about getting to the top of range and gazing down at the valley below. The expansiveness of it all is enough to make you sit down and shut up--something we could use more of. Sometimes just a little quiet can help put things back into perspective (if they were ever there in the first place).

Secondly, there is something particularly gratifying about absorbing a space that exists, and has existed for centuries, with very little human contribution. It is humbling and comforting to know that this much beauty exists without any of our own innovation or incessant need for change. It just is and there is nothing much that we can do besides recognize it, protect it or otherwise destroy it.

Some things were meant to be untouched. This is not only for the sake of preserving nature but for the sake of reminding ourselves that some things simply cannot be touched and could not be done better. It takes some of the pressure off, if only for a short period of time.

Present

2010-05-17T22:22:00.000-07:00

I've completed year one of two in my graduate program. I'm relieved, but not. I am still waiting to land and waiting for the next thing to tackle. So much for relaxation. I'm trying.

The next thing would be getting prepared to take off for South Africa in less than two weeks.

Until this moment, I haven't had the time to get excited about, get prepared for or panic about the trip. Now, I am excited about seeing a new and incredible place, I'm beginning to get the details together and am officially getting nervous about the prospect of living and working outside of my geographical and cultural element for two months. It's a lot.

It's only at 3 a.m. or so that I think about the things that could go wrong or being apart from TOPITR for that long.

But, we've been separated for longer periods of time and, the fact is, you just do it. Besides saying "I miss you" several times a day and writing incessant e-mails, there's not much you can do. Thank God for Skype.

As far as what could go wrong, I'm certain there are hundreds of things and I'll probably tread dangerously close to a good deal of them. But, I'll try to bask in the bit of excitement that I'm feeling when my mind isn't wandering off to the darker side of things. That's just where it goes naturally. My work is to keep it in the present and, perhaps, even in the positive. That's the real work.

The Street

2010-03-17T23:59:00.000-07:00

There I was on the corner of Sunset and Cahuenga...

To clarify, I was on the corner of Sunset and Cahuenga getting b-roll. I'm working on a broadcast piece about the MAK Center's "How Many Billboards" exhibition. The project is a collaborative of artist who have taken over 21 billboards in the city in hopes of cutting into the inundation of advertisements that Angelenos absorb on a daily basis.

There I was, the one woman journalism show, shooting my billboard b-roll and attempting to get some old-fashioned "man on the street" commentary. Then I realized that I was just two yards away from two Green Peace girls.

"Damn," I thought. "I'm competing with the Green Peace people."

No matter how much you love the earth, we all know that people love to avoid a GP petition even more. I watched several people walk by them and insist that that "really" they didn't have a minute, with that look in their eyes. You know, the look that says, "We both know that I have the time, but it's not going to happen today."

They made first contact with the people heading west. I made contact with those heading east.

I stopped one of the first heading in my direction. He told me he didn't have a minute because he was headed to work. Probably lying, but I didn't take it to heart. I snagged the next one. My GP girls hadn't stopped a single soul.

Billboards: 1

Green Peace: 0

But, I was sympathetic. I didn't attempt to stop any of the people that had previously rejected GP. Most of them were avoiding making any sort of eye contact with me, as well. A random woman with a tiny camcorder on the street in Hollywood is just as off-putting as the GP clipboard.

But then there was Mr. Willing. I watched him maneuver outside of the clutches of my competitors very smoothly; but, as he approached, I made eye contact.

"You just passed them by, I don't suppose you have a minute," I said.

"Uh, no," he said as he started to walk away.

He turned back.

"Well, what are you working on?"

I explained. He agreed and waited while I set up my embarrassingly tangled microphone and massive headphones.

Billboards: 2

Green Peace: 0

I'm not sure what this all means. Perhaps it's simply that we'd rather avoid being confronted with issues that seem far out of our reach. Maybe we're tired of hearing about it. Billboards are safe. No confrontation there. Unless, of course, you're Carmen Trutanich.

Pismo

2010-03-14T15:30:00.000-07:00

I decided to take a three hour drive up to Pismo Beach. I thought the change of atmosphere would do me good. They/we/people say that changing your environment can work wonders. I think I believe that.

But, this is a strange little town. Based upon the banners on the pier, it has been deemed "Classic California." It is stuck somewhere in time but I'm not sure how classic it is. I noticed a Thomas Kincaid gallery, tattoo parlors and more than enough humorous t-shirts. It seems to have been fabricated to remain somewhere in the early 90's.

The country and the sea have come together and the employees at this hotel are so friendly and the lawn so eerily perfect, I feel as though I may never get out. On the edge of the world and in the middle of nowhere. I'm hoping the liminal space will leave me with a clear head.

Choices

2010-03-05T01:08:00.000-08:00

Today, hundreds of thousands of students, professors and supporters rallied in opposition to budget cuts that have raised fees and slashed the availability of education in California's public schools.

I hope the administrations of the UC and Cal State Universities were paying attention. More importantly, I hope the rest of the nation was listening. This is not about listening to chanting, clamor or chaos, but to the anxiety that this education crisis is causing in the minds and hearts of far too many.

I graduate from UC Berkeley, a public school. I was the first in my immediate family to attend college. Though we were certainly of modest means, I did not worry much about money. Tuition was relatively cheap and grants and scholarships were abundant. Besides, I convinced myself that any amount of debt for education was worth it.

I was incredibly grateful to be there. I was grateful for the education and the opportunities it afforded but, even more so, for the ability to choose. In those four years, my world opened up with opportunity to expand in any direction that called me. I had options that my mother and father did not have and those that my grandparents never dreamed of.

Now, for many, those options are being diminished by the looming anxiety that comes with financing one's education and life.

I am currently in the same financial predicament but, this time, within the safe confines of a well-endowed private university. I and my colleagues have often joked about the ungodly amount of debt that we are racking up. Joking is the only way to keep smiling through it. We have laughed ourselves into a stupor that says, "Going into debt is fine. It's your education."

Where did that come from? I certainly didn't inherit it from my frugal mother.

But that financial stupor is not an option for most. I have read far too many accounts of student who are considering dropping out because they fear that cannot pay for their education any longer. These are the responsible and motivated young people that truly value education as it should be. But for many, the options are dwindling by the minute.

Take a Seat

2010-02-09T00:14:00.000-08:00

This week I was reminded of just how grateful I am for my yoga practice, my classes and my students. I have entered my second semester of my graduate program, which promises to be more intense than the first. It is already. This is both because an increase in workload and the realization that I have been thrown even further outside of my comfort zone. But that is why we do these things anyway. Isn't it?

Yes, I think that is the answer. We shake our lives up to remind ourselves that we are alive. Maybe I shouldn't generalize.

In a world that demands constant motion, the studio, my mat, my practice (whatever you would like to call it) is more necessary than ever. I look forward to the opportunity to step into a space and time that requires me to be one pointed.

Jack Kornfield calls it the "one seat," in his book, A Path With Heart. He is referring to the one seat of meditation, a retreat of sorts. The seat is practicing the ability to be completely present in a single space and time. What a challenge in an era when spreading ourselves too thin is the rule, rather than the exception, and our technology allows up to be in numerous virtual spaces at once.

The seat is not a total escape but an opportunity to get more connected to the reality brewing inside. Kornfield sums it up here:

When we take the one seat on our meditation cushion we become our own monastery. We create the compassionate space that allows for the arising of all things: sorrows, loneliness, shame, desire, regret, frustration, happiness.

The murky matter rises to the surface. It is an opportunity to step out of our comfort zone every day. Feeling alive is not merely in the movement but in the stillness. Each requires one breath at a time and faith that we'll come out in the end, changed for what we hope is the better.

Get it Together

2010-01-07T15:28:00.000-08:00

We're shifting again.

I suppose your twenties are about moving multiple times and a certain amount of unrest. I'm closer to 30 than I am to 20. We'll see if this next era brings a great sense of grounding. For now, I'll enjoy the change.

It seems like yesterday that I was moving my things from Waterloo Street to TOPITR's place. In reality, that moving process took months and was long, gradual and a bit arduous. But that's another entry altogether. Just a few months after that shift, I was on my way to grad school and we decided that it would be a great idea for me to use the bungalow next door as my office/practice space. I needed space to work and the last tenant moved out. No need to look for someone new and I could work, uninterrupted, whenever I liked. Seemed brilliant.

We moved a good deal of my things next door and before I could really sink into it, the semester took off and there was no hope of my ever making a mark--besides the piles of paper and coffee mugs, here and there. I suppose I had a feeling it wouldn't last.

Reality has set in and we've both decided that we would rather have the extra money than the extra space. It's good to be under one roof. Besides, there are families all over the world living in smaller spaces than this one. We'll make it work. Hell, the L.A. Times is even featuring articles about families in small spaces. There are books about this stuff. Though I don't suppose they are going down to Macarthur Park or South L.A. to find their subjects. We could be a part of the next cultural phenomenon, which has been going on for decades.

Since I moved to L.A., I have watched TOPITR shift his things nearly every season. I have usually assisted as he has moved his furniture, documents, memorabilia and other things of life from a house to a "chicken coop," to a garage and then to the next garage. Every time, things get a little more organized. We're shifting our things together now and I suppose there is something to be said for that.

Our little bungalow looks as though it has suffered a minor explosion, but we'll get it back in order. I have four more days to do so. I can't begin another season/semester wondering where I live and I'm betting it will be well worth the effort. I'm certain that getting one's house in order is conducive to getting ones head in order and we could all use that.

Okay, Expedite. Here we go.

The End

2010-01-06T22:38:00.000-08:00

Today is the official end of the holiday season. January 6th marks the "Feast of the Epiphany," which commemorates the visitation of the three Magi or kings to the Christ child. I've never celebrated on this particular day but it's given me a few more days to to mentally prepare for the post holiday hangover, the new year and, yes, a new semester.

This holiday season was full of good rest for me and many others with whom I've spoken. We've all come to the same conclusion: rest is incredibly underrated and should be enjoyed whenever possible.

But, now it's time to begin again. As wonderful as this time has been, I need to find my bearings and get back to work. Work with purpose, that is.

I suppose that makes it even more appropriate that I received the gift of Saint Expedite, this evening. It is said that Expedite battles procrastination, among other things. It's time. I don't make new year's resolutions, but here's to a period of motivation, action and moving with quality, rather than the mass quantity and brute force which seems to have taken over far too many aspects of our lives. Forging ahead, taking the time to get quiet, listen and acknowledge the accomplishments that already exist and those that lie ahead.

Work for me, Expedite.

A Steal

2009-12-26T21:47:00.001-08:00

It's the day after Christmas: Boxing Day to some, one of the biggest shopping days of the year to others.

Monumental...

My morning paper was dominated by advertisements that declared everything from underwear to electric mixers at 60-75% off. Who could resist it? That's the message that was implied, anyway. Missing out on all of those savings would be some kind of sin. Whether or not you can afford it, you can not afford to pass up those deals.

I've never participated in Black Friday shopping or day after Christmas madness but I was sucked in, this year. TOPITR and I decided our Christmas gift to each other would be a new mattress to properly support our aching backs. What better day to do it? What better place than the Macy's Furniture Outlet in Highland Park? A well kept secret full of dinged tables, slightly scratched leather couches, and "second-hand" mattresses.

There we were, walking among isles of mattresses, wrapped in plastic, waiting for a second home. A friendly, but not overly enthusiastic, salesman helped us. He answered our questions, pulled out a few mattresses and let them fall to the concrete floor so we might get a feel for them.

Another couple wandered around, close-by, looking for the perfect mattress. It is an incredible investemnt, after all. Two men stood on the other side of us, looking perplexed by the rows of rejected furniture. One of them spoke:

"Oh, they're second hand." He looked to us and asked, "Did you know they were second-hand?"

"Yes," I said.

He said something about furnishing a guest room.

Apparently, "second-hand" means a number of things. According to our salesman, most are purchases that did not work out and were returned within 30 days: a mattress that was supposed to be firm was too soft, the piece was too big for the room, etc. Second hand did not disturb me much but the other people in the room did. TOPITR and I said that we needed to think about it. Our salesman said "Okay," told us he would be close-by, and walked away. God only knows how many hundreds of times he's given that explanation. I'm sure he would have preferred to say, "Come get me when you're ready to buy something."

Guest room guy proceeded to watch us closely, as we tried to sell ourselves on the pillow-top mattress that, according to our salesman, was an incredible deal: from $2,500 to $599.

"Are you guys still thinking?" he asked.

He and his friend lingered and it occurred to me. He's trying to get his hands on our mattress.

The store would be closing in 45 minutes. I told TOPITR that we might have to camp out on the Sealy Posturepedic until closing. I wasn't sure if we were going to buy it but there was no way that guy was walking out with it. Outlet shopping was making me possessive.

Meanwhile, the couple was tossing and turning on an Aireloom, a so-called "hand-made" and incredibly expensive mattress, just a few yards away. The wife said the choices were altogether "daunting." She also informed me that, given my frame, I should probably be sleeping on a soft mattress.

