Where has Sheherezade gone?

Today I shared excerpts from Azar Nafisi's memoir, 'Reading Lolita in Tehran', as a supplement to Marjane Satrapi's 'Persepolis'. I realized in the sharing that I am so in step with the feminine voice, especially the voice that has overcome the oppressive silence that the patriarchy has imposed on it. This is the voice of defiance and of regeneration, of cheeky instigation and that weighty mythological archetype of eternal justice: the Furies!  

I'm entirely concerned with and about the suppressed female voice: Why are there so few story tellers from the Arab world, for example? Where has Sheherezade gone? She told her stories as a means of escape and survival. I would argue that more important than duping her captor, Sherherezade crafted life in her stories. She revived humanity. So what happened to the rest? Have they given up?

To be fair, when I asked this question, I was given one title 'The Forty Rules of Love'. It was a beautifully written book that reincarnated Rumi. Still, I find such a deficit there.

 

If I were able to go back to school and even think about a master's thesis, I think I would focus my study in this space. I'm highly interested in female memoir-based literature: Mary Karr (my inner Texas voice), Anne Lamott, and Andrea Gibson (spoken word). I love Mary Shelly and Christina Rosetti, too, and am happy to go old school.  

Maybe some day. Maybe.

Keats meets the Beatles

We were on our way to Keats's House in Hampstead Heath stuck in a line of traffic. On our bus, the kids, having been still for an hour of travel, had fallen into a stillness, the hum of hushed voices accompanied the motor's reverb. It was drizziling, as usual, and our dream of picnicking on the Heath  for lunch and going on a nature walk  (in search of Keats's elusive voice, naturally) was soaked to the bone, and we only hoped the day would be worth it - the speaker somewhat animated, the house, at least, warm.

It was in this silent moodiness that we weaved our way through the London burroughs, expecting to once again be delayed by the choked London traffic that always makes everything irritable. We had been tracking our progress via satellite on our phones. Only 26 minutes until we arrive. No. Make it 28. Will we be late? Should we call?

Suddenly, my colleague turned to me and said, "Hey. This is Abbey Road." As the understanding was realized, she stood up and addressed the bus. "We're crossing Abbey Road right now! This is it! The famous Beatles album cover!" And the hubub got louder. Exclamations of "Cool!"  and "We're on Abbey Road!" and "take a Facebook photo" mingled into liveliness  as we passed.  And all of a sudden we were smiling. Because how cool is that?  

Of course there was no marker on the road. We didn't see the ghost of John Lennon and Paul McCartney was nowhere to be found. In fact, if we had zoomed out from our own experience, we would've had to acknowledge that we were among thousands who would cross the intersection that day without a second thought. But in the moment, and zoomed in tightly to our own little existences, we were happy and joined together in shared experience. 

The rest of the day was amazing.

Overheard: Polite dinner conversation at home

"Did you hear about the 18 month old baby that fell out of a window seven stories high in Paris?"

"Oh my God NO!"

"Oh no.. Sorry. I mean the baby's fine. She fell seven stories, bounced off of the awning over a door, and a man who happened to be walking by at that moment caught her. "

"What? Really?"

"I know. It's like something out of a damn cartoon."

Seriously. Look:

http://news.blogs.cnn.com/2010/11/02/baby-survives-7-story-fall/?hpt=Sbin

Scratch

Holy shit. I feel the itch.

I'm pretty sure it means I'm crazy. "Well, we already knew that, " I hear you mock in that nasally, sing-song tone. Yes. Let's go ahead and confirm it. This is me - crazy as a flippin' wing-nut bat, entertaining the challenge to participate, once again, in NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month).

So, here's the hilarious bit: I've already lost the contest. The time honored rules of NaBloPoMo state that participants should write everyday during the month of November. Correction. Participants should POST everyday during the month of November. Today is November 2nd, so technically, I've already lost. Phew. That takes the pressure off.

