this morning's dark yard. tiny yellow leaves
flutter and drift. like snow. a steel sky.
black wool hangs over downtown's silver buildings.
wind whips. from 70 to 40
in less than an hour. now into 30s.
the last day. bourbon soaked egg
nog on desk in plastic bowl. plastic
ladel and paper cups. workplace holiday party. get buzzed. listen
how the children have a lot of reasons and really
who cares? papers stacked
in corner of office must mean someone is
smart. more egg nog. some crackers.
cheese. now
put self into car.
drive to the cure.
a mixed tape from 1987. it's B-sides.
that song: "man inside my mouth." suddenly high school
and your room in the dark. lying on the floor. wanting to
die. so badly. your plans to run away. how long ago that was. how
important.
how the grey
sky now matches your hair. turn right
into it. a nearly-frozen 35
by midnight.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Friday, November 24, 2006
how are you enjoying the demolition?
The noise of the deconstruction crew tearing down the Westheimer Square apartments has been going since 6a.m. I hear this crashing, slamming, splintering, dragging, motor gunning, and "I'm in reverse" beeping every morning but, usually, by the time I am showered and out the door, I forget all about it. To be home on a day off and have it as a constant sound track is nerve-jangling. Believe it.
Yesterday, when the streets of Montrose were eerily and beautifully deserted, I surveyed the damage. Almost half of the complex is gone, and the other half torn open, waiting for a giant claw to smash it to pieces. Rooms ripped in half. A bathroom with the floor torn out, but the toilet, looking a bit embarrassed, still standing. The wood, metal, plastic, and tile remains of what people called their homes have been neatly pushed into giant piles.
A couple of days ago, as I was walking back from the grocery store, I bumped into our next door neighbor (to the west of us). This is the neighbor who lives right next to the fence that divides the old complex from our dead end street. He and his partner live upstairs in a 1920-era brick duplex, and they run some kind of interior design business downstairs. They also have a gross little ratty-looking grey dog that shits all over our front yard (and they never pick it up) and yelps at the demolition noise. Their house is lovely, I think, but I also think all the 1920s-era buildings on this block are lovely, including the white brick one across the street that resembles a sad face with a black eye.
But I'm getting away from the point, which is this: When I saw the neighbor I asked, "How are you enjoying the demolition?", thinking we'd share some common annoyance about the noise, dirt, and loss of local architecture and community. But his reply was, "I cannot begin to tell you how happy that noise makes me. I'll take it any day over the cha cha music!" Cha cha music? O, of course, you racist white homo, the tejano music that residents of the complex played out of their station wagons in the evening. The music I enjoyed listening to because it went well with the sound of the church bells in the evening, and the smell of coffee that wafted over from Deidrich's coffee shop (now closed). That music.
This guy bothers me for many reasons. Last week, when Hank and I were outside thinking about doing something to cover the cement grates that lead to the crawl space under the apartment, he came over and chatted with us about the building. When we said we wished the landlord would do something about the crawl space, he said something like, "It would be even better if he just tore the whole thing down and built something new," and then he laughed and touched his moustache, nodding as if we were we all in agreement about that.
But I was stunned by this ugly comment. It made me feel bad.
It wasn't until later that night that I mustered up the courage to even tell Hank that the neighbor's words hurt me, and Hank agreed that it was a nasty thing to say. Why? Because it means that he doesn't like what he lives next to. And Hank and I do like living here, even though there are many, many problems that come with the place. It's a class thing: He's a property owner who couldn't be happier that they are about to put up what he called "very high end" condos -- four stories that will tower over our duplex, blocking out some sky. I dread this intrusion because it means that more suburbanites will move into the city, thinking it both "cool" and, now that they have four floors separating themselves from the horrible, horrible street, "safe" to live in Montrose. This guy has dollar signs in his eyes because it means, for him, lots of new business.
(I do enjoy the fussy design queens that work for our neighbor. They come in the morning, dressed in khakis and crisply ironed shirts, and smoke cigarettes out back while gossiping about their friends. They are very sweet to me, waving hello and mugging, as if caught doing something wicked, and then laughing, asking me how everything is going. A couple of them hold their hands limp at the wrist as they move about up and down the driveway. I always appreciate a queer who embodies a stereotype.)