"You're skinny," she said.

I'm not sure what the two have to do with one another but I assured her that a firm mattress was in my future. Hell, maybe she was trying to get her hands on my "Manager's special" as well.

Her partner then bounced around on his side of the bed and enthusiastically pointed out that she lay undisturbed, despite his movement. Then they spooned, as their salesman watched patiently, and made a comment about pretending to like one another. You couldn't make this stuff up.

I kept an eye on guest room guy. He held on for quite a while but finally left the warehouse. I felt safe to pull myself away. We decided to look around. Maybe we could find something new and returnable, at a better price. We shouldn't get swept away by the madness, after all.

We didn't find anything better. Looks like we may be back for the manager's special at 11 a.m., tomorrow.

Location

2009-12-22T01:10:00.000-08:00

It's been far too long.

It was a week of far too much. I had the pleasure of spending this week of excess in New York. I was able to visit old friends, see new shows and eat, perhaps, one too many rich meals. On one hand, it felt like a 7 days of whirlwind consumption. When I arrived, I mentally prepared to soak in as much as possible in that limited time. On the other hand, once I was there, the pressure subsided. I felt like I was coming home and there was no need to create stress over it.

TOPITR has been working in the city for a few months and it was satisfying to be living together, if only for a week, in the place where we met. It was good to be able to walk hand-in-hand down down the streets we love and share it with each other.

Every time I visit, however, it is inevitable that someone asks the now tired question: "Do you prefer New York or L.A.?" And, at times, I felt the urge to explain myself and my location. If the questions is coming from a die-hard New Yorker it is likely a test of wits. The New York superiority complex sets in (from both parties) and I look at them as though to say, "Isn't it obvious?", followed by the verbal, "Definitely, New York." As the words come out of my mouth, most people nod in agreement and seeming relief.

The statement is still true, my answer is the same, but the emotion has changed. My explanation is longer and more complicated these days, as I learn to understand my location--geographically and otherwise. The more I learn, the more I accept that the greater challenge has been learning to make the most of this place and remember that none of these places has ever defined me.

I'm back in L.A., now. This is where I am. There was a twinge of sadness as I headed to the airport, but it passed. I've learned to appreciate this strange city and its complexity, which has required me to dig beneath the surface to find a niche. New York can be harsh, but L.A. is far lonelier. When it's difficult I've learned to, at the very least, find something interesting within it. As soon as I stopped judging it (mostly), I started to enjoy it.

Love it? That may be taking it too far. Appreciate it? That, I can admit.

New York, L.A.: two possibilities among many. I used to pride myself on being a so-called "New Yorker." I would say that it doesn't matter anymore but that would be a lie. Though it still matters, I can see through it and laugh at it, now. Life has moved on.

And tonight, it is good to be home.

Walking

2009-10-16T00:01:00.000-07:00

"Do you care about me?" Those were the words I heard as I walked across 116th street in Harlem, last weekend. TOPITR and I were working the Harlem Art Walk. We met interesting people and saw some good pieces and paintings. But it was, "Do you care about me?" that resonated.

The man who posed the question appeared to be homeless. I imagine that he had been watching most of the day while people, with maps and brochures in hand, walked by in search of art.

There is major change and development manifesting itself in Harlem--like so many cities and neighborhoods in the country. I had not been to this particular neighborhood in some time and, when I arrived, I was taken by the new restaurants, florist, and yes, a yoga studio. Social prosperity is no longer merely gauged by the arrival of a Starbucks. Just wait until you see brightly colored mats and hyper-coordinated yoga outfits walking by.

Kidding aside, these all can be positive things that support the community and bring a new life to its members. But, I cannot help but wonder how many are watching as all of this positivity passes them by.

September 30, 2009

2009-10-02T00:18:00.000-07:00

It is subtle, but Fall has fallen over L.A. I noticed on Tuesday night. Leaves rustled a bit more, the air felt a shade darker but was not at all heavy. Beautifully grounded movement. It put me in a good mood and into a sweater that had been hanging in my closet for far too long.

Of course it was nearly 90 degrees again today, but I'm sticking close to my Fall theory. I've felt the shift. It's something like Yoga. You have to get quiet, listen, move around and feel something. Suddenly, you notice a shift and maybe even an answer that was there all along.

My nephew was born early Wednesday morning. He must have felt it, as well. He was the most beautiful shift of my week. There is nothing like the moment you realize a new life has entered yours. Suddenly, it seems, they arrive and you're changed. Physically slight, yet they possess such power in their reality: a new force in the world, new opportunity to know and be known. A new season.

Is it Down?

2009-09-25T15:28:00.000-07:00

Apologies. I have been away. Trust that I have been writing about something, but in different platforms and different locations. But, it's just wrong to be so distant from the "many worlds."

Thank God the internet is back up. I was sitting in a neighborhood cafe and it happened: the wireless went down. Suddenly, eyes started to wander, people looked to one another after hours of mostly ignoring one another (save the occasional friendly glance). And then someone called out, "Uh, is your internet working?"

"No. It's down," I replied.

"I guess we could start talking to one another," he said.

More glances...

"No. I'm not ready for that." he concludes.

One of my favorite cafes in the neighborhood is Downbeat Cafe (visit and tell Dan I said hello) because it is without internet access. For one, if I am working on something that does not require internet access, it is the perfect way to avoid the perpetual distraction of my e-mail, facebook, bank statements, and twitter (yes, I've succumbed). I am free for a couple of hours, which may be considered irresponsible to some. After all, people need to connect with me, right? But, this time is incredibly grounding and may be the closest I come to a vacation for some time.

When I was still living in Berkeley, I sat in a local establishment, one afternoon, with my discman in tow. This was the pre iPod era. A middle-aged gentleman looked at me with disdain in his eyes and asked, "What do you do when your batteries die? Replace them, right away?" I knew he found my electronic substance abuse disgusting, but I replied with a simple "yes," anyway. I stopped wearing my headphones so often after that day. I'm convinced that it's made for great conversation. I'll never forget that classic Berkeley moment.

For now, the internet is back up and we're back to our electronic grind. I'll tweet all about it later.

Welcome Back

2009-09-07T23:17:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is the big day. President Obama is set to give a speech about the importance of education to the nation's school children. This has lit a fire under the right. The exhausting campaign continues.

"Indoctrination" has become the word of the week; and parents, politicians and journalists alike are protesting the speech. Many claim that Obama is attempting to instill socialist propaganda into the minds of children.

Most have reacted strongly to the initial lesson plan, which was to follow the speech. The lesson plan included questions like: "What specific job is the President asking me to do?" and "What can I do to help the president. The lesson plan has since been changed, in reaction to the outrage.

Laura Ingraham, on FOX news, called the speech "creepy" and a "slick move to market 'Brand Obama' to our young people." She went on to attack the proposed "No Child Left Inside Act", which would require schools receiving federal aid to include environmental education in their curriculum. This, she said, would turn our children into the "next generation of eco-warriors." I ask: What is the problem with a new generation of environmentally conscious children?

Did it ever occur to anyone that the president may be "asking" for a generation of Americans that value the importance of education as vital to our success as a nation?

What are people truly afraid of? Is it socialism, or is it the fear that their children may be inspired by the man on the other side of the partisan divide. There seems to be a fear of ideas: "I don't agree with President Obama and neither should you." I am sure these parents have little to worry about. If they proclaim their opposition and disdain often enough, it is likely their children will adopt these ideas as well--for a while, anyway.

Week 1

2009-08-20T17:09:00.000-07:00

This week is my first as a graduate student at the Annenberg School of Journalism at USC. I am genuinely excited and hopeful; though there was a bit of trepidation leading up to this moment: "Is this the absolute right choice? Have I been out of school too long? Am I an artist or journalist? Who in the hell am I?"

Now that I have entered, met several professors and colleagues, and absorbed my surroundings, my vision is less blurred. I have been presented with the reality of the challenges to come as well as the seemingly endless amount of possibility. There is room for creation and how I contribute is my choice.

Over the course of the last week, several people have asked, "Why the drastic change from dance to journalism?" The question is getting tired, but I understand the logic--transition and transformation are not easily digested in our society. More often, we are encouraged to choose a single path and thrive, rater than opening our eyes to the many routes toward completion. I call it "multi-faceted." This transition doesn't seem so drastic, just the natural progression of me. I have not begun this new journey to leave anything behind but to to embrace what is ahead. The next two years are just the latest addition to my arsenal.

Not Everything

2009-08-14T10:45:00.000-07:00

I am in Houston and the saying "Everything is bigger in Texas" has some truth to it. The walk through the airport took a bit of time and upon arriving to our hotel I was again reminded. Through the large rotating doors we found ourselves in the rotunda that houses a massive venetian chandelier and a wall dedicated to a world map, that is sparkling, azure, golden and--of course--highlighting the Americas. The margaritas at dinner were yet another example. The disparity between the large and the small were so extreme that I opted for the large. I have submitted to this last weekend, lost weekend before my new academic pursuits begin.

That said, there are some things that aren't so different about Texas; namely, the relationship to distance and driving versus walking. At dinner, TOPITR and I jumped into a conversation with two local twenty-somethings. They recommended a local club to us--something worthwhile, that does not attract too many tourists. We asked if we could walk and the response was: "Oh no! Well, you could walk it, but you don't want to." My bells went off. I immediately decided we would be walking. I grew up in the Inland Empire, have lived in L.A. for two years and have had the great pleasure of living and loving walking cities like Berkeley and New York. Therefore, I know what "you could walk it" means. It means you can walk it, it not that far, but the driving trap will likely prevent you from doing so.

We walked. I was convinced that it was not far and, even if it was, we could certainly use it after the large and delicious Tex-Mex meal. The walk was under ten minutes and was perfectly pleasant on a balmy, Houston night. Maybe it is the sheer expansiveness of Houston and L.A. that completely distort our perception of distance. There are far too many factors that play into this scenario. We'll see how much walking I get done this weekend.

Retirement Party

2009-08-11T22:56:00.000-07:00

Sunday was my last day at the restaurant. And, though I have been waiting for this moment for quite some time I will admit that it was bittersweet. I made great friends there, had great laughs, great stories, tears and a bit of blood. There is nothing quite like the bonds that you create and the thick skin you acquire when working in the service industry.

Besides, I always felt like I had completed a hard day's work after a long shift at the restaurant. There is a certain amount of entitlement that comes with working your ass off--though I was wishing I had been working on something else entirely. There were even days when I came home and felt as though I earned the right to kicking up my feet for a while and asking TOPITR to crack open a cold one. Okay, complete exaggeration on my part. But there was no doubt that I was contributing, earning my keep, sowing and reaping.

I thought certainly that, on my last day, some of my least favorite, most ridiculous and rude patrons would stop by for brunch. I was itching to lay on the "sassiness" but, to my surprise, all of my tables were incredibly pleasant. Maybe they weren't that pleasant but I was more capable of living in the moment and letting the rest roll of my back. This shift was not my life, not the end. Even when my last two tables of the evening seemed to be competing for the title of "slowest eater on the face of the earth", I was able to laugh it off and simply wait and the world will still be waiting for me upon completion. Yes, the final day felt like the longest shift ever but I paced myself, remained calm and soaked up every minute. The last moments are always the longest when we have clearly reached the end of a chapter.

That evening I attended a friend's going away party. We shared our feelings of gratitude for the ability to leave our "day jobs" behind. We hope it is for good yet prepared for anything.

Glory Through Philanthropy

2009-08-07T00:49:00.000-07:00

Thursday night I went to the Skirball Cultural Center to watch The Wild Magnolias perform as part of the center's Sunset Concerts on Thursday evenings. It was a great time. The Wild Magnolias are a New Orleans based band that fashion themselves and their music after the Mardi Gras Indians. The Mardi Gras Indians are not Native Americans, per se. Rather, this is a tradition that sprang from African-American secret societies comprised of working class men who adopted the custom of "masking" as a way to participate in the Mardi Gras parade. The "masking" or costuming was also an act of honoring Native American tribes who assisted in the resistance against the tyranny of slavery in New Orleans. The tradition of the Mardi Gras Indians live on and with that the Skirball hosted The Wild Magnolias and exposed the wider world (or at least L.A.) to them.

The costumes were incredible and the music and movement produced a beautiful energy that had people of all ages and many walks of life on their feet. The men on stage were doused in bright lights and, in this moment of performance, there was a sense of glamour attached to the whole affair. But, I was continually drawn to the performers' eyes, beneath the large headdresses of bright colors and sparkling adornment. They looked a little weary. Though moments of glory like these are experienced, the life of an artist is a beautiful struggle.

Just hours before I left for the concert, I had an interesting conversation with a neighborhood acquaintance. We talked about careers, pursuits and the general endeavor of trying to find ones niche in the world. He explained things in a wonderfully concise manner:

"I love to read, but I can't write to save my life. There are some people who are writers and those who are readers. There are teachers, artists, and those who are here to appreciate it all. They all have to exist to make it work."