"So why the hell try?" you inquire (again with the nasally bit.. Geez!). Here's why, genius: I have successfully stripped away every part of my life that is mine alone. I've stopped writing. I've stopped reading for pleasure (mostly). I've shortened my time on Facebook by turning on all of the privacy controls, including ones that allow other people to see my posts, thus dissuading me from wasting time on posting. I work, then I come home and work. Following that, I play with my son until he goes to bed, and then I lay out my clothes for the next day, make my coffee and lunch, and then collapse so that I can find some semblance of energy for the next day when I start it all again.

"Why have you done this to yourself?" you ask. (sigh) That's complicated, friend. I'm certain it has something to do with feelings of inadequacy and placed and/or misplaced priorities. Whatever. What I'm saying is that I'm making a pledge to allow for my well being (writing and reading in particular) to be a more important aspect of my life. I want to write. I love writing. I want to practice writing because I love to do it. Yes, that means that I will get griped at for choosing time for myself over time for my job/husband/kid. I'm fully aware of how that may appear to some people who would rather I prioritize my life differently. But hey, those people are going to tell me I suck anyway, so I may as well suck hardcore.

I vow to try to post as much as possible this month. I've already lost the contest, so that means my obligation is to myself only.

I like that idea, bat shit crazy or not..

It's the end of PoMo as we know it..

..and I feel fine.

Ok. So I did it. I posted everyday this month and managed not to die. Some days not dying seemed like a victory - not that dying was truly a possibility; it's just an exaggeration (,Mom,) - that I was so stupidly busy that death seemed like a viable option. No, not "viable" because that means "living," and a living death seems ridiculous, though I do feel like the living dead some days. "Feasible" is a more likely adjective, I think.

Anyway, I wrote three or four "good" posts, "good" meaning "I don't hate them", and the rest were pretty much fluff, thus proving that I really should only blog when I have something to say or am prompted. I already knew that about myself - just like I knew that I only wanted to practice the piano when I felt like it, or like I knew that I wanted to take dance class on my own schedule. I don't think it's unusual to not want to do homework. When requirements and parameters are involved, even the things we enjoy doing become chores. Still, I need something to prod me in the right direction.

If you have any ideas about prodding sites (mind out of the gutter, Christine!), let me know..
:)

I found my brolly!

It's such a silly little proclamation, but I think the memory of it is what matters. A few years ago, I was in London by myself. I had been in Oxford for a teacher training, but returned to London to have some independent time and to make sure that I could travel without a companion, a challenge that forced me to rely on my own intuition. My London friend, Mark, with whom I visited earlier in the week, let me camp out at his house for free while he was away on business. Free was the only way I could make staying work.

But there I was, in London roaming around, blissfully lost in thought. It had sprinkled on and off as is the usual London M.O. and I stupidly hadn't remembered to pack an umbrella. When the sprinkling switched to more of a downpour, I ducked into a little shop and found a small black umbrella adorned with silver moths. The moth is my power animal insect, so the brolly - the charming nickname Brits use in lieu of the more vulgar sounding 'umbrella' - was clearly meant for me. I bought it and then hoped it would rain for the rest of my stay.

When I returned home, faced with the arid climate of Texas, I put away the umbrella for the rare rainy day. Unfortunately until today, I hadn't remembered where I stored it.

Every time rain was in the forecast, I went hunting for the brolly. Hours and hours were spent digging for and cussing over and fretting about that little umbrella, the only meaningful souvenir I had bought on that trip. It was more than a thing. It was a reminder of that specific time in my life, that journey. And I had lost it.

Today while I was looking for something in a cabinet, I spotted something silver way, way in the back. As I focused in on the silver, I realized it was a moth! My moth! I began flinging all of the clutter aside and reached for the umbrella.

"I found it! My brolly! Rich! I found it! It's here!!" And I went dancing around the house with it. The celebration went on for an hour, at least (Sorry, Rich). I may sleep with it tonight. I am so glad to have it back.

Like I said, it's silly, silly, silly, silly!