In any case, have you realized that it has been a full year since I helped Cosmo come forth from his mother's womb? It's true. Cosmo is one year old, and Hank and I are about to walk up Hazard for the open house birthday party. Watching him spiral out of his mother and into the hands of the midwife was, perhaps, the most astonishing thing I have ever seen.
Yesterday, when the streets of Montrose were eerily and beautifully deserted, I surveyed the damage. Almost half of the complex is gone, and the other half torn open, waiting for a giant claw to smash it to pieces. Rooms ripped in half. A bathroom with the floor torn out, but the toilet, looking a bit embarrassed, still standing. The wood, metal, plastic, and tile remains of what people called their homes have been neatly pushed into giant piles.
A couple of days ago, as I was walking back from the grocery store, I bumped into our next door neighbor (to the west of us). This is the neighbor who lives right next to the fence that divides the old complex from our dead end street. He and his partner live upstairs in a 1920-era brick duplex, and they run some kind of interior design business downstairs. They also have a gross little ratty-looking grey dog that shits all over our front yard (and they never pick it up) and yelps at the demolition noise. Their house is lovely, I think, but I also think all the 1920s-era buildings on this block are lovely, including the white brick one across the street that resembles a sad face with a black eye.
But I'm getting away from the point, which is this: When I saw the neighbor I asked, "How are you enjoying the demolition?", thinking we'd share some common annoyance about the noise, dirt, and loss of local architecture and community. But his reply was, "I cannot begin to tell you how happy that noise makes me. I'll take it any day over the cha cha music!" Cha cha music? O, of course, you racist white homo, the tejano music that residents of the complex played out of their station wagons in the evening. The music I enjoyed listening to because it went well with the sound of the church bells in the evening, and the smell of coffee that wafted over from Deidrich's coffee shop (now closed). That music.
This guy bothers me for many reasons. Last week, when Hank and I were outside thinking about doing something to cover the cement grates that lead to the crawl space under the apartment, he came over and chatted with us about the building. When we said we wished the landlord would do something about the crawl space, he said something like, "It would be even better if he just tore the whole thing down and built something new," and then he laughed and touched his moustache, nodding as if we were we all in agreement about that.
But I was stunned by this ugly comment. It made me feel bad.
It wasn't until later that night that I mustered up the courage to even tell Hank that the neighbor's words hurt me, and Hank agreed that it was a nasty thing to say. Why? Because it means that he doesn't like what he lives next to. And Hank and I do like living here, even though there are many, many problems that come with the place. It's a class thing: He's a property owner who couldn't be happier that they are about to put up what he called "very high end" condos -- four stories that will tower over our duplex, blocking out some sky. I dread this intrusion because it means that more suburbanites will move into the city, thinking it both "cool" and, now that they have four floors separating themselves from the horrible, horrible street, "safe" to live in Montrose. This guy has dollar signs in his eyes because it means, for him, lots of new business.
(I do enjoy the fussy design queens that work for our neighbor. They come in the morning, dressed in khakis and crisply ironed shirts, and smoke cigarettes out back while gossiping about their friends. They are very sweet to me, waving hello and mugging, as if caught doing something wicked, and then laughing, asking me how everything is going. A couple of them hold their hands limp at the wrist as they move about up and down the driveway. I always appreciate a queer who embodies a stereotype.)
In any case, have you realized that it has been a full year since I helped Cosmo come forth from his mother's womb? It's true. Cosmo is one year old, and Hank and I are about to walk up Hazard for the open house birthday party. Watching him spiral out of his mother and into the hands of the midwife was, perhaps, the most astonishing thing I have ever seen.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
justice for janitors (houston)
For those of you not in Houston, you can follow the incredible demonstrations and protests in which activist workers from Houston and around the nation are participating regarding just wages and health care for janitors at http://justiceforjanitors.blogspot.com/. You'll be able to see HPD at its, um, finest.
interesting ingredients (for J.P.)
This is right from the internet, with behavioral recipes added in by me. Recipes for tofurkey, stuffing, and your choice of mushroom gravy or/and mushroom sauce, both of which are delicious. Left over tofurkey, if there is any, is really good sliced up and put on sandwiches with romain or green leaf lettuce and sliced heirloom tomatoes (if you can find and afford them).