And what would be the point of making art if their wasn't someone to soak in it, admire it, question it? Someone has to be affected.

But there was one detail we forgot. Everyone needs their own personal "Skirball." We need to be taught, we need to be appreciated and we need to be supported as artists. If only there was more Skirball love to go around. For now, I will delight in the opportunities of artistic support and hope that more artists get to feel that "glory" at least once in their career.

2009-08-04T13:52:00.000-07:00

Last week I broke into hives. What I thought might be a minor allergic, and short lived, reaction to a rash of insect bites turned into a week of wanting to crawl out of my own skin. I waited for a while and then decided to consult with a physician. She suggested that my body could be having an allergic reaction or it could be stress.

I have not eaten anything new or exciting, nor have I changed my my soap or laundry detergent. But there were the insect bites. I had a run in with what felt like a few hundred mosquitoes last month and upon shifting into my new "home office", I discovered that the previous tenant's canine left behind some of his less than welcome acquaintances: fleas. Stress? There has been a bit of that as well. Fleas, transition and the rest. I also noticed that the hives got extra fired up whenever I did. My conclusion: the hives are (for the time being) my body's reaction to the sting of insects and internalized stress.

My first question was how could this happen to me, the yoga instructor? I have been trained in any number of techniques to alleviate stress. And while taking the time to breathe fully and consciously calmed the condition, it did not rid me of it. Rather than dwell on my seeming inability to transcend the condition looked outside to find the best possible solution.

Doc suggested that I take Claritin, during the day, to avoid any possible mishaps involving heavy machinery, as a result of the groggy stupor that Benadryl seems to cause. I mentioned a few homeopathic remedies that I had researched. She looked at me as though I had suggested fairy dust and said: "Or you could just take the Claritin." Instead I headed directly to Nature Mart and asked the resident homeopathic medicine specialist what she suggested. She handed me one bottle, which is aid to specifically target hives and then another which is a natural antihistamine. She was serious, concerned and shared a similar expression in her face as the doc. The look said (from my perspective) "Listen to me. I know what's best." When it comes down to it, they were both selling products and what's more, a social idea and mode of identification. Everything down to the way we treat our allergies has become a way to establish ourselves in this vast sea of identity. Are you into Western or Eastern medicine? Bleach or Seventh Generation?

I tried the homeopathic route believing that I could move through it without any chemical assistance. But "under the tongue" just wasn't cutting it. I broke down, drove to target (2 strikes) and bought the Claritin (3 strikes). I feel much better today. Please do not judge my western approach.

Sassafrass

2009-07-31T14:24:00.001-07:00

This weekend, I spent another lovely afternoon serving brunch. The place was busy but service was going relatively smoothly. Then she walked in. I don't know who she is but I knew what she was bringing the moment she walked in the door. She wanted to order take out and when I directed her to the counter around the corner (where take out orders are received) she seemed a bit miffed. Perhaps I should have disregarded protocol and worshipped her as the Echo Park hipster goddess she must be.

I happened to be the first one at the counter, so I asked her what she would like. After looking at the menu she proceeded to order something that was not listed on it.

"I'll just take a regular, old breakfast sandwich".

"Actually, we don't make breakfast sandwiches."

"Oh, really?"

"No, I'm sorry."

I wasn't sorry.

"Well, do you have bread?"

"Yes."

"Do you have cheese?"

By this time, I knew exactly where this was going.

"Yes, we do."

"Do you have eggs?"

"Yes, we have all of those things but we do not make a breakfast sandwich."

"Are you the manager?"

"No, but if you'd like to speak with the owner I can get her for you."

"No I don't. You've just been sassy since I walked through the door and it's a real turnoff."

When is the customer just plain wrong? If nothing else, this situation is an opportunity to provide a bit of advice to those that have never worked in a restaurant. Don't try to manipulate the menu. When a server tells you it's not on the menu or it can't be done, in most cases, it's the truth. There is no vendetta against you. This has less to do with a so-called sassy attitude and is more likely a result of "back of the house" policy that does not allow for substitutions or special orders. As much as a proprietor might want to accommodate everyone, there is a system and logic and it would be a waste of time to request something that is not on the menu simply because you don't feel like using a fork and knife.

Okay, that may have been sassy.

Again, sassy? My question is what does that adjective mean? Was I literally offensive or did I simply fail to accommodate her in the way that she felt necessary? And, if I had been anyone else, was working at another local establishment would my approach have been acceptable then? I know that whenever I decide to throw away another $5 into the hip and overpriced coffee coffers at one of our notable Silverlake cafes, I am almost certain to be treated with a bit of sass. Somehow, it is acceptable there--it s a part of the experience.

There was no time to speculate in that moment, so I looked to my co-worker (who had witnessed the entire scene) and passed it on to her. I was done. Yet, I still offered her a glass of water a few minutes later in an attempt to "kill her with kindness." But I suspect a better approach would have been skinny jeans and nonchalance.

I had essentially let go of the situation by the end of my shift. But this is a tiny little community and Wednesday night, as I was sitting at local bar (across the street from the scene of the incident), there she was. We were on the same side of the counter and there was a definite moment of recognition. I, the sassy waitress and she, the self absorbed guest. Now, it is almost certain that I will inevitably run into her at least once a week. There is good and bad associated with living in such a self-contained community. While everyone might not know your name it is likely that they know your face and most certainly your "number"--what you represent, what sector of this tiny world you inhabit. Some days old-fashioned, big city anonymity sounds like a much better idea.

The Right to Remain Silent

2009-07-26T22:03:00.000-07:00

Henry Louis Gates, Jr. I've heard the name far too many times in the past week and it just keeps coming. Since Gates' arrest on July 16th, the nation has been discussing the issue of racial profiling.

Up until yesterday, I questioned what was going on in Lucia Whalen's head when she made the 911 call, alerting police of a possible break in. I wondered if this was a racial assumption on her part. But since the 911 tapes were released yesterday, we now know that she made no mention of race. In fact, when pressed by the operator, she said that she didn't know the race of the men and that one might be a latino. She also followed up by saying it may have been someone having a "hard time with their key."

But Sgt. Crowley's report stated that he was responding to a call in which the caller described "two black men with backpacks." According to the record and Whalen herself, there was no mention of backpacks. Rather, Whalen mentioned seeing luggage. It seems that two men with luggage in tow would be even less likely to attempt burglary. Regardless, Crowley showed up on the site and, even after confirming that Gates was in his own home, arrested him. Why would Crowley write up a report that didn't honestly reflect the details of the 911 call? And why wasn't Crowley, as an officer who specializes in sensitivity toward racial profiling, unable to diffuse the obvious situation that arose between he and Gates? It seems that both men jumped on the opportunity to make a point and in doing so provided a poor display of their respective power and authority.

Crowley essentially arrested Gates for raising his voice, being "tumultuous." Professor Gates, on the other hand, used the opportunity as a platform from which to speak. We are now all aware of the statement "This is what happens when you are a black man in America." And since that day, bloggers and others have spoken out regarding their own experiences with racial profiling. The Gates-Crowley incident will now go down in history as a representation of the damaging effects of racial profiling; both because of the social significance of Gates' professional stature and the media coverage which the incident has been granted. All this, despite the fact that most in our society didn't know who Gates was before the incident occurred. I'll am interested to see how his influence will abound in light of this unfortunate event.

Why would Sgt. Crowley alter his report with details that didn't truly exist? Would he have arrested Gates for disorderly conduct if he were white? Would he have arrested him if he were not a Harvard professor intent upon proving a point and his own brand of power and authority? We may never know. But I am certain that we haven't heard the last of it. I doubt that a president beer is going to smooth this one over.

Would Love to Catch Up

2009-07-21T12:57:00.000-07:00

Reconnecting. In some cases it feels like an absolute chore. Yesterday, I had lunch with a friend of 14 years. We met when we were 13 and, through plenty of ups and downs, we have managed to maintain a steady stream of contact with one another. Though our lives have moved in very different directions, we have remained present and therefore informed of the major shifts in the other's life. There is something very organic about our interaction and no matter how long it has been since our last bit of contact, we are able to pick up where we left off. There is probably one or two other people in my life with whom I have maintained such long term contact. It is never forced. We just happen to have maintained communication and some sense of commonality.

But with the advent of social networking, the ability, pressure and need (for some) to reconnect is overwhelming. Over lunch, my friend and I came to the conclusion that neither one of us is exactly a fan of the incessant high school reunion that comes along with social networking sites such as Facebook. While there are some with whom I am happy to reconnect; the process often seems more exhausting than exhilarating.

Perhaps my age is the problem. In the late twenties, people want to know "What have you been up to?" Suddenly there is pressure to consolidate the last ten years into a concise explanation; highlighting ones location, marital status and short list of personal and professional progress.

My friend worried that she was somehow a calloused person because of her lack of interest. I assured her otherwise. A connection cannot be forced--no matter how great the technology. Utilize it when it make sense and leave the rest where it belongs: in the past.

Chewing While Texting

2009-07-19T20:34:00.000-07:00

Today, at the restaurant, a large party walked through the door of which my co-worker (and good friend) had the great pleasure of serving. They were young, seemingly hip and fashionable--from head to toe and the tips of their fingers, which held their respective iPhones and Blackberries. They sat down and, while my friend attempted to greet them and take their drink order, not a single person looked up from their handheld worlds. They could hardly bring themselves to offer a hand to receive their menu, much less think about what they may want to drink.

This was one of those moments when I was reminded of how disconnected I feel from, this, my generation. The ADD riddled disease that we call communication is, quite honestly, disturbing to me. Working as a server has only highlighted the curious turn that human interaction has taken, specifically in a dining situation Even when the phones are not in use they are displayed on the table. Does it bring a sense of security to know that communication is right there at our fingertips? Or is it a not-so-subtle way of reminding the people they are with that "Yes, I'm with you but I could just as easily be with another." And, beyond that, I am just waiting for the day when I accidentally spill a drink all over someone's shiny new phone. I certainly can't afford such a mishap.

The phone is just the beginning. I have witnessed families sitting around a table while a young child is entertained by a portable DVD player or handheld video game. While mealtime television viewing has been shunned by many, there are always new distractions and new avenues to avoid the challenge, discomfort and the joy within human interaction. I learned so much as a child by observing the adult interaction around me, even when I was told to keep quiet because "grown folks" were talking. I may not have liked or been entertained by everything I witnessed but I was always watching and listening closely and using this as a means to formulate my own understanding and eventual values.

Is the "art of conversation" dead? I don't think so. But, it doesn't seem to be enough to fully engage most, in this time of information overload and fleeting attention spans. Conversation has evolved. Our wireless status provides us the opportunity to be connected at all times, thereby dictating how it is we interact with those who are sitting beside or across from us. The layers of communication will only continue to multiply. So much more yet so much less.

2009-07-14T15:40:00.001-07:00

A word of advice: In between posting bits of personal revelation (or nonsense) on Facebook, check your bank account activity every couple of days. It may not be nearly as fun but it may be equally important. Today while lamented while tracking (and regretting) the money spent I noticed a $75 purchase that was most certainly not authorized my me. Looks like a bit of credit card fraud has slipped into my life.

I didn't panic. I called my bank and their taking it from here. I've got confidence in that things will work out just fine but I am also reminded of the vulnerability of our times. We have made great advances to protect ourselves from many of those things that might harm or hinder us; but with every advance there is a new challenge. Our technological advances, conveniences and means of interconnectivity are a great asset, yet also leave us vulnerable. Our thoughts, words images and yes, our finances are subject to be taken advantage of.

Yet, I still trust because I don't see any advantage in being fearful.

But I'm still sticking to my advice: Keep an eye on it, dishonesty is not dead.

Festive

2009-07-11T19:20:00.001-07:00

This Saturday I stopped by the Echo Park Community Festival. In years past, this weekend has been reserved for the Lotus Festival at Echo Park Lake, which was a celebration of Asian culture through the display of music, dance, art and food. The festival was also considered a celebration of the lotus blossom, which symbolizes rebirth, perseverance, purity and the essence of life. Last year was the first year in which the lake was without a single lotus blossom. The exact cause has not been determined, though some suspect that pollution or climate change are possibilities. This year, for the first time since 1972, Lotus, Inc. (the non organization responsible for the festival) was unable to raise the funds to put on the festival. As a result, the Echo Park Chamber of Commerce stepped in to create its own brand of festival. The L.A. Times reported that the Chamber intended upon incorporating the lotus theme; Lotus, Inc. would not allow for it--hence the Community Festival.

With the lack of the lotus title also went the emphasis on Asian culture. The community festival website stated that it would "embrace all of the tenets of the Lotus Festival, while expanding on its rich cultural themes, to present a harmonious world community fair."