And still, I found my brolly!

Drive Home - The short version

1:00 - Fussy baby. Time to go.
Rationale - Baby will fall asleep on car ride home, will wake up in time for snack.

2:00 - One hour in. Five to go. Baby has napped for 30 minutes. Stop at Dairy Queen in nondescript town for a Blizzard fix.
Rationale: We only treat ourselves to Blizzards on road trips. We more than deserve this one, plus it is an opportunity to get milk for the baby so he'll go back to sleep.

3:00 - Baby not asleep. Break out the snacks.
Rationale: Baby will eat a healthy snack and will go to sleep when full. No fast food for him.

4:00 - Baby not asleep. Momma crawls into the backseat to entertain fussy baby. In 20 miles is a rest area.. no in 40 miles. Still, we will stop no matter what.. unless the baby falls asleep.
Rationale: Twinkle Twinkle Little Star has stopped working. We have to do something.

4:40 - Rest area break. Play on playground but "Caution. Watch for Rattlesnakes." We play anyway.
Rationale: Surely rattlesnakes won't be out today.. Surely.. Plus playing will make the baby tired, right?

6:00 - We should stop for dinner, unless baby is asleep. Or unless he is pacified, in which case we will continue with the healthy snacks and will soldier on.
Rationale: There would only be one hour left in the trip. It would be ridiculous to stop for dinner and then wrestle the baby back into the car seat that he REALLY REALLY hates at the moment.

6:30 - We soldiered on. It was a mistake. Traffic is at a standstill because of an accident. We can almost see home. We should take the nearest exit, but we won't.
Rationale: Where the hell does the exit lead? It's better to be safe, even though it will take longer than expected to get home and the baby is STILL not asleep and is cranky from being hungry and tired.

6:45 - Still stopped. On an overpass. SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT. Why didn't we take the goddamn exit? The baby is SCREAMING. I beg husband (who is now the passenger)to do something.
Rationale: Mental breakdown is coming.

7:00 - Same overpass. Same stop. Baby is going to make himself sick with all of the crying. Momma starts crying.
Rationale: All hope is gone. We will never get home. We should've stopped for dinner. We should've taken the exit. Why did we go on this fu*king trip, anyway? In-laws? Why am I even married. Life is ridiculous. And why haven't the police even attempted to direct traffic? This is bullshit.

7:10 - OK. We're calm.
Rationale: At least we're not the ones in the accident.

7:15 - We're moving. Go go go go go.
Rationale: Try not to speed. Or miss any exits.

8:10 - We're home. Make quick and easy dinner. Change baby. Put him to bed. Enjoy glass of wine.Blog this.
Rationale: Phew. This wasn't the worst ride home ever. That was last year. And NaBloPoMo can suck it.

Standard

We sat around the table, a blended family, which afforded everyone the opportunity to sit in awkward silence. "Happy Thanksgiving" was trailer to the shortest, most repeated conversation of the day: "Hi, I'm (so-and-so), (so-and-so's)daughter-in-law, (so-and-so's) wife, and this is my son/daughter, (so-and-so). He's (this age). Um.. Nice to meet you, too. Happy Thanksgiving."

Of course there were the standard acknowledgements - "The turkey is so moist!"; "The corn casserole is amazing, and it's just cream cheese, corn, and green chilies? Cool."; "Who made the dressing?"; "What is this, again?" and so forth.

And the standard jokes - "I wonder if we could get away with 'Turkey Treating,' going door to door with a sack for whatever people are willing to drop in.." and, "I wonder how many houses we could walk into and just serve ourselves, where the family members would whisper in the corner about who's cousin/ex/niece we were," and for both, "How many houses could we hit before we got too full?"