Music
Depends on if you cook in the evening or in the morning. In the evening, listen to the righteous stylings of Erykah Badu or the deep roots of Burning Spear. Enjoy a glass of wine or two as you listen. If you cook in the morning, and you've had your coffee, measure, mix, mash, and stir to the beats of the M.I.A. or Handsome Boy Modelling School. Sing out loud and in your head. Defintely dance around the kitchen, occasionally grabbing the dishrag as your dancing partner.
Etiquette
Wash all the dirty dishes you find in the sink before you begin. Check to see if there are any forgotten pots or pans on the stove that also need washing. Might as well sweep, too. Naked cooking is interesting, but you should probably wear clothes. Barefoot is okay, but I always wear socks, no shoes. Try to avoid the phone when it rings, but do answer knocks at the door, and invite whoever has dropped by to come on in. Offer wine or coffee. Only curse when you cut yourself with a knife, accidentally forget something, or realize you used the tablespoon when you really needed the teaspoon. If you have to engage your OCD tendencies by counting every single chop, slice, or mince, go ahead and do it, but don't feel weird about it later.
Food
Tofurkey with Stuffing
Turkey:
5 pounds of firm tofu (use the TastyTofu extra firm from the Fiesta -- it's the best)
1 pound of tofu for the "drumsticks" (optional -- I never do this.)
Stuffing:
2 tablespoons toasted sesame oil
1 large onion, chopped fine
1 and 1/3 cup celery, diced (about 4 stalks)
1 cup mushrooms, finely chopped
3 to 4 cloves garlic, minced
1/4 cup sage (may use 1/8)
2 teaspoons marjoram
2 teaspoons thyme
1 teaspoon winter or summer savory
salt and pepper to taste
1 teaspoon rosemary
2 teaspoons celery seed
1/4 cup soy sauce or tamari
3 cups toasted or stale bread, cubed and herbed (original recipe calls for Pepperidge Farms, but I improvise. You can also search around for other stuffing recipes on-line if this one seems boring, however this turns out great.)
Basting mixture:
1/2 cup toasted sesame oil
1/4 to 1/3 cup soy sauce or tamari
2 tablespoons miso
2 tablespoons orange juice
1 teaspoon vegan mustard of choice
improvise with anything else you think tastes good
Directions:
Mash tofu or mix well with hands. Be sure that all of the lumps are out. Line a 12" colander with wet cheesecloth over lapping the sides. Add the mashed tofu to the cloth covered colander, press down and cover with the overlapping sides. Place the whole thing in a large bowl. Cover the cheesecloth with a plate that fits inside the colander and place a 5 pound weight on the plate. Refrigerate and let sit for 2 to 3 hours.
When time is up, start the stuffing. Saute' the onions, celery and mushrooms in the 2 tablesoons sesame oil. When soft, add the garlic and all the rest of the stuffing ingredients, except stuffing, mixing well. Stir and cook for 5 minutes. Add herb stuffing and mix well.
Remove tofu from fridge and take off weight, plate and top of cheesecloth. Hollow out tofu to within 1 inch of the sides and bottom, placing the tofu in a bowl. Place the stuffing inside the shell and pack in firmly. Cover with the remaining tofu and pat down firmly. Turn stuffed tofu onto a greased baking sheet, flat side down. Gently press on sides of "turkey" to achieve a more oval shape. If desired at this point, you may mold "drumsticks" out of one pound of tofu, and place on each side of the "turkey".
Mix up the basting mixture and baste tofu "turkey" with half of it. Cover the "turkey" with foil, and bake at 400 degrees for about 1 hour.
Remove foil, baste with all the remaining mixture except a few tablespoons and return to oven for 1 hour more, or until the "turkey" is golden. Remove from oven and use rest of basting mix. Using at least 2 large spatulars, move to a large plate. Serve with the gravy of your choice, if you wish, and cranberry sauce.
NOTE: I always grow increasingly alarmed as the tofurkey roasts because the sesame oil cooks really fast and the drizzle run-off is prone to burning on the baking sheet. I worry and worry that it means that the tofurkey is burning, but it never does. Keep an eye on it. I've never seen anyone else write or complain or worry about this on-line, so it might just be me or my oven.
Mushroom Gravy
Ingredients:
1/2 cup dried mushrooms, chopped into small pieces
1 cup strong veggie broth
1 small onion, diced
2 Tbs. flour
1 1/2 Tbs. margarine
Directions:
Hydrate your chopped mushrooms with about 1/2 cup boiling water. Cover and let sit for 10 minutes.