I'll admit that I was disappointed and a bit skeptical about the whole affair. I assumed, and am still not convinced otherwise, that the entertainment selection would only serve a portion of the community--namely the young and hip quotient. I'm still not sure that I would characterize it as a world community fair but rather a gathering of this small Los Angeles community, which can be a world unto itself. The musical selection was somewhat varied and they threw in a couple of dance groups, which included Capoeira and Polynesian dancers, for good measure. It was something altogether different--for better or worse--but it was a festival and it drew people outdoors and into the park. And, in this, the festival served as a representation of the "community" that it supposedly served.

After I covered the whole of the festival I walked out of the park and onto Logan Ave where a young girl and her mother were running a lemonade stand to raise money for summer camp. I had one dollar of change left over from the chicken patty I purchased from the Jamaican food vendor and couldn't resist supporting her efforts. I struck up a conversation with her mother who did not even realize that this year's festival was not that of the Lotus. When I broke the news to her she looked at me in disappointment."I grew up in this neighborhood. It's bitter sweet but I guess all things come to an end."

I suppose she's right. I just hope the community festival reeled in enough people to send that little girl to camp. That would be a piece of rebirth, semblance of community.

Expression

2009-07-05T09:58:00.000-07:00

This weekend I spent 4th of July weekend in Washington D.C. The day itself was much like any other 4th of July weekend. People were in good spirits (drunk and sober), looking for food and anticipating the evening fireworks. Of course there was a unique sense of awe and excitement--brought by visitors--around the idea of being in the nation's capital for the holiday. Otherwise it was a fairly typical display.

Everyone was also relatively well behaved. Boisterous but civil. This was entirely welcome as we all know that any large gathering, fueled by conviction and alcohol, has the potential to get ugly.

After the fireworks, TOPITR, two friends and I chanted a few "O-ba-mas"as we passed the view of the White house. While we received a positive response earlier in the evening, most people did their best to ignore us, until we walked past two young men who looked to us and asked "What about Obama? Obama sucks!"

For a moment I was offended, even a little pissed off but I let it go. I suppose they were just exercising their first amendment rights. That is, as long as it doesn't cross the threshold into "hate crime" territory. But, as my mother would say, it isn't what they said but how they said it that made me question their motivation. I doubted their logic. I could have gotten excited, questioned them, disputed their comments. But I resolved that to allow these worlds to incite anger in me is dangerous ground and certainly not worth the energetic output. I'll choose my battles.

And, I suppose it is in expression--and its freedom--that I found my patriotism this Independence Day.

It would be helpful to share that part of my reasoning for being in D.C. was because TOPITR was performing a piece regarding the life and words of Frederick Douglass as part of the Smithsonian Folk Life Festival. After his last performance an audience member asked if the Smithsonian tried to censor his work. To some, the words spoken were considered controversial or--more likely--confrontational. The curator present quickly jumped in to assure her that the Smithsonian took no part in censorship. This was the nations' capital after all. Wouldn't this, of all other places, be the location where one should feel most empowered to exercise their constitutional rights? That's a good idea in theory but such is not the case. For many, to speak openly in that place, the capital is met with hesitance or even fear.

Imagine our society without Dr. King's "I Have a Dream Speech" at the Lincoln Memorial. He offended but he spoke the truth.

We are in dire need of more truth and expression. Truth may be uncomfortable. But I would rather we squirm in our seats (and our hearts) a bit, than to continually live in a comfortable world of sedation.

Speak more, listen often.

2009-07-02T18:57:00.000-07:00

It is day 3 in D.C. One of the features of the Folk Life Festival which I am attending is the culture of Wales and The Americas, which has included a good deal of music. I'm not sure that I would ever find myself listening to Welsh music otherwise. It's not that I'm opposed but I'm not so sure I would have been exposed. This afternoon I listened to a pair of musicians: Christine Cooper and Ceri Rhys Matthews. Their music vacillated between epic songs filled with tragic tales to festive bits that sounded like they belonged in a scene of fantasy. Yet, no matter the mood on the surface, each song ran deep with emotion--light and dark--that each musician seemed to carry in their very bones.

And every night since we have arrived (and I am told before we arrived) a group of Welsh festival participants have a few beers in the lounge and break into song. There seems to be no inhibition. Its a display quite unlike any I've experienced with my fellow Americans. In fact, they're singing right now and I feel as though I'm eavesdropping on some sort of underground brotherhood. The self-display certainly varies across nations but the musicality speaks for itself.

Another word..

2009-06-30T16:57:00.000-07:00

This is another word on death, media and the latest. Pina Bausch died today. Bausch was a prolific dancer and choreographer who founded the Wuppertal Dance Theatre in Germany. The cause of death is unknown, but has been reported as a sudden death that occurred five days after a cancer diagnosis.

Bausch was not a typical household but certainly deserves her own moment of silence and respect. She trained classically at Julliard and the went on to create choreography that fused movement, text and theater--creating work that has forever changed the world of dance. In the true and rebellious spirit of modern dance, she took her arsenal of technique and ran with it--creating yet another layer of what we call "dance."

I never had the opportunity to see her perform live. That I regret. But I can guarantee she will be a household name in my family, whenever it materializes.

North Korea?

2009-06-30T16:41:00.000-07:00

I have arrived in Arlington, Virginia. I have a beautiful room just across the river from the capital but I am sitting in the hotel lounge because--it is my access to free wireless internet. I can't help it, I am an addict to the 24 hour connectivity. There are HDTV's all over the lounge and Michael Jackson is still plastered all over CNN. The scenery has changed but not the media.

And what about North Korea? Just last week they were an imminent threat. I suppose they will bubble to the surface in another day or two.

2009-06-27T19:34:00.000-07:00

I wasn't sure if I would do it but, here I am, writing about Michael Jackson. There is probably nothing that I can say that has not already been said. We know he was a person ravaged by loneliness, trapped in some liminal state between childhood and adulthood, between simultaneous acceptance and rejection as a popular icon. He was an ultimate example of what can go wrong in the fantastical world of the idolatry that we call stardom.

Over the past few days, I have heard the phrase "larger than life" more times than I care to. I think this may have been part of the problem. Immensely talented? Yes. Larger than life? I don't believe it's possible. To be larger than life is to somehow live untouched by both its harsh blows and delicate moments of grace. That is an expectation far too great for anyone to live with.

We have learned that Michael's struggle had much to do with expectation: always trying to take it one step further, be even greater. All the while, he struggled publicly with his physical image and, I imagine, his artistic development. To be successful, accepted, all while trying to produce work of some lasting effect--these are three things that do not necessarily coincide. To be larger than life is dangerous territory. I suspect he would have been better off just trying to be inside of it.

Where to now?

2009-06-23T13:43:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in a local coffee shop. I walked here, but I'll admit that I had a brief internal debate regarding whether or not to do so. That walking time could have been valuable writing time. But the green, responsible and sensible side of me says it would have been disgusting to drive here. Besides, it is likely that I would clear my head during the walk, anyway. A clear head makes for better writing, right?

Within 2 minutes of the walk, I heard "Hey baby. Do you need a ride?" Who says that anymore and why does he assume that I am without my own transportation. Besides that unpleasantly, I was here in around 16 minutes and was more motivated to get something done. Time is precious, yes, but time spent outside of a car is much more pleasant. I feel fortunate to live in a place where there is, at least, a slight walking culture. I grew up in the Inland Empire where very few people walked to "get" anywhere. If you weren't driving it usually meant that you had no other mode of transportation, besides public transit. Though, over time, driving to the park to take a walk on the track. Shameful. Whenever I had the opportunity to walk to school, the bus stop or anywhere, for that matter, I felt like I was on an adventure. It made the destination so much more promising.

Which brings me to this Sunday, Father's Day. I met my family for a late afternoon lunch in Ontario. We met at Los Monitos Tacos, which is a hole in the wall but a long time family staple. There is no ambiance but the food always makes up for the lack thereof. It is familiar, dependable and comforting to us in that--no matter our incredible differences--we still share at least one common taste.

Once lunch was over we wanted to spend more time together and there was nowhere to go. It was too late to drive to my parents' house and there was certainly nowhere to walk. The neighborhood is very industrial yet residential. People live here but there is little life on the street. The sunlight hits the hot cement and creates a stark brightness and there is nothing green to counteract the assault. People do not walk on the streets and if they are walking, it is likley that they are alone, trudging through the desolate surroundings. There are no parks that I am aware of and, even if you found one, it would not be an appropriate setting for leisurely family time.

"Where should we go?", we asked.

No parks, no walking culture. Yet, just 10 minutes east there is Victoria Gardens. These are not gardens but an outdoor mall--The Grove of the Inland Empire. And this has always been the nature of things. Much like an urban city the environment in these suburban towns shift drastically, from one end of town to the other. Gentrification, development and the inherent imbalance therein are very familiar to the region. Over the years the focus of development has continually shifted as people rediscover the perfect environment for home, family and life.

I was born in Fontana in a little enclave on the north side of town, known as "the tracts." It gained this title because it was the first tract of homes built in this once rural town. In the 50's and 60's most of the city's African-Americans were living in this small community. By the time I was born, the neighborhood was about 95% black. While the community was initially built by southern transplants with a deep commitment to the Baptist church, it had since become overrun by drugs and violence. The two sides were at odds with one another--often living in the same households.

As a result, my parents decided to move the family, which included my grandparents, to Rialto. Everyone was moving there. It was clean, promising, full of new development. But these glory days would soon pass. And what would follow? Everyone moved to Rancho Cucamonga. Hundreds of brand new homes, schools and parks began to dot the landscape. What could be better? Once Rancho Cucamonga filled up, North Fontana was the next piece of uncharted territory just adjacent to Rancho Cucamonga. Suddenly, people from "the tracts" were being bought (very cheaply) to have their houses torn down. Some left while others refused (and continue to do so to this day). In the meantime, a huge wall was built along the 210 freeway to hide the decaying neighborhood and the rest is history. The first time I visited since the shift, I barely recognized my surroundings.

There was a housing boom and bust but the masses continue to trickle into the surrounding area: hence Victoria Gardens. At least a portion of the region provides a walking experience--while meeting all of your shopping needs. Ontario is just next door and the trend is bound to shift sooner or later. Perhaps the next time I travel for tacos, I won't recognize this neighborhood either.

Regular

2009-06-22T14:10:00.000-07:00

Thursday night I left the house feeling less than productive. It wasn't that I had been lying around doing nothing, but the day didn't feel like enough. It was less than exceptional.

Though I considered skipping out on evening plans I went ahead with them anyway. We began the evening at an art event hosted by Community Partners, a non-profit organization that "supports, encourages and nourishes people with good ideas and aspirations to improve their community." Their offices are held inside of the California Endowment Center for Healthy Communities in Downtown L.A. Six artists offered their work to be displayed in the Community Partners Office. The entire suite was filled with art on display. The corporate and art worlds met and it produced a wonderful afternoon. There were artists, guest as well as those working in the office, taking a short break to take a look at the art, drink sangria and socialize.

The corporate and art world converged and it served as a reminder of their interdependence upon one another. The work brought a life into this space and served as a reminder of the role of art in the creation of community. But as I walked around the office I found myself equally interested in the corporate surroundings: computers, cubicles, knick knacks and family photos. While the non 9-5'er sometimes balks at corporate life and vice versa, the two worlds are necessary and inevitable. While some might easily write off this environment as mundane, there are lives being lived there (at least 8 hours a day) and that is of interest. There could even be something altogether inspiring.

It seemed appropriate that afterward we watched "Away We Go." This film spoke to issues of race, child rearing, loss and love. But most of all it spoke to being accountable to one's own in the continual struggle to create a home, a niche, and security in the world. Burt and Verona are a youngish couple in their 30's just three months away from having their first child. When Burt's parent announce that they are moving thousands of miles away to realize their dream of living in Belgium, Burt and Verona decide they will leave as well. The couple set of to visit Phoenix, Madison and Montreal in search of the perfect setting to raise their child and determine their own rhythm in life.

Each location presents them with a closer look into the lives of others; and every individual and family illuminates thoughts, feelings and behavior of which Burt and Verona both reject and desire. Ultimately, the two realize what they need is a place which they have "discovered" independently, without the shackles of self-comparison.

What was most moving about this film were the many layers of Burt and Verona. They lead less than glamourous lives, struggling to make ends meet. Burt sells insurance and Verona is a medical illustrator. Early in the film Verona asks "Are we fuck ups?" Burt rejects this notion, as did I over the course of the film. While the people they visit possess signifiers of stability such as marriage, secure jobs, cultural clout and nice homes, the depth of Burt and Verona and their obvious dedication to one another trumps all of these possessions. Lives may appear mundane, troubling, even successful; but the truth is always beyond the surface.

Maybe the saying is true: "Not all those who wander are lost." Perhaps if we wandered more we would would learn something valuable even exceptional from the lives of others--insurance guys, intellectuals, artists, even some guy working in a cubicle.

In Response

2009-06-19T19:59:00.000-07:00

In response to esh, I say yes I agree that the world has gotten "better and better." I may have the tendency to be overly critical, practice a bit of negativism; but I am not blind to the progression that we have made or ungrateful for the many luxuries and opportunities that have been afforded me, personally.