I suppose this is the fairly normal Thanksgiving conversation, and I don't mean to make it sound horribly generic. There is a comfort to gathering around a table and sharing a meal as tradition dictates. I love my family, the new members - the idea that really, they're accepting me into their rituals, the ones I am just now learning. But we all secretly admit that we hope something dramatic happens - something that will bond us so that next Thanksgiving, the conversation can start with, "Hi again! Remember last year when (this incredibly dramatic, gossip worthy event) happened? Yeah. That was nuts. So how have you been since then?"

Thank God for football.

Yes.

Romantic

by Margaret Atwood

Men and their mournful romanticism
that can't get the dishes done – that's freedom,
that broken wineglass
in the cold fireplace.

When women wash underpants, it's a chore.
When men do it, an intriguing affliction.
How plangent, the damp socks flapping on the line,
how lost and single in the orphaning air . . .

She cherishes that sadness,
tells him to lie down in the grass,
closes each of his eyes with a finger,
applies her body like a poultice.

You poor thing, the Australian woman
while he held our baby –
as if I had forced him to do it,
as if I had my high heel in his face.

Still, who's taken in?
Every time?
Us, and our empty hands,
the hands of starving nurses.

It's bullet holes we want to see in their skin,
scars, and the chance to touch them.

Record Labels

There is a very heavy moment that happens every year in the second right after a student asks me the most dreaded question they dare: "So, what kind of music do you listen to?" The room usually goes silent, every kid waiting to know if my taste matches theirs, for better or for worse, and what my musical inclinations say about me. In that very moment, judgement hangs in the room in the same way that it hung in the Coliseum when the spectators awaited Caesar's signal - will it be life or death for the poor gladiator English teacher?

I always feel like my answer will color the rest of the year, that either they'll respect me for being like minded, they'll shove me into the "old maid" pile, or they'll shrug me off with a label - emo, techno, bubble gum, navel gazer, screamo - or something like that. "Is the cool teacher really cool?" they'll ask, "or have we been snowed the last few months?"

I know it's silly to assign so much meaning to one question and to care about what the answer says about me. Still, I usually answer vaguely - the ole "I listen to all sorts of music," song and dance. But they know as well as I do, that my usual answer is pretty much a cop out. That's why this year I decided to go with, "Actually, lately I'm really interested in this new radio station that plays mostly indie music from people who record in their own homes. You know, the starving musicians who can't afford a fancy recording studio and who refuse sell out to some corporate label. Yeah. I'm into that."

They bought it! I didn't mention that it's the new NPR music station I'm talking about. They didn't ask, as they were nodding approval and wondering what "indie" means.

(Speaking of snowed..)

But there it is. I survived the question one more year.

My time fairy is murdered.

So, it turns out it is surprisingly difficult to write a blog post with a toddler crawling up your leg, crying because you're not paying attention to him RIGHT NOW, with Sesame Street blaring in the background. Add to that a day of high school seniors doing the exact same thing but less endearingly, and what you're left with is a very tired girl whose stress-o-meter points to "OVERLOAD," one tick away from "SHOOT ME."

I realize I've been shitty at this year's NaBloPoMo - as in I've posted- which is good- but I haven't written a whole lot - which, for me, is bad. This is the opposite of what I had hoped would happen. I suppose I thought the magic time fairy would descend upon my world, creating just the right duration for me to calm down from school, be inspired by something, write intelligently about that something, and then have time for things like getting the rest of my ridiculous work load done, making dinner, playing with Jack, bath time, and all the other responsibilities I have, with a few hours left for working out, baking cookies or making sock puppets and homemade glitter, or another some such that perfect moms in a perfect universe do perfectly to make the rest of us feel inadequate.

My time fairy did descend, as requested, but then she did the most disturbing, rude thing one can do to a woman whose stress-o-meter is one tick away from "SHOOT ME." She laughed. In my face. For entire seconds (because who could spare more?). She then flipped me off, turned tail, and flew away.

That's why I had to kill her.

I should tell you that killing time fairies is extremely easy. Turn on one episode of Glee and you'll understand what I mean. TV is the only weapon you'll need..

