Monday, August 21, 2006

Yearning


I had so much I wanted to say but I couldn't reach you. I wanted to jot it down in my near by notebook to save but it just didn't feel the same. So much has changed, I have changed and you wouldn't believe it but I feel so good. And in this time apart I realized how much you mean to me. I spend almost every other minute dreaming about coming home, grabbing a diet coke and pounding away at the keyboard of my laptop. Whenever I can get a spare moment, because every day inspires me now, I want to spend it with you. However, there is no internet connection at home and the public library is closed when I get off from work now. I think of you every morning and how you've helped me through so much. You revitalized me, awakened my soul a year and half ago. My sole reason for waking. In my period of insomnia I only thought of what I would say to you. You have been my refuge, my entertainment, my shouting post even when I believe no one is listening. In you I have found encouragement and a kind of intimacy I have long sought. I was once yearning for shadows, insisting on carrying water in my hands. But it was here that I found joy in the idea that something in my own image would never leave me, and pleasure in water running through my fingers. I found peace, it only took creating a blog.
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Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Un Real

It is one extremely hot day in Florida and I am on the floor ironing a pair of slacks inpreparation for a job interview. I had just commented to a friend that you can tell a man in academia because his suits aren't as sharp as the business man's or as polished as the lawyers they are ill-fitted and probably outdated. As I ironed my slim legged suit pants whose print was out of season I longed for my desk and statistical applications. I was 70 percent certain that this was a mistake. Buttoning my suit jacket was surreal. ME and a real job? A sea of gray upholstered walls with pictures of cats and children thumb-tacked to them. Slaving away at a desktop Dell computer staring at the digital clock on your desk begging it to show 5 o’clock sooner. When someone asks if you enjoy your job your response is about how great the benefits are!?! They call this the real world but there is nothing real about it.

As I glanced over my resume gasped at the fact that I had no real world experience. What the hell have I been doing? Ann Taylor and the Gap? I can’t put Sonny’s Bar-B-Que on my resume can I? All jobs to support my summer vacay’s, sorry addiction to midnight mocha latte’s and Red Bull and the oh-so--frequent car/computer crash and shoe fetish crises supplemented by Visa and Master Card, of course. And I never took those jobs seriously; please don’t contact my previous employers. I have found myself extremely frustrated deleting years of education shortening my resume so that I don’t seem over qualified when quite frankly I just want to work. And in the real world you can’t just want to work. Don’t want to seem too anxious, desperate for the job. I was particularly excited about my second interview with a high end shoe store. We were perfect for each other. 50% of for all employees on full priced footwear, talk about great benefits. And just like a guy they said they’d call. I’m still waiting. But you must display the ability to be passionate about the position. Who in the world is passionate about being “account specialist I?” However, one day in my office at school I turned the page of my text, “Economics of Collective Choice” and all the words ceased to make sense. And in a moment I was in my own little cubical hell wishing the only thing I had to memorize was a crayon scribble pattern on construction paper from some co-workers kid tacked to my cubicle wall.

I remembered that scary feeling as I buttoned my suit jacket and rehearsed my bit entitled “this position IS certainly in line with my career goals”(yeah, goals of paying off my credit card debt) and reassured myself that I will be okay. The real world I just came from is far scarier.
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Saturday, August 05, 2006

Ghetto Loser (Reprise)



How many of us are really true to ourselves? Okay, if you were really true to yourself you would know that if you mentally raised your right-hand in response to that question...You are a liar. This is something that comes slowly. So I encourage you to admit your personal lies one by one. I'll go first.
I am not ghetto. I am an urban aspirer. My country-grammar, my down-south slang...all a lie. As a child my proper speech was often pointed out by my peers and listening adults. My immigrant parents emphasized the use of "queen's English", so really I am a grammar queen. I tried with all my might to sound cool. "That is so live!" I knew I was using the same words as every one else but I sounded like a dork. When I reached high school my ability to imitate the ghetto-sassy was nurtured by other middle-class girls like myself alienated by our use of proper English. I was able to wear my new found urban-ability like a magic Starter jacket allowing me to navigate through the halls of my south-side school (or inner-city, if you will) undetected. Like Harry Potter. Now I can pop my neck, roll my eyes and talk slick like the best of them!

What started as a personal joke has now become a part of me. It is the way I correspond with my friends. Especially my best-friends. The word "be" is a verb, noun and adjective in our vocabulary, indicating that no matter how progressive I am...I ain't never too far from da' hood.
But I admit it, I am not 'hood. I can't be 'hood. I had to have someone point out to me where the housing projects were in middle school. Free lunch? Well, considering I couldn't work at 13... Sure, I had free lunch, from my mommy. No not my mama...my mommy. I have no street credibility. I am not Ghetto Barbie. My father now wears my newsboy Kangol hat. My green-colored contacts and baby-phat jeans were purely functional. Green is my favorite color and Baby-Phat jeans were the only jeans that could fit my butt for $19.99 at TJ-Maxx. We all know TJ-Maxx exists only in Suburbia.
I am not a gangsta gyrl looking for a soldier with the highest baller status. I am a former urban aspirer and I am so grown-up now. There is no room for my polished "street" slang in the halls of higher academia and cocktails with city mayors. With that said... I can blast my Rick Ross with a clear conscience.

Original 09/05
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