We have come a long way and we have an even longer road ahead of us, if we are lucky. But I am learning to view the long road as a blessing. We, in our humanity will continue to mess it up but I hope we will continue to learn. If we continue to question the state of things, we may pull through this for some time.

Today would have been my paternal grandmother's 74th birthday. She died of lung cancer far too young and with her passing we, as a family, lost an incredible force of life, laughter and understanding.

Leah was a force. She was fiercely independent yet committed to her family. She was easily moved to tears in a but wasn't afraid to cuss out a man twice her size. An absolute lady with the keen survivor skills. Deeply critical yet full of light, I am sure if she were alive today she would have read my blog and had the same criticism. "Things are pretty bad but they are a hell of a lot better than they were."

She lived through severe poverty and witnessed the devastating effects of polio ravage her mother's body. She waited tables, worked in a Xerox factory and performed any number of thankless jobs so her children could eat and experience a childhood with a degree of comfort that was not available to her. When miscegenation laws were still in place, she drove south to mexico to marry my grandfather knowing full well that her family would have little to do with her after marrying a black man. Yes, this world would appear to be an improvement.

With all that said, I will always be saddened by and grateful for the injustices suffered before me. I, like so many, come from a long line of survival and yes, improvements. The most incredible of these being the freedom of intellect. Because of my predecessors, my grandmother, I am not bound to mere survival or upward mobility. Mine is the freedom to move out, to question, to write, to blog about what I think I see. With this freedom is increasing responsibility. I hope to use it wisely.

Happy Birthday!

2009-06-16T15:40:00.000-07:00

Yesterday read about yet another racist e-mail, directed at President Obama, was distributed to what should have been a select group of individuals. The e-mail contained images of all 44 American Presidents. However, the 44th slot, representing President Obama, as a pair of white eyes peering from a black background.

http://www.cnn.com/2009/POLITICS/06/16/tennessee.email/index.html

The e-mail was sent by Sherri Goforth who serves as an administrative assistant to Republican Senator Diane Black of Tennessee. Goforth has admitted to sending the e-mail and has "apologized." But,I am not sure what she is apologizing for. When questioned about the incident she claims that she "felt very bad about accidentally sending it to the wrong list." It seems that the apology has nothing to do with the racist sentiment attached to the e-mail but for her technological incompetence.

Yes, Goforth's apology is in response to a logistical mistake. Just yesterday I was having a conversation about certain generations and their relationships to computers. Computer technology and the internet is a language all its own. I, and many others, grew up with this technology and see it as second nature. But, I would rather see is an inter-generational push to learn the language of humanity and tolerance. I, for one, worry less about Goforth's incompetence and more about her attachment to bigotry. Some are demanding that she be fired and perhaps she should be. But, then again, what good would this do. Who did she intend to send the e-mail? There are obviously a number of people that found this message acceptable, humorous even gratifying.

We are ruled by technology, constantly connected, possessing the ability to manipulate our world in ways that were once unheard of. Scientists are discussing sending particles into the stratosphere as a means to counteract global warming. Our possibilities appear endless. But what good is any of this if we will continue to psychologically and spiritually demolish one another?

With Age

2009-06-11T22:28:00.000-07:00

Wednesday's shooting at the Holocaust Museum is yet another event in a string of violent, hate-driven acts this year. As I first watched the news unfold on CNN, I was taken in by the reactions of those on the screen. People at the site were frightened and disoriented, trying to make sense of the situation. As I watched I was concerned but not at all shocked.

Hatred and intolerance are still very much a part of the fabric of life in the U.S. The term "violent extremism" is usually used in reference to events happening abroad; but we should not be too quick to remove it from our domestic vocabulary.

I also find myself caught up in the details of Von Brunn's age. The thought of such hatred and malice still residing within the aging body, which we so typically associate with some sort of genteel, golden age. Stephen T. Johns, the security guard who was murdered on Wednesday, opened the door for Von Brunn, in what appeared to be an attempt to assist and elderly man. Just moment later, Von Brunn shot Stephens in the chest. 88 years old and no gentility yet. The ugly truth is that hatred of this sort does not necessarily fade with age but, more than likely, festers. As we have seen over the weeks, months and years, hate and intolerance have no age restrictions and are very much alive.

What is it that breeds this seeming need to will the world into ones world view through violence? What will turn us around? As much as I would like to believe that this hatred would pass along with those that harbor it, I'm not so sure I will see it in this lifetime.

But, I would love to see it pass away, would love to put it down.

Yoga People

2009-06-09T14:10:00.000-07:00

In my time practicing yoga, the greatest lesson I have learned (thus far) is that the practice is as much an experiment in human interaction as it is a physical, mental and meditative practice. Every center, instructor and practitioner has a different style, personality, approach and intent. And with that, it can take several attempts, before one finds a place and practice that brings them home.

This weekend I attended three birthday parties--all milestones. The first was a 1940's themed 40th birthday party, the other was a 50th celebration complete with D.J., Brazilian cuisine, bonfire, and non-stop movement. The final was a low key Sunday afternoon gathering with great food, friendly people and generally quite comfortable. Yoga studios are a bit like this. There is the shiny, intricately decorated studio with every hindu god on display, candles illuminated and just the right incense burning. There is the large, successful "center" with several studios, and hundreds of students. And, there are those places that are neither too large or small, simplicity at its best. To each their own.

At the Sunday gathering, a friend inquired as to how my teaching was going. His fiance then joined the coverstion and asked if I knew of any "friendly" yoga studios. She expalined that she has tried a number of studios,mulitple times, and though she enjoys yoga, the so-called yogic experience has generallyleft a bad taste in her mouth. He then chimed in with both his love for the practice and disdain for the culture contained therein, explaining that he appreciates yoga because it brings up his "emotional stuff" but could do without yoga studios as they bring up his "other stuff." Other stuff being the frustration that can be attached to navigating social interaction, personalities and group dynamics. These are not the first people to have expressed these frustrations with me and they are feelings with which I empathize. Among those that have complained about "yoga eople" the genral concensus is that they often experience a sense of exclusiveness, unnecessary competition, and an overall lack of friendliness.

While there are many settings where we expect such treatment, a yoga studio (at first thought) is not one of them. Complaints inlcude being ignored by those sitting behind the reception desk to being snapped at for taking someone's spot in the room. And depending upon how long some have been a fixture at a particular studio, the territorial sensibility looms and the feeling of exclusion seems to grow. As someone walking in from the outside, it may not take much to develop an aversion to the entire thing. The feeling is akin to walking into a house of worship and feeling like a wretched sinner. Maybe an overstatement, but something like it.

I have been fortunate enough to have taught and practiced in several studios where this is not at all the feeling. I can attest to the fact that there are those out there who have made it their first priority to cultivate inclusiveness and individuality--both among students and instructors. And this, I believe, makes all the difference.

In the yogic philosphy there is a term called maitri, that is not as well known as it should be. Maitri translates to "friendliness." But, in the case of yogic texts, friendliness is taken to another level to suggest a "feeling of oneness" with others. Maitri is not simply about tolerating the world and and those around but feeling joy in their triumphs and compassion in the event of their defeats.

My greatest challenges and most rewarding moments in this practice has been experiencing those I come in contact with. When there is a teacher who I initially find grating and somehow soften to them. If someone is disruptive and I am able to let it go. And finally there is simply sensing the presence and spirit of the person next to you. I will never forget the first time I experienced this. I had nearly finished a particularly difficult class and somewhere in the midst of it, I became aware of the woman next to me. I felt her support for me and mine for her. This was about more than any physical challenge but a much deeper sense of comraderie in which we said to one another, without saying a word: "I support you, for no good reason." I couldn't tell you what this woman looked like anymore but her kindness and sense of maitri, as it were, I will never forget.

So, while group cohesion and ownership may be inevitable within this world, exclusivity need not be. As pracitioners it would be a valuable discipline to remind ourselves that we are not elevated above the rest but simply fortunate enough to have discovered a practice that brings us a sense of connection. Note that I say a practice, not the practice. It is a great gift to be lifted but it is equally important to be grounded. If none of our supposed peace is applied to our worlds, I dare to say that it is all for naught.

Oleanna

2009-06-06T00:15:00.000-07:00

This Friday I had the pleasure and pain of attending opening night of "Oleanna" at the Mark Taper Forum. I don't use the word pain in reference to the performance or the beautifully written play, but to the visceral reaction that I experienced while witnessing the characters struggle for control. Oleanna is a two character play written by David Mamet which displays the power struggle between John and Carol. John is a self-obsessed college professor both frustrated and attached to the instituation of higher education. Carol is a seemingly naive and confused college freshman who--over the course of the play and with the support of her "group"--accuses John of sexual misconduct and abuse of authority.

The entirety of the play takes place in John's office where Carol initially arrives to discuss her struggle to comprehend the subject matter presented in his class and, of course, her grade. While John is exaspereated with Carol's inquiries he takes the time to address her questions, share his own feelings of inadequacy (past and present) and his disdain for the so-called necessity of higher education. The more he talks, the more her confusion grows and she becomes upset. John, in what could be a display of manipluation or empathy, tries to calm Carol and puts his hand on her shoulder from which she retracts. Carol does begin to relax and drop her guard and John does the same. He offers to do away with her grade, "start over." If she will meet with him in office hours, they will discuss the class and his book plainly, and her grade will no longer suffer. From that moment, it all goes to hell.

In the next two acts we watch John and Carol interact and clash as she accuses him of sexual impropriety, which she outlines in a letter to the tenure committee that will soon decides John's fate. While John is no innocent, I watched in frustration, while Carol distorts the events of the past to prove her case--to a committee and to herself.

While sexism, classicism and the like are still current issues, watching Oleanna is to experience history. The play was written during the historical event that was the Clarence Thomas and Anita Hill trial--a time when the term sexual harassment was being defined and discussed throughout the country. The question, in the context of the trial and the play, is whether or not we are witnessing a woman exercising manipulative wiles to gain power or exercising her existing power as a means to protect herself and others from the dangers of sexual impropriety. And, in her control or distortion of the situation, has she truly empowered herself or unwittingly created a cycle of victimization?

Who and what is right or wrong becomes grey over the course of the play. While neither character is exactly amiable there are pieces of humanity--however flawed--that one could sympathize with. The culmination of the piece brings us to timeless questions: What is misconduct (sexual or otherwise) and who decides? Ultimately, it is institutions. A tenure committee that decides John's future and the support "group", to which Carol repeatedly refers, seems to have defined her understanding.

It is all grey. This is why--for better or worse--there are institutional guidelines. John broke absolutely every rule in the handbook. A moment of "honesty" could be perceived as inappropriate behavior and these moments could very like be honestly inappropriate. There is no room for context in the rule book.

See Oleanna. You decide.

Space

2009-06-01T17:04:00.000-07:00

I'll have you know that people take their television very seriously at the gym. I will also admit that I look forward to getting in a little T.V. time while spinning aimlessly on the eliptical like a hamster on a wheel. While I enjoy the physicality of working out I basically despise the gym. So, if I'm going to be there, I may as well take advantage of the little perks.

Back to the seriousness of it all. In this particular gym there are two large cardio sections. Each section contains 12 flat screen T.V.'s to serve as distraction. There is a protocol to the entire thing: ask those in the area of your flat screen of choice whether or not they are watching the screen. If not, proceed to turn the channel. It's important that you ask because people set up an entire refuge for themselves. I have watched a woman with a newspaper, novel, and headphones hooked into the food channel all while peddling away on a stationary bike.

Today was no different. Before I began my time on the machine, I asked the woman beside me if she was watching T.V. #1. FOX news was playing on it and, for some reason, I assumed no one was watching it. She quickly snapped out a "yes." There was still screen #2. I thought my chances were pretty good but I aksed anyway. "May I turn #2?"

"I'm watching them both. But, I'm leaving in a few minutes." She replied. The need to take in, absorb, cover and claim as much territory as possible. There is no escaping it.

Space, time, territory are prominent themes of my experience lately. And it is "Space" with a capital S here. While physical space is important there is much more to it. Space is individuality, it is our world.

"The other person in the room" and I will soon be officially cohabiting. Therefore, the last few weeks of my life have been consumed with organizing and rummaging through my personal belongings, deciding what is to be packed, what is to be given away, recycled, broken or burned. In the end, purging provides such freedom but the process is difficult. I realized (mostly) that I don't need those hundreds of tickets stubs, programs or articles of clothing that have served as record of a life lived and persona created. While I am no pack rat, I have managed to carry a good deal of items with me--from city to city, state to state, household to household. It is difficult to give up items, Space, those things which have come to represent the life we have led and the micro worlds we manage to carve out inside this larger sphere.

But, as I am learning, these worlds come to be renegotiated and recreated. It takes an incredible amount of creativity, practice and presence to make it work. Of course, there are the logistics of it all (i.e. where will everything go and which mirror should we buy for the bathroom) but, more importantly, there is the creation involved. The creation of Space for two full grown individuals. All in good time.