I wish I could be the type of person who spins plates on poles while doing a back bend and making sandwiches with a smile on my face. But I can't be that girl, no matter how hard I try, (and my smile is usually observed as a grimace). I'm exhausted. Did I mention I have a toddler?

I'll just have to learn to be Ok with writing when I can. Also, I'll have to hope that you'll be patient with me - understanding that I'm trying to visit when I can, that I miss you, and I want to know what's going on in your lives.

In the mean time, I'll try to keep you posted.

Thanks for your patience.

Split Personality

Thankful for Christine

The folks over at ModCloth are affording me the opportunity via their ModCloth Thank-a-thon contest to write about a person I am thankful for. Please enjoy my extremely sincere attempt:

The Office Supply Store:

“Do you think it’s worth a dollar fifty to make our boss happy?” I asked her. We were standing in front of a depleted end cap at Staples, weighing whether or not a package of multi-expressioned smiley face push pins would be part of our next diabolical plan. A stranger standing next to us, pretending to ignore our conversation, smothered a snort.

School:

FISH. It’s an acronym for something. I have no idea what it stands for other than it’s in a book , one that’s among the favorite self help texts used, supposedly, for breathing life back into stifled, floundering grade school faculties across the country. Campuses, at this very moment, are having staff retreats – playing “get-to-know-you” games that involve answering questions like, “How have you made you students’ day? If you have a story about that, grab a red construction paper fish from the pile,” and “How have you been there for the kids lately? Take a green fish if you have,” or “Take a yellow fish if you’ve played lately.” Think, pair, share; think, pair, share. “Now, everybody, throw your fish.”

Or something like that.

It’s times like these, when I’m sitting in the middle of a faculty FISH exercise, a pile of papers in my inbox needing to be marked, that I’m glad to have my equally cynical cohort, my accomplice extraordinaire, Christine, sitting next to me. Mocking such endeavors in the form of secretly exchanged glances, or the defacement of construction paper fish, or by the planning and executing of diabolical plans – chocked full of jackholery - are the only ways we know how to deal with the overwhelming proof that in our country teachers are not considered intellectuals.

Apparently, we’re FISH.

Choose your attitude:

A black and white printout touting this message is taped on the back of the main office door, so that when one exits the office, she sees the sign. Underneath the message are two faces, the elementary equivalent of theater masks: a happy face and a sad one.

“What’s up with this sign? I would wager that it’s part of the FISH philosophy,” I said to Christine as we walked together out of the office.

“Dude. There are more than two choices aren’t there? I mean what about being mad (zigzag mouth) or surprised (large oval mouth) or indifferent (a line)? Are these two the only options? ”

“We should add the others. Obviously, this sign is lacking.”

It was agreed. With enthusiasm, everyone, including the office staff, riffled through their desk drawers looking for markers, finding any excuse to throw caution to the wind.

“This will be a great joke,” we exclaimed. “It’ll make our boss’s day! She’ll laugh at our ingenuity and praise us for playing! This is our way of FISHing without being intrusive! And she’ll understand that positive change comes from all sorts of places, including sad faces. It will be brilliant!!”

Markers in hand, we set about “correcting” the sign. We added all sorts of facial options, delighting in our creative genius, liberating the masses, hoisting our own petards! We were cheered and revered by all and, after many high fives and giggles, our mission complete, we skipped back to the realities of our lives – down the hall to our respective classrooms.

The Next Day:

The next day the sign had been replaced with a new, clean printout. The glory of our masterpiece had been taken down without the slightest acknowledgement or reprimand, thrown like a dead fish onto a trash heap.

The Office Supply Store:

Christine raised an eyebrow and smirked. “It might not be worth making the boss happy, but a dollar fifty to make us happy? Absolutely, it’s worth it.”

“I’ll take two packages. Let’s add a card that says ‘See! There are more than two attitude choices!” I said with a fist in the air.

“And we’ll put one package on our boss’s desk when she’s not looking!”

“Yes! And I’ll divide the other one between us as souvenirs.”