Melt margarine in a small-medium saucepan over medium heat. Sauté the onion lightly. Don't brown too much. Add the flour, and stir constantly with a wooden spoon until frothy. Do not let it burn! Add the mushrooms and their liquid and your vegetable broth. Cook over medium heat to a boil, stirring constantly. After it comes to a boil, turn the heat down a bit and let thicken.
Serves: 6
Preparation time: 10-15
Mushroom Sauce
Ingredients:
finely diced onion
clove minced garlic
sliced or chopped mushrooms [any kind you like]
water
arrowroot, kudzu, or cornstarch [dissolved in a little cold water]
shoyu, tamari, or soy sauce
salt and pepper
thyme
vegan white wine or sherry
fresh chopped parsley
Directions:
This recipe is all to taste, and you can make as much or as little as you want, but here's the basic procedure. also, I've made it very simply before, with no wine, thyme, parsley, etc. So if you don't like something, or know of something you'd like better, experiment! In the parentheses are approximate amounts that I used.
Sauté the onion (~2 tbsp) and garlic (1 clove) in olive oil (~1 tbsp) until soft. Add mushrooms (~1/2 cup?) and let it cook until they get "watery". then add water (~1 cup), wine (just a splash for some flavor) and shoyu (to taste). Let this simmer and reduce for a bit, then add the arrowroot slurry (you'll have to experiment with the thickener, depends which one you use and what consistency you like) and thyme (to taste). Simmer/adjust thickener to get desired consistency. at the end add salt and pepper to taste, and sprinkle with parsley (optional).
This is good on just about any ol' thing. Mashed potatoes, rice and tempeh, tofu, lentil loaves... go wild! It's very nice made with crimini or some other heartier mushroom, but also delicious with plain ol' white button mushrooms.
Preparation time: 15-20 minutes
Clean up
If you live alone, you should probably clean everything up right away. That way you don't have to look at it all later and wish that you had a roommate or live-in maid. If you live with another person, you have a couple of options: 1) Leave everything for the other person to clean. This follows the logic that you have labored to cook, so the other person, naturally, must do the dirty work. Plus, you are tired of the kitchen and the other person is not. Drawbacks: The other person might not get around to it for a while, and you might be tempted to go ahead and do it yourself, later. 2) Do it right away by yourself, but make a big deal out of it. Drawbacks: The other person might call you a martyr. 3) Share the clean up with the other person. Drawbacks: If you are a control freak, you might start thinking the person is not washing dishes the right way and this might make you really cranky.
Now you are ready for Thanksgiving.
Music
Depends on if you cook in the evening or in the morning. In the evening, listen to the righteous stylings of Erykah Badu or the deep roots of Burning Spear. Enjoy a glass of wine or two as you listen. If you cook in the morning, and you've had your coffee, measure, mix, mash, and stir to the beats of the M.I.A. or Handsome Boy Modelling School. Sing out loud and in your head. Defintely dance around the kitchen, occasionally grabbing the dishrag as your dancing partner.
Etiquette
Wash all the dirty dishes you find in the sink before you begin. Check to see if there are any forgotten pots or pans on the stove that also need washing. Might as well sweep, too. Naked cooking is interesting, but you should probably wear clothes. Barefoot is okay, but I always wear socks, no shoes. Try to avoid the phone when it rings, but do answer knocks at the door, and invite whoever has dropped by to come on in. Offer wine or coffee. Only curse when you cut yourself with a knife, accidentally forget something, or realize you used the tablespoon when you really needed the teaspoon. If you have to engage your OCD tendencies by counting every single chop, slice, or mince, go ahead and do it, but don't feel weird about it later.
Food
Tofurkey with Stuffing
Turkey:
5 pounds of firm tofu (use the TastyTofu extra firm from the Fiesta -- it's the best)
1 pound of tofu for the "drumsticks" (optional -- I never do this.)