On Sunday night I had brief conversation with a man from Uganda. We were standing in a friend's very spacious backyard and he stated that if we were in Uganda there would be 15 huts set up in this backyard. We are certainly not living like the majority of the world, here in America.

How much Space does an individual need? That remains to be seen.

But I can always stake my claim in front of screen #2 a few days a week.

Good, Bad and Ugly

2009-05-26T09:32:00.000-07:00

Credit, debt, loans: these are words, nouns, real life issues that are on most people's minds these days. They are certainly on mine, with grad school looming in the near future. While my school of choice has shown generosity, I will undoubtedly finish my graduate studies with more debt than I have ever had in my lifetime. I finished my undergraduate studies with some loans to pay off but it was a relatively reasonable amount considering the possibility as well as the massive amounts that some of my peers were racking up.

During that time, I always told myself that if I'm going to go into debt for something, it may as well be my education. And that was the attitude amongst most of my peers as well. We have been told for years that students loans are "good debt." They are, after all, low interest, can be consolidated, deferred and--if handled responsibly--are good for ones credit health. We've bought this notion and recycled it as well.

While we knew textbook definition of the word debt our comprehension--for the most part--was limited.

This notion of good debt somehow bled into many students' relationships with credit as well. There were thousands of students on campus, signing on for easy credit, which was readily available at any number of tabling stations. As we now know, this trend became an epidemic on college campuses throughout the country.

Need to go out to dinner? Concert tickets? New shoes? "Just put it on credit." These were the words flying out of several of my friends mouths. It was the equivalent of a young child urging his or her parents to go to the money machine, otherwise known as an ATM, to retrieve cash. This infantile mentality has not changed much.

Today, I opened the L.A. Times and the front page contained an article specifically addressing the stark contrast between the pre and post industrial age when it comes to credit. Credit was once something to be used prudently and paid off monthly as a means to "build" ones credit. It has since been perceived as a guaranteed way to indulge in those things we can't afford, to slowly paying off while we drown in interest. There is also the "in case of emergency" credit card, which is entirely valid. What the definition of emergency has become, however, may be less so. What was once reserved for cars breaking down or the unforeseen medical emergency has become more readily available. A new dress/pair of jeans, vacation, or a friend coming into town ,expecting a good time has since become included in the emergency category. I think it is safe to say that our priorities have been tainted.

Then there is education. Emergency? Maybe not. Crucial? Absolutely. While I recognize my generation's lax and sometimes reckless relationship with debt, I step into this next phase of financial responsibility with little worry. Naive as it might be, I'll call it "good debt" and move on. Keep your fingers crossed for that first book deal.

Bodies

2009-05-19T09:36:00.000-07:00

Sunday night, after work, I headed over to Echo Park Lake and managed to make it just in time to catch the final song played at this year's Cuban Music Festival. Before I even made it out of the restaurant, I was asked if I was a "cubana." The constant questions in this life: "What are you? Where are you from?" The blessing and curse of being racially indeterminate. Some days,I think it would be nice to say yes to every racial inquiry, to be a part of it, to know all of these identities. But, instead I was honest and politely said no, and moved on. I arrived at the lake and the park was full of people from all walks, trying to be a "part of it."

Though we couldn't be in Cuba (give it a few years) the scenery was beautiful in its own right. The sky was clear, the fountains, palm trees and the backdrop of downtown Los Angeles provided a uniquely L.A. experience--for better or worse. The park was filled with Cuban flags, straw fedoras and brightly colored dresses (including a few that were certainly intended to be shirts), and all things that presumably say "Cuba."

What I enjoyed most was the dancing. There was a group, in particular, that danced in a circle led by a man and woman. The scene was reminiscent of a session of structured improvisation. There were stock movements that everyone seemed familiar, which were then embellished by the two leaders as the rest of the group watched closely and did their best to follow along. Each dancer watched attentively for the leaders next move, quickly shifting for synchronicity, all while rapidly cycling through the circle and passing from partner to partner. But it was watching the translation of the movement in their bodies that I found most enjoyable. Though they were doing the same movements, on the surface, every body told a different story.

As someone who has lived in the world of theatrical dance for so long I was reminded of the importance of what we call "social dance." Dancers and choreographers tend to attach a certain amount of elitism to our craft. It is "high art", after all. We work diligently not only to master the physical prowess necessary to perform but also in developing pieces of choreography that are well crafted, effective and--when called for--even beautiful. So often, we as choreographers, work incredibly hard to convey something about the so-called human condition through the language of movement. And while this technique most certainly deserves recognition; being on the lake would have been a great lesson for any choreographer. The story, the condition was held there in each individual body. Every quirk, bit of confidence or insecurity was on display for the audience to see. In their costuming, movement, gaze they emulated a place, a culture and each other, all while performing themselves.

It's all inside of that body temple. Mind, body, identity--there is no disconnect.

Work

2009-05-12T12:14:00.000-07:00

As I have mentioned in previous posts, I wait tables. Lately, I've taken to calling it "moonlighting." This title implies that serving is not my main source of income, but simply a reliable and, at times, necessary bit of extra cash. Somehow, giving it this title makes me feel a bit better about the situation. I'm reminded that it is a choice. And most days I am able to view it as simply a gig: guaranteed money to sustain the "worthwhile" work and activities that fill the rest of my time.

When I first started working in restaurants, I was dancing in New York. I worked in service because it made the most logistical sense. Take class and rehearse in the day, work at night. If performances arose I requested the time off and, for awhile, lived in the beauty that is walking into a theater ever night and living and breathing what I loved. As I continued on the track of performance and freelance work, the restaurant world has always been a dependable back up.

There are most certainly things that I loathe about working in a restaurant; but I have done my best to let it roll of my back. In that, I have managed to live a relatively comfortable life, up until this point. For this I am grateful.

In the last few months, I have grown increasingly grateful for the work that I do have. I have watched dozens of people walk through the doors of the restaurant looking for work. A recent posting for an "experienced busser" pulled in people of all ages and walks. Those who consider bussing good, steady work and those who considered the move an act of desperation. Overqualified or not, people need to work. The posting is long gone, but the people are still showing up with the "look" in their eyes. The look that says: "I will do anything you need. Please, just look at my application."

In many of our "worlds", it is our work that we so deeply connect to our personal identity--for better or worse. Maybe it started with the Puritan Work Ethic. Within it, success in the world was considered a direct reflection of our success as human beings and/or souls. Now the pressure is not only to work hard and support one's self but to meet the ever increasing standards of success and career.

And I, like most, fit the prototype: striving to use all of our skills, talents and those things that we truly love to carry us through life. But this so-called road to success is winding and the direction is not necessarily up.

The other night I had a conversation with a friend and co-worker about the alarming number of people looking for work in the restaurant. We were both reminded of the truth. The truth being that survival counts for something. The lessons are in the messy transitions on our way to our idea of success. I am confident that there is some measure of success in emerging from those transitions relatively unscathed.

So, it is on the days when I'm feeling bitter, resentful, disappointed about walking into the restaurant, I am reminded that this is survival. I am still fighting the good fight. Performer, yoga instructor, writer, server. No matter how rough things get, I am pretty certain that I will figure a way out. I am only one of many such creatures.

Survival of the eclectic.

Sports. Who knew?

2009-05-08T23:22:00.000-07:00

If you're a baseball fan you have undoubtedly heard that Manny Ramirez, of the Dodgers, has been suspended for 50 games as a result of failing to pass a drug test. It was reported that the drugs detected were of the "performance enhancing" family. Like so many others, Manny has joined the ranks of the testosterone ingesting athletes of the 21st century.

The slugger known has earned great fame with his impressive home run record as well as the personality that he has created and embodies. Some have called him difficult, rebellious, freewheeling even (i.e. making a cell phone call in the green monster during a pitching change). Marching to the beat of his own drummer? That beat supposedly caused the Red Sox to unload Manny freely last season. Yet, despite any risk, the Dodgers welcomed him with open arms and coffers: a 2 year $45 million contract.

Ramirez is an incredible human commodity. I suppose he was considered worth the risk.

50 games without Manny. In the meantime, the marketing strategy that revolved around the man has been diverted. Dreadlock wigs have been pulled off the shelves and the section of seats, once known as "Mannywood", is no longer. But fans have shown up in droves, sporting the wigs and expressing their support. Once you've won them over there's no going back.

Will the Manny enthusiasm have faded once he returns in mid-July? Or will the wigs be pulled out of storage and the Mannywood sign put back in its place? I predict the latter. The "forgive and forget" practice is a much shorter process when it comes to celebrity--especially when money, victory and testosterone are at stake.

Cinco De Mayo

2009-05-05T23:45:00.001-07:00

Last night, after a jaunt over to the west side, I arrived back to Echo Park and to a flurry of activity on the corner of Sunset and Echo Park Avenue. All around, young hipsters roamed the street, ragged yet stylish. The Gold Room was rocking as I'm sure any bar in the neighborhood, serving a decent margarita, was.

The street was slightly reminiscent of Hollywood though closer to Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley--slightly rough but lots of fluff to go around. Things are changing, and rapidly.

But, I'm so happy that the hipsters of the hood were able to get out and celebrate Cinco De Mayo, their independence. The independence to take any day of celebration and turn it into a night of debauchery. Of course, this was happening in every corner of the city last night. Nothing unique here--just a different wardrobe.

Some of my best friends...

2009-05-05T14:56:00.000-07:00

This Sunday I read an article in the New York Times entitled "Voices Reflect a Rising Sense of Racial Optimism." In the article, several people were interviewed regarding their experience with race relations since President Obama's election. Everyone quoted seemed to possess a new found sense of ease when it came to interaction with people of other races. Though I should say THE other race as everyone quoted was either African-American or white. Among other things, it was deduced that the "positive images of the Obama family has no doubt played a role for both races." The italics are mine. It seemed particularly curious that those discussed fit into the neat categories of black or white; though we all know there is nothing neat about those lines. We'll take one racial rift at a time.

One African-American man interviewed expressed a sense of excitement because he was now being called "Sir" by random white people. A former feeling of invisibility was

being replaced by acknowledgment. I'm happy for the man, but what saddens me is not that people didn't refer to him as "sir" in the past, but that it mattered so deeply. Yet, the reality is that most desire acknowledgment even (maybe even especially) by those who would deny it.

Another interviewee stated that he feels "more comfortable" starting conversations with people of other races.

It's as though the Obama family has somehow translated onto the black community as a whole. I, like so many, was incredibly proud when Obama was elected but he is not my sole representative. And he is certainly not the first intelligent, articulate and approachable black person to have entered the public sphere. The fact is that the President does not represent the entire African-American community--at least not in the sense of a prototype. Just like any other social classification--whether it is based on race, class or economics--the black community is comprised of complicated layers of personality and circumstances. This is otherwise known as humanity.

I just hope this new found ability to talk to people of "other races" is not only based on the image of blackness that has been cultivated in light of the President. I would hate to think that when people see a black person approaching they are thinking "Well he might be just as friendly and intelligent as the president."

Or maybe people simply feel united around the victory of the election, the notion of fundamental change and solidarity. For some, yes. For others...

I suppose we have to start somewhere. In an ideal world, we would not have needed a man such as Obama to make blackness approachable. But, in an ideal world, we would not have inflicted and endured generations of slavery.

Far from ideal but, perhaps, on our way to decency.

May Day

2009-05-01T22:47:00.000-07:00

In this, a nation of immigrants, the struggle surrounding immigrant rights continued this afternoon. It was May Day and there were five marches organized throughout the city. Each march began at a designated location to convene at Olvera Street. One of these marches began at Echo Park Lake which is where stood this afternoon after a morning full of teaching, "calming."

This week in each of my classes I have been discussing the notion of practice. In most cases, any practice is progress, the ritual of coming back again and again to improve upon, understand, fight for or simply say yes to our lives. Today's march was one of the many examples--perhaps one of the better ones.

It is questionable whether or not marches and demonstrations still carry any power to create change. Questionable or not, people got together this afternoon and demonstrated what appeared solidarity and even belief. Tomorrow, most of those people will return to work, likely underpaid and unappreciated. The practice of survival.

As we marched east on Sunset Boulevard there was evidence was clear. Innumerable small businesses line the street, many of which are owned and operated by immigrants. Some would argue that they are "legal." Today I spotted a sign that read "People are not illegal." Clearly that is not the opinion of all or even most; but it is time to start asking the question. Who is deemed worthy to survive, live, practice within our borders?

100 Days

2009-04-29T23:09:00.001-07:00

The event of the evening? The press conference surrounding President Obama's 100th day in office. In his prepared speech and his response to questions that followed, the theme of the day was patience.

President Obama highlighted the adminstration's steps toward improved housing and healthcare initiatives and the quick reaction to the latest swine flu outbreak. Near the end of his speech, the President stated: "I'm proud of what we've achieved, but I'm not content. I'm pleased with our progress, but I'm not satisfied." Yes, patience. It is becoming clear that, though action is being taken, the overnight results of which Americans are accustomed may be a thing of the past. The change that is to happen in America will be a long healing process.