And we skipped off to the checkout counter having crafted a new reality, one that involved as many expressions - diabolical glee, perhaps - as we could imagine.

** Thank you, Christine, for being my very dear friend - the one who hears me, goes to bat for me, and is a complete jackhole, no matter what others think, with me. I am thankful for you, always and forever. I love you!!

Overheard: Salon

During a break from the titillating stimulation of dead white men like Sir Francis Bacon and Mr. Winston Smith*, a side conversation at the salon:

Him: "So, what's your favorite male, angry dance moment in an 80's movie?"

Me: (inquisitive, befuddled brow, clearly (though I couldn't see myself) since he had to give a patient example)

Him: "For example, mine's Kevin Bacon - when he does that angry gymnastics dance in the warehouse in the movie Footloose."

Her: "Right. And mine is Emilio Estevez's detention dance in The Breakfast Club."

Me: (smiling) You've given this a lot of thought, haven't you. That's why I love you both, dearly. "I'm not sure.."

**Technically Winston Smith isn't dead, but come on! The bullet's coming any day now, right?

My week, summed up in a clip:

Salon!

What do you think?:

1. Should convictions become more or less settled with increasing age?

2. Orwell’s Big Brother—still watching 25 years later: how’s He doing?

3. Is business a “calling”?

Jubilation Awry

After a day of begging for money patron gathering for the latest edition of In the Margins (the most amazing magazine in the history of the known YOUniverse and probably beyond), the LitMag navel gazers convene for a time of sharing.

navel gazer 1: We're, like, so excited! Our group got two patrons!!!

navel gazer 2: Yeah. We got $20 from a bakery, AND we got a little something from Golden Chick.

[Navel gazer 2 hands a check to the head navel gazer, a.k.a. their teacher, a.k.a. me.]

head navel gazer: (shocked, with a smudge of disbelief) What? Am I reading this correctly? Is that a 3?

navel gazers 1 and 2: (Nodding, their smiles exploding off of their faces) Can you believe it?

head navel gazer: Oh my gosh! We got a $350.00 patron!!! With the rest of our account, we finally have enough money to publish this semester's magazine!!!

all: (various expressions of gratitude and god praising and glee and jubilation)Wow! Golden Chick is our muse! Our golden, platinum, muse!!!

navel gazer 3: This calls for a group jumping hug!!

all: (run a little too enthusiastically to each other, form a group hug and begin jumping and giggling together. Then there is awkward silence as they realize what they are, in fact, doing. They separate awkwardly)

[a pause in the space/time continuum]

navel gazer 4: Let's promise to never do that again, ok?

all: Ok.

The Advent Conspiracy

The story of Christ's birth is a subversive story of an upside-down kingdom. It's a story of promise, hope, and a revolutionary love that is still changing the world to this day. So, what happened? What was once a time to celebrate the birth of a savior has somehow turned into a season of stress, traffic jams, and shopping lists. And when it's all over, many of us are left with presents to return, looming debt that will take months to pay off, and this empty feeling that we somehow missed its purpose.

Is this what we really want out of Christmas?

What if Christmas became a world-changing event again by turning our focus back to the birth of Christ? What could happen to your family if this focus was celebrated in loud, bold and totally unexpected ways? What if you could actually trade your season of stress for a season celebration and unbelievable memories with your friends and family? What if all of this could save a life at the same time? It can.

Welcome to Advent Conspiracy
Learn more at www.adventconspiracy.org

Worrisome

on Predator Drone Missle Attacks, in our own words:

Anticapatory self-defense,
"Virtuless killing"
Cubicle warriors
"Squirters" (the targeted people who run for cover as seen on a computer screen)
Rubble and charred stuff
Extrajudicial killings
"The only game in town"
worryingly seductive war, perceived as "costless"
[not] an honorable way of combat

* all phrases are from "The Predator War: What are the risks of the CIS's covert drone program?" by Jane Mayer. The New Yorker Magazine. October 26, 2009.