Stuffing:
2 tablespoons toasted sesame oil
1 large onion, chopped fine
1 and 1/3 cup celery, diced (about 4 stalks)
1 cup mushrooms, finely chopped
3 to 4 cloves garlic, minced
1/4 cup sage (may use 1/8)
2 teaspoons marjoram
2 teaspoons thyme
1 teaspoon winter or summer savory
salt and pepper to taste
1 teaspoon rosemary
2 teaspoons celery seed
1/4 cup soy sauce or tamari
3 cups toasted or stale bread, cubed and herbed (original recipe calls for Pepperidge Farms, but I improvise. You can also search around for other stuffing recipes on-line if this one seems boring, however this turns out great.)
Basting mixture:
1/2 cup toasted sesame oil
1/4 to 1/3 cup soy sauce or tamari
2 tablespoons miso
2 tablespoons orange juice
1 teaspoon vegan mustard of choice
improvise with anything else you think tastes good
Directions:
Mash tofu or mix well with hands. Be sure that all of the lumps are out. Line a 12" colander with wet cheesecloth over lapping the sides. Add the mashed tofu to the cloth covered colander, press down and cover with the overlapping sides. Place the whole thing in a large bowl. Cover the cheesecloth with a plate that fits inside the colander and place a 5 pound weight on the plate. Refrigerate and let sit for 2 to 3 hours.
When time is up, start the stuffing. Saute' the onions, celery and mushrooms in the 2 tablesoons sesame oil. When soft, add the garlic and all the rest of the stuffing ingredients, except stuffing, mixing well. Stir and cook for 5 minutes. Add herb stuffing and mix well.
Remove tofu from fridge and take off weight, plate and top of cheesecloth. Hollow out tofu to within 1 inch of the sides and bottom, placing the tofu in a bowl. Place the stuffing inside the shell and pack in firmly. Cover with the remaining tofu and pat down firmly. Turn stuffed tofu onto a greased baking sheet, flat side down. Gently press on sides of "turkey" to achieve a more oval shape. If desired at this point, you may mold "drumsticks" out of one pound of tofu, and place on each side of the "turkey".
Mix up the basting mixture and baste tofu "turkey" with half of it. Cover the "turkey" with foil, and bake at 400 degrees for about 1 hour.
Remove foil, baste with all the remaining mixture except a few tablespoons and return to oven for 1 hour more, or until the "turkey" is golden. Remove from oven and use rest of basting mix. Using at least 2 large spatulars, move to a large plate. Serve with the gravy of your choice, if you wish, and cranberry sauce.
NOTE: I always grow increasingly alarmed as the tofurkey roasts because the sesame oil cooks really fast and the drizzle run-off is prone to burning on the baking sheet. I worry and worry that it means that the tofurkey is burning, but it never does. Keep an eye on it. I've never seen anyone else write or complain or worry about this on-line, so it might just be me or my oven.
Mushroom Gravy
Ingredients:
1/2 cup dried mushrooms, chopped into small pieces
1 cup strong veggie broth
1 small onion, diced
2 Tbs. flour
1 1/2 Tbs. margarine
Directions:
Hydrate your chopped mushrooms with about 1/2 cup boiling water. Cover and let sit for 10 minutes.
Melt margarine in a small-medium saucepan over medium heat. Sauté the onion lightly. Don't brown too much. Add the flour, and stir constantly with a wooden spoon until frothy. Do not let it burn! Add the mushrooms and their liquid and your vegetable broth. Cook over medium heat to a boil, stirring constantly. After it comes to a boil, turn the heat down a bit and let thicken.
Serves: 6
Preparation time: 10-15
Mushroom Sauce
Ingredients:
finely diced onion
clove minced garlic
sliced or chopped mushrooms [any kind you like]
water
arrowroot, kudzu, or cornstarch [dissolved in a little cold water]
shoyu, tamari, or soy sauce
salt and pepper
thyme
vegan white wine or sherry
fresh chopped parsley
Directions:
This recipe is all to taste, and you can make as much or as little as you want, but here's the basic procedure. also, I've made it very simply before, with no wine, thyme, parsley, etc. So if you don't like something, or know of something you'd like better, experiment! In the parentheses are approximate amounts that I used.
Sauté the onion (~2 tbsp) and garlic (1 clove) in olive oil (~1 tbsp) until soft. Add mushrooms (~1/2 cup?) and let it cook until they get "watery". then add water (~1 cup), wine (just a splash for some flavor) and shoyu (to taste). Let this simmer and reduce for a bit, then add the arrowroot slurry (you'll have to experiment with the thickener, depends which one you use and what consistency you like) and thyme (to taste). Simmer/adjust thickener to get desired consistency. at the end add salt and pepper to taste, and sprinkle with parsley (optional).