President Obama seems to be cognizant of the fact that he will (at least for a time) have to remind the masses that his illustrious campaign and the sense of urgency and expediency which it incited within people does not apply to the problems at hand. In fact that campaign of "change" was the result of many years in the making and the "unmaking" of innumerable political and ideological ideals . And there are still a massive number of issues in the U.S. that still have to undergo the process of being "undone."

And just as the slow and steady path to progress was emphasized, Obama towed the middle line in his response to questions. When asked whether the "previous administration sanctioned torture", he never answered the question directly. He referred to the approval of waterboarding as a "mistake" but was reluctant to indict the previous administration. I was disappointed but acknowledge that he seemed to be taking high road, the path of diplomacy. The campaign is not over. He is under pressure to not only comfort and reassure Americans but to "reach across the aisle" that doesn't want to be crossed.

In one of the most memorable moment of the night, Obama responded to a question asked by Jeff Zeleny asking what surprised, enchanted, troubled and humbled the president about serving in office. He was surprised by the extraordinary amount of troubles he was facing, enchanted by the incredibly loyalty and commitment of service men and women, troubled, or in his worlds "sobered" by the fact that "change in Washington comes slow." In closing he expressed that he was humbled by the fact that though the presidency is powerful he cannot simply will change to happen and in that he was humbled by the American people who have "shown extraordinary patience."

We will have to continue to be patient. All of the hype that has surrounded the "first 100 days" since January 20th is a thing of the past. Our notion of time may be a thing of the past. 100 days is just a drop in the messy bucket.

Putting Down Roots

2009-04-28T17:01:00.000-07:00

It's official. Yesterday I faxed my intention to register to USC. After long consideration, I decided that the program would best suit my needs not only as a student but an individual who has invested two years of time, energy and thought into establishing myself socially and professionally--attempting to create some semblance of home in L.A. While the excitement and of relocating is enticing, I will be more challenged digging more deeply in the ground on which I stand.

I never thought I would say it, but I'm not quite finished with this L.A. After all, it took nearly a year just to stop comparing it to New York on a daily basis. "People aren't friendly in L.A.", "They're always in their cars.", "There's not enough energy." My complaints went on and on. But, eventually I decided I would have to stop or resolve to be miserable for the rest of my time here. This is not to say that the judgement has stopped but it has softened. My critical eye is open to see the good this vast city has to offer. On those days when I cannot see the good,I am at least assured that this place and its inhabitants are infinitely interesting. I easily dismissed L.A. as a place of superficialities and a general state of cultural demise, in the past, but I have opened my eyes. And while these things do exist in L.A., that can be said for any city. No matter where you go, there are bound to be those skimming the surface of life. But there is more and, regardless of any judgments, there is an intricately woven cultural system of human interaction and survival written beneath the surface.

I'm just getting started: looking forward to digging more deeply and seeing a little more clearly.

Survival

2009-04-22T18:39:00.000-07:00

"That's less than a teacher." This is what a co-worker and friend said to me after I revealed to her how much money I made last year. We both marveled at our ability to survive on what--technically speaking--are very small annual incomes.

And it is true that one of the first things that we associate with teachers are their notoriously low salaries. And, in the present economic climate, these wages to decline and many teachers are seeing their hard earned and long awaited retirement benefits diminish before their eyes. And others are simply receiving pink slips instead. Though most teachers aren't making much money, most could at least depend upon the stability of the profession. But even this sense of security is not as strong as it once was.

But if you talked to the administrators at a school of education you may hear a different story. Just minutes after my financial conversation with my co-worker I walked home and, upon checking my mail, opened a letter from a private university here in Southern California. The letter was regarding their School of Education. "In these uncertain times", it read "one of the certainties that remains is that America still has a need for school superintendents, principals, school counselors and teachers, especially in math and science." This is certainly ture. We do need great teachers in these fields as it has become apparent that most kids in the U.S. have been pushed to the periphery of the global community when it comes to math and science.

In the past several years, Americans have been urged to join the teaching community. Organizations like "Teach for America" have run massive advertising campaigns. There were so many "Teach for America" ads on New York City subways that the thought of teaching even crossed my mind--especially on those days when I thought I couldn't wait on another table without having a meltdown. And this is part of the problem. For too many people, teaching represents replacement rather than choice, simple stability rather than the creative process that comprises observing the human and, in that, helping to shape them.

The letter also hit the issue of the day: a paycheck. "Education continues to offer professionals a career filled with creative opportunities, challenge, life-long learning and potential financial stability." Notice "potential" stability. Nothing is exactly secure, but it as good a shot as any. Education has long been thought a stable field. In November 2008, Kiplinger magazine ranked education as one of the top five "recession proof" industries. This security doesn't seem as airtight as it once was but it's a step up from the auto industry. This coupled with the fact that grad school enrollment tends to rise during a recession is the perfect opportunity for a letter such as this one to arrive in my mailbox.

I hope they do pull in some candidates. But more, importantly,I hope they create excellent teachers with a real desire to understand and reconfigure (where necessary) the state of learning in America. If there was ever a field that required passion and an ability to connect, it is education.

I hope that teachers will again enjoy stability and, one day, salaries that acknowledge the depth of their work. More importantly, we should hope to cultivate a culture that honors teachers and the process of learning--acknowledging their indispensability. And maybe, "less than a teacher" will, one day, become a phrase of the past.

Signs

2009-04-20T18:51:00.000-07:00

As a yoga instructor and the schedule it brings, it can be difficult to make it to class, to have the opportunity to be the student. As an instructor, I am always learning but there is something wholly rejuvenating about listening, guidance, the opportunity to see things from another perspective.

In retrospect, I realize that I am not necessarily inclined to seek help or guidance from others. But as time wears on I realize, again and again, that we all need a little help, a push, a pull from time to time. Even if the persepctive I encounter does nothing more than convince me that my inclination was right. But this practice is just a great metaphor for the bigger picture. In those moments when I am completely present, I am reminded why I enjoy my practice and the need to sit, quiet down, see and listen to others and then, my self.

In four hours, I will take the red-eye to Chicago, arrive tomorrow morning and turn around and jump on a plane the same evening. All of this to visit the Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern University. I have a week to decide between USC and Medill. And there are signs everywhere.

Just last night I met a woman, attempting to order her second glass of Pinot Grigio, who attended Northwestern and whose friend was just accepted to Medill. Sign? Maybe. But, after talking for a while she followed up the conversation by saying she hopes I choose USC, "It's so hard to meet good people in L.A." And in my enthusiasm for Columbia University I made my way to an alumni association event and became acquainted with a professor from USC. Random Chicago t-shirts in Elysian Park and Northwestern hoodies at the Hollywood Farmers' Market. And then there are the students with friends and spouses that happen to be professors at USC and Annenberg in particular. I could drive myself crazy with this cerebral game.

In all of this, I'm taken back to my practice. The practice of observing it all and believing the answer is already waiting for me. So now I just listen. Easier said than done, but the best method yet.

Rage

2009-04-19T22:39:00.000-07:00

The word is rage, and we have witnessed far too much in the past weeks. Four police officers killed in Oakland, followed by two in Pennsylvania. A father in Washington shot and killed his four children before shooting himself. Not to mention the New Years Day shooting death of a young man by BART police officers in Oakland. In each of these cases the media, police, prosecutors and the like have tried to determine the motive, whether these acts were premeditated, fits of rage, acts of desperation.

In the case of the slaying of a transgendered woman in Colorado the dilemma is very similar. Last July Angie Zapata, who was born Justin Zapata, was found battered to death in her apartment. Allen ray Andrade has been charged with Angie's slaying; allegedly having beaten her to death after discovering that Angie was a man. The murder is being charged as a hate crime and the great debate between the prosecution and defense seems to be whether or not Andrade's act was premeditated or an impulsive reaction to the discovery that Angie was a man.

The prosecutor Brandi Nieto claims that Andrade learned of Angie's sex the week prior and therefore this act was "not a snap decision." The defense Bradley Martin claims the "case is about deception and a reaction to that deception."

It is important and necessary to determine whether or not a crime was premeditated as this certainly changes the context of a crime. But the more pressing question remains. What kind of rage are we cultivating within our society that qualifies "deception" as a valid reason to take a human life? And if this was a "snap decision", is this crime really about deception or a deep-seated aversion to the thought or perceived threat of homosexuality. In my own experience, I have heard men exclaim that they would, without a doubt, react violently to unwanted advances by another man. And somehow, in many circles, this reaction is considered completely normal, justified. It appears that our rage and violence are classified, existing in grades and categories to be determined as we go along. I will keep watching and listening for the standards. One can only hope that our dependency on rage will wane.

Opening Day Performance

2009-04-14T09:36:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon I attended opening day at Dodgers stadium. One of the advantages of being a non-9 to 5 worker is the flexible schedule and the possibility of free time in the middle of a Monday afternoon. But on a day like yesterday work was simply put aside by lots of people. During my walk to the stadium I walked through Elysian Park and it was full of people. Large groups had gathered, donning their Dodgers regalia, bbq'ing, drinking beer and even dancing to live mariachis. This was the holiday after the holiday. Many of these people did not even have tickets to the game but it was a reason to gather, nevertheless.

As I approached the stadium parking lot, the crowd got more expansive and people from all parts of the city (and even the country) were represented. They wandered through the parking lot, finished their drinks and enjoyed their time in the sun, in the middle of the afternoon--perhaps a day off or maybe a time without work. There was even a group that went so far as to rent a pick up style limo to arrive to the game in what I'm assuming they considered "style."

I made my way through the massive parking lot and to the ticket booth where people stood in line for hours, waiting for the coveted tickets to be released. One of these people being "the other person in the room" (see "Say Hello" 4/7). Two tickets later we were in our seats and enjoying the game. Like any "holiday" people communed with family and friends, imbibed copious amounts of heavy foods and seemed to enjoy the moment.

A man and his son arrived about 30 minutes into the game and sat down next to us. The boy looked to be about 4 years old. However, it was the father who couldn't keep still in the excitement that he clearly wanted to pass on to his son. He pointed out the large crowd, the players and assured the boy that they would get some ice cream at the end of the inning. The boy sat calmly, with a sly smile upon his face as though to say "You're more excited than me but I'll humor you, Dad." But he was certainly doing his best to pass on the tradition of excitement and the ritual of the spectator, which includes eating the right foods, using the right language, wearing the proper clothing, etc. And as the game wore on, there were birthday announcements, spilled beers, proposals, the singing of "God Bless America." Unfortunately, the brute side of the ritual also reared its head in a post game stabbing in the parking lot--lest we forget our aggression. All sides represented: yet another social performance.

Anxiety Attack

2009-04-10T22:16:00.000-07:00

According to an article in the New York Times, the recession is resulting in an increase of depression and anxiety among Americans. Those who have never sought out therapy are not only seeing therapists but taking medication in order to regulate their stress induced conditions.

Halfway through the article, I noticed that those who were interviewed were part of the middle class and had not yet been directly affected by the recession. Instead, their anxiety is caused by the prospect and fear of job loss or financial devastation. As I read on, I thought to myself "Only in America." We seem to grow ever obsessed with our fear and, as a result, our disorders. We are making ourselves sick as we imagine the worst case scenarios for our lives.

I know that anxiety and depression are real. I have witnessed and lived through them. But it seems that we need to collectively build a thicker skin.

Interestingly, a psychologist who was interviewed for the article stated that people of "less means" were faring better during the economic crisis because "their identity is not as caught up in how much money they have." And maybe it is true that their identity is not wrapped up in possession but it would also be worth investigating whether or not this supposed resilience is as a result of knowing and living struggle. While no one wants to struggle, it certainly helps build the aforementioned "thick skin." While we may not all identify with our possessions; our identities are certainly formed by the set of obstacles presented us. The prospect of economic woes would not be nearly as devastating and anxiety ridden if we were not so accustomed to a life of ease. Truly, it is all relative.

Call me predictable but what about those who live in poverty and destitution every day of their lives? This way of life, for many, is not merely a vague possibility but reality. While I don't suggest feeling guilt for our way of life (well, maybe a little guilt) I would suggest that we relinquish some of this fear. If we do not, our road to recovery will be much longer than necessary.

Reasons

2009-04-07T23:22:00.000-07:00

Today, I was on the USC campus "previewing" the gradate journalism program at the Annenberg School. I took the tour, met students and faculty and listened to the selling points, hoping to leave with a little more clarity regarding where it is I will be in the Fall.

It was strange to be on a college campus again but also exciting and rejuvenating. There's something about an institution of learning that feels like a second chance, an opportunity to be fully receptive. Regardless of the institution of choice, this time represents a sort of rebirth, an opportunity to move in a new direction. This direction is not necesarrily up, but somewhere new neverthless.

As the day progressed it was interesting to listen to everyone's individual concerns. Though this opportunity represented a next step for everyone, the objectives and concerns were of all varieties. The university's reputation was discussed, the curriculum, financial aid, job success rates, possible salary upon graduation. It became very clear that a graduate education means something different to everyone depending upon the life from which we are coming and that which we hope to achieve. There seemed to be a distinction between those interested in moving upward and those more interesting in expanding their experience. The conversation shifted very quickly from faculty and curriculum to the symbolic weight that a degree from one university stacks up to another in the "real world."

In this moment are titles were all the same: "admitted student." But our reasons couldn't be any different.

I was pulled back into reality and reminded of the importance of titles and the power of appearances. Right or wrong they have an incredible influence on the way we are received and survive in this world. While they may not rule us entirely, their influence is undeniable.

Say "Hello"

2009-04-04T15:23:00.000-07:00

I have read for months and, I imagine, will continue to read about the "flatlining" of network television. This we can largely attribute to the growth of cable television and the internet. It's not that people aren't watching the programs being created; they are just watching them on youtube, downloading them to their ipods and using the many resources available for quality and not-so-quality viewing.

And there is the fact that much of network television just doesn't appeal to audiences anymore. While there has always been crap on t.v., it seems to have flourished in recent years--especially with the advent of reality television. And there is a growing number of people who have relinquished their televisions altogether. I am included in this group. While I know I wouldn't watch it much if I had it, this choice has just as much to do with frugality and just not feeling like buying another piece of electronic equipment. Some of the t.v.less simply feel they have no use for it, others see it as a statement. Whichever it is, most have also replaced what may have been television time with internet time.

We're still sucked into a tube. While we have significantly more control over the content; it is not a given that we will become any more intelligent, as a people, because of this. And, ironically, we may become more isolated within our infinite web of connectivity. We may be more connected to the ideas of others but, if not checked, less connected to the ideas and people in the room with us. Just as the television was an easy tool for escaping our reality and ignoring our spouses, the internet has the potential to enable to same sort of behavior.

But we love it and it's full of possibilities. I'll do my best to keep myself in check. Excuse me while I take a moment to share a few words with the other person in the room.

Consumption

2009-03-31T10:14:00.001-07:00

In the past few weeks I have noticed that my classes have increased in attendance. With most people in panic mode regarding the economy, this was initially surprising. December through February were pretty rough months with a few exceptions. But suddenly people are showing up again.

Some of this is seasonal and can be attributed to Spring, which has brought more sunlight and, in turn, more energy. But maybe this resurgence also has to do with re-prioritizing. If nothing else, the economy has caused many to take a second look and decipher between those things we truly value and those which we can do without. Yoga is certainly not going to top that list for the majority; but I am pleased that is has for some. I hope the reach of this new awareness will continue to grow. We can all stand to eliminate some of our thoughtless consumption.

Unemployment

2009-03-25T18:51:00.000-07:00

This weekend I read, once again, that the unemployment rate in California continues to climb. Not only is the state suffering an employment slump but the unemployment rate of the African-Americans community surpasses that of White and Latino communities. This trend is not new. According to statistics the rate has reached 12.5% which, according the the L.A. Times, has not been seen in "decades." Thought this disparity was disheartening it was not surprising. The question remains whether this condition is a sign of overt discrimination or a regenerating cycle of the uneven playing field on which we play.

A couple of weeks ago, I attended a symposium that was offered by the Critical Race Studies program at the UCLA School of Law. A group of teaching lawyers and social scientists came together to present their ideas and research regarding a "colorblind" society and the impact that this unfounded notion has on soceital relationships and the creation and implentation of law.

One of the speakers was Porfessor Daria Roithmayr from the USC Gould School of Law. Her talk addressed why racial stratification persists. She suggested that it is "self-regenrating" and that we may indeed be "locked-in" to this mode of social disparity. She relied heavily on a simple phrase: "It takes _____ to make ______", filling in the blanks with several examples. The first example being "It takes money to make money." Though it seems obvious, her phrasing was a reminder that those with money and power are going to do their best not only to maintain these things but to increase their wealth in both areas. According to this plan, those with advantage will continually regenerate their advantage--generation after generation.

Next example "It takes connections to make connections" in which she referred to employment, specifically. In her research, she has observed that those in power typically hire people most like themselves. Her list continued with a few more phrases. Each reiterated the point that it is an arduous task to gain equal footing, much less, get one step ahead of those with generations of advantage on their side.

Of course, it has been done. Many African-Americans have defied expectation and climbed the ranks of education and/or their respective fields. Some say that President Obama's election represents the shattering of the ultimate "glass ceiling." And it is ideas such as these, which perhaps perpetuate this notion of a "colorblind" society. I would propose that there are plenty of ceilings to be shattered.

The Times referred to those industries that have been "strongholds" in the black community. These included the troubled auto industry and other forms of blue collar work in which African-Americans are highly represented. It is these industries that suffer the most during an economic downturn. But there are certainly those who have worked their way into the professional world. We have inched upward and continue looking in that direction.

But the sting of the recession has begun to reach the professional sector as well. One of the people interviewed for the Times article was Catrissa Booker a professional in the education field, who had pulled through the ranks of higher education and was even pursuing her Ph.D. Nevertheless, her job was eliminated and she is at a loss. She was disheartened and stated "I feel like I did everything the right way. I went back to school. I kept improving my credentials." But so many of us are learning that the "right way" does not always translate to the real world and the unpredictable nature of the current economy. Looking upward is no longer sufficient. We'll have to start looking around for new options, innovation. The uneven playing field meets an economy that is not playing by the rules. The fight is upward, outward and increasingly complicated.

A moment

2009-03-24T09:36:00.000-07:00

On Sunday the San Jose Mercury News reported details regarding the shooting and death of four Oakland police officers. The headline read: "Cop Killer was Depressed About Heading Back to Prison, Family Says." I am the first to agree that the shooting of these police officers was horrific and Mixon's record was not that of an innocent bystander. But the phrase "cop killer" brings to mind a very specific image within American culture.

The first image being the Ice-T Song released in 1992. This song refers to a character who specifically targets cops as a way to avenge police brutality. After reading the article, I conducted a google search with the phrase. In addition to the song, a string of news articles and blogs (mostly biased in nature) appear with notorious names such as Assata Shakur and Mumia Abu-Jamal. Finally there are references to films and television shows that contain characters who maniacally hunt down police officers, like game.

But it seems apparent to officials and the public that Mixon's acts were not premeditated, though disturbing and intolerable. Oakland residents and others throughout the country are grieving and trying to make sense of last weekend's tragedy. And, in this, the question becomes "What was going on in this man's head?" Was it fear, depression, panic, or a conscious decision to take out his aggression on these police officers? Fear and frustration are rampant these days and such emotions can manifest themselves in any number of ways. In an instant, for better or worse, an individual can define themselves for a lifetime.

Cars

2009-03-18T17:26:00.000-07:00

This is the month of transportation challenges. First the bike was stolen, this week my car broke down. It was the alternator. The low battery light has been lighting up sporadically for a few weeks. But, as I said, it was sporadic and though I knew something was going on I assumed I could ride my blessed luck for a while longer. I rode it alright. I rode it all the way to Hyperion, just north of Rowena when all of the lights started flashing and then everything shut down. There I was, hazard lights flashing, pissing everyone off. And this, just moments after hearing the song "Walking in L.A." ("You won't see a cop walkin' on the beat. Nobody's walking...You only see 'em driving cars on the street. Nobody's walkin'...)

Luckily there was a friendly person in the bunch who helped me push the car onto a side street and out of the way of traffic and the hurrying crowd of people. I received a few glares in the interim. People driving in L.A. act similarly to impatient New York pedestrians. Somehow, I find the latter more tolerable. There's something more disturbing about a person on the street taking out their frustration in 2 tons of steel than on foot.

She started for me one more time and lasted long enough to make it to the car dealership, which was the biggest mistake of all. One $95 diagnostic fee later I was in the market for a new alternator and some expensive mechanical labor. I sat in the waiting area thinking to myself "If I had never left New York I would not be dealing with any of these automotive disasters.

But, what was I going to do? I need my car. Right?

That is precisely what my boss said to me the next morning. "You need your car. It's L.A." I suppose this is true. Though I know there are plenty of people in the city surviving without one. One of these mysterious creatures being a dear friend. But I have grown used to this mentality of convenience. I can fit in multiple back to back activities, if I can depend on my automobile to get me there.

Public transportation? Well, it's awful in L.A. This is our excuse. Bike? "I'll be gross by the time I arrive." And there are others who have created lifestyle that include an 25 mile driving commute. Keeping it local is a convenience that some of us just don't have or don't want. Would the people that complain about public transportation use it if it were improved? And, will it ever improve if we don't begin to use it. Perhaps we don't really want it to change at all.

Will anything get us out of our cars? Someday, maybe. For now, we'll convert to hybrids.

Connected

2009-03-11T17:28:00.000-07:00

"The laptop has ruined cafe culture." These are the words of an acquaintance of mine.

I'm not entirely convinced. The culture has been altered but not ruined. It's a different beast. Nothing can escape the reach of the age of technology. The laptop is the new journal. It's not nearly as romantic; but creation is taking place nevertheless.

Today I sat in a local cafe and, at the height of the rush, there were eleven laptops present. I wonder what this place must have been like before the age of laptops. Maybe it didn't exist before. The cafe has become the personal office for the world of freelance writers, musicians, visual artists and many more non 9 to 5'ers. Writing partners generate stories, people write books, sketch, do research and, at Casbah Cafe, hone their ukulele technique. Individuals like these become living, breathing fixtures. They take their meals, have a cup of coffee (and five more), conduct meetings. Some even have obnoxiously long and loud phone conversations as though they were standing in their own corner office. Though it may not be official, there is comfort in having a place to "work." And given the economic outlook we (most of us) want to, at least, feel as though we're working.

For those of us who do not have the space to produce a proper office or studio, the perfect cafe is a haven of sorts. After all, productivity requires just the right amount of noise, music, people, even social interaction. Each spot is unique but all promise to be a space away from the distractions of home.

And then there are people. There is something grounding and comforting about being surrounded by others. While I treasure solitude, I feed off of the energy of the others around around. But there are certainly days when I look around the "office" and most are trapped in their bubbles of solitude that are the energetic equation to a cubicle. Though we may be infinitely connected via electronics there is also an element of personal disconnect that comes as a result. I suppose this is where the sentiment lies in the opening quote. But this is not always the case. We are still social, we still connect and it is these moments and conversations that have so often propelled me, my comprehension and my work in an entirely new and improved direction.

We have to continue talking to one another. Our lives have been inundated with technology. Information is exchanged at neck-breaking rates, newspapers need a new business model and all of our "cultures" or affected in some way or another. We can accomplish and acquire many things but we will certainly have to learn to value simplicity and essentials if we are to emerge from these uncertain times.

Let's just hope that our time in the "office" is sustaining these local businesses. Pay for refills while you mooch free wireless. None of us wants to see the demise of the local cafe as we have seen in other businesses, including our newspapers. And while I'm on the topic: buy a newspaper while you have your second cup of coffee.

Theft

2009-03-07T23:20:00.000-08:00

For several days this week, I left home feeling as though something was amiss. On several occasions I hesitated on my way to the car, wondering what it was I was forgetting. It was Wednesday, upon returning home, that I realized my bike was gone. It was stolen. It had been locked to the railing of my back porch and now it was gone.

It is an awful feeling to have something stolen from you. Never mind the disconcerting feeling I get know that someone was hanging out at my back door to do so. Yes, it is just a material object but I felt violated. For a brief moment, I was upset with myself for not having it inside of the house. But, in the next moment, I shrugged my shoulders and walked inside. There was nothing that could be done. I'm not sure if this was my practicing non-attachment or surrender. Maybe a bit of both. Though I can't help but think "Damn it, that bike was great!"

If nothing else, it was a lesson in intuition. More specifically, it was a lesson in listening to that intuition. I knew better that to leave my little "free spirit" outside.

And just last Thursday I rode my bike to the downtown farmers' market. While I was there, one of the vendors who I was chatting with noticed my helmet and asked me, "Where is your bike parked?"

I pointed toward 1st street. "Over there", I said.

"Next week, lock it up here at my stand."

It was my great cosmic warning and I didn't listen.

The day after I realized she was missing, I walked across the street on Sunset where there are bikes for sale seven days a week. I thought I might spot her. No luck but I had a conversation with George the Bike Man who assured me that he never purchases stolen bikes. "Bike theft is a big business. It happens every day."

I was assured that he always demands a bill of sale and he knows when someone has showed up with a bike that doesn't belong to them. I considered being suspicious but I believe him. That third eye of mine has kicked in again and I'm listening.

My father once said to me that he would steal before he would allow his family to go hungry. I understood his sentiment and thought it beautiful. I would like to think that whatever cash was exchanged for my bike was used for food, but I know that's not likely. Lesson learned. I'll keep listening and looking. If I look long enough, I'm certain to see some hipster riding around on my adorably vintage free spirit.