This is good on just about any ol' thing. Mashed potatoes, rice and tempeh, tofu, lentil loaves... go wild! It's very nice made with crimini or some other heartier mushroom, but also delicious with plain ol' white button mushrooms.
Preparation time: 15-20 minutes
Clean up
If you live alone, you should probably clean everything up right away. That way you don't have to look at it all later and wish that you had a roommate or live-in maid. If you live with another person, you have a couple of options: 1) Leave everything for the other person to clean. This follows the logic that you have labored to cook, so the other person, naturally, must do the dirty work. Plus, you are tired of the kitchen and the other person is not. Drawbacks: The other person might not get around to it for a while, and you might be tempted to go ahead and do it yourself, later. 2) Do it right away by yourself, but make a big deal out of it. Drawbacks: The other person might call you a martyr. 3) Share the clean up with the other person. Drawbacks: If you are a control freak, you might start thinking the person is not washing dishes the right way and this might make you really cranky.
Now you are ready for Thanksgiving.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
when the toaster says "ding!" (and i've suddenly written about being a vegetarian)
This morning I have decided that, if I were not an academic, I would have to be a grill cook. It gives me immense satisfaction to a have a spinach and cheddar omelette slowly cooking on one burner, stewed tomatoes on another, soy patties frying on a third, coffee percolating, and some bread toasting all at the same time and when the toaster says "ding!" the whole meal is ready at once and dished out on heavy blue fiesta ware plates. Mm.
That said, I was thinking, as I was unwrapping the above-mentioned "soy patties" (which are really called "veggie sausage"), about fake meats, especially since Thanksgiving is coming up and, also, because I recently rehearsed the fake meats conversation I have about every year or so with a friend who is not a vegetarian. It's one of those things about which, when i first became a vegetarian (fifteen years ago, now), I was confused. If I have decided not to eat meat, then why would I want seitan-shaped and flavored "ham"? Why the "no-chik" chicken tenders? I don't want to think "Wow -- it tastes *just like* real ham/steak/turkey/duck" when I am eating. The whole point is that I *don't* want to taste any of those things.
You know how it happened, right? I was having really awful, recurring dreams about dead animals. Scary. Violent. Bloody and full of gristle. The nightmares stayed with me during my waking hours, and I realized one evening, while eating cheese steaks with my meat-loving family, that I was really not supposed to be eating animals. I remember trying to just get through the meal, make it through without reacting so I could think about it later. I was not able to do it, and I quietly announced that what we were doing seemed wrong to me and maybe we should talk about it. It felt weird, but correct, and I never looked back. Thankfully, I knew vegetarians and vegans who let me in on the secrets of cooking, protein sources, etc., and who also clued me in to the fascinating politics of meat-consumption, which really helped me see the decision I made (which was not, at first, political as much as it was deeply psychological) with new eyes. (It was harder for some members of my family to understand my vegetarianism than it was for them to understand the gay thing or the literary and cultural critic thing or the anarcho-socialist thing. Although, if you were my therapist, you might point out that they're not all that different.)
For a long, long, long time, I've been enjoying lots of legumes, tofu, nuts, cheeses, etc. And every once in a while, I will eat a veggie burger or garden burger. I don't think of a veggie burger as food that tastes just like a hamburger -- clearly, for anyone who has eaten both, there is a difference. But every once in a while, I get bored. And I want something different. And I pass the weird aisle at the Fiesta where there are boxes and boxes of all different kinds of MorningStar Farms fake meats and I think, "I don't want fake chicken or a no-meat corn dog or a veggie salisbury steak, but hey! What about this fakin' bacon? I could eat that." or "Hm -- I am so tired of my avocado and sprout sandwiches. What if I got these tofu pups? These not-dogs? That might make it so that I am not ravenous an hour after I eat." But I want to stress that, while I enjoy these foods, they don't taste like what they resemble, and I don't relish their flavor because I am wishing that it was really an animal's innards that I am eating. It's more that, after fifteen years of strict vegetarianism in the dead cow capital of the U.S., and being friends with many, many, many "vegetarians" who tell me how guilty they feel because they gorged on parts of a dead bird that was probably raised in its own filth trapped in a cage in a factory farm, I'm going to go ahead and put the soyrizo in my basket and crumble it into my chili.
I know, that sounds mean, but I rarely -- if ever -- sound off about such things. You could come over wearing your fur coat, take me to a French restaurant and order the fois gras and I wouldn't say a word. This is because I don't think that guilt should inform food or clothing choices. That can be really damaging (ask me sometime about an animal rights activist with an eating disorder I knew who had a poster of a vivsectioned monkey on her refrigerator and nothing but bottles of water inside -- true story!). Also, notice I am not a vegan. And I often buy my vegetables from the Randall's grocery store close by (which I do not like) that sells me ginger from China, not locally grown organic stuff from the community. I'm not pure (although I am obsessed with the concept, and wrote many chapters of my dissertation about it), but there are weeks that go by where I realize I have been eating vegan, and being conscious about that is important to me. I would rather not smoke corpoprate cigarettes [or any tobacco, for that matter], but I do that, too -- talk about dangerous and bad for you . . . These are things that, if they are going to change, it's not going to happen because someone has made me feel bad. You see what I'm getting at?
That said, if it's in demand, I'll go ahead and make another tofurkey this year -- from scratch. Since Hank and I have moved in together, I've made a couple of them based on a recipe I got from David E. (true veggie-friend who has a tattooed cow on his back -- ask him if you can see it next time you run into him). It's really easy and a lot of fun, and it makes me smile when it comes out just right.
That said, I was thinking, as I was unwrapping the above-mentioned "soy patties" (which are really called "veggie sausage"), about fake meats, especially since Thanksgiving is coming up and, also, because I recently rehearsed the fake meats conversation I have about every year or so with a friend who is not a vegetarian. It's one of those things about which, when i first became a vegetarian (fifteen years ago, now), I was confused. If I have decided not to eat meat, then why would I want seitan-shaped and flavored "ham"? Why the "no-chik" chicken tenders? I don't want to think "Wow -- it tastes *just like* real ham/steak/turkey/duck" when I am eating. The whole point is that I *don't* want to taste any of those things.
You know how it happened, right? I was having really awful, recurring dreams about dead animals. Scary. Violent. Bloody and full of gristle. The nightmares stayed with me during my waking hours, and I realized one evening, while eating cheese steaks with my meat-loving family, that I was really not supposed to be eating animals. I remember trying to just get through the meal, make it through without reacting so I could think about it later. I was not able to do it, and I quietly announced that what we were doing seemed wrong to me and maybe we should talk about it. It felt weird, but correct, and I never looked back. Thankfully, I knew vegetarians and vegans who let me in on the secrets of cooking, protein sources, etc., and who also clued me in to the fascinating politics of meat-consumption, which really helped me see the decision I made (which was not, at first, political as much as it was deeply psychological) with new eyes. (It was harder for some members of my family to understand my vegetarianism than it was for them to understand the gay thing or the literary and cultural critic thing or the anarcho-socialist thing. Although, if you were my therapist, you might point out that they're not all that different.)
For a long, long, long time, I've been enjoying lots of legumes, tofu, nuts, cheeses, etc. And every once in a while, I will eat a veggie burger or garden burger. I don't think of a veggie burger as food that tastes just like a hamburger -- clearly, for anyone who has eaten both, there is a difference. But every once in a while, I get bored. And I want something different. And I pass the weird aisle at the Fiesta where there are boxes and boxes of all different kinds of MorningStar Farms fake meats and I think, "I don't want fake chicken or a no-meat corn dog or a veggie salisbury steak, but hey! What about this fakin' bacon? I could eat that." or "Hm -- I am so tired of my avocado and sprout sandwiches. What if I got these tofu pups? These not-dogs? That might make it so that I am not ravenous an hour after I eat." But I want to stress that, while I enjoy these foods, they don't taste like what they resemble, and I don't relish their flavor because I am wishing that it was really an animal's innards that I am eating. It's more that, after fifteen years of strict vegetarianism in the dead cow capital of the U.S., and being friends with many, many, many "vegetarians" who tell me how guilty they feel because they gorged on parts of a dead bird that was probably raised in its own filth trapped in a cage in a factory farm, I'm going to go ahead and put the soyrizo in my basket and crumble it into my chili.
I know, that sounds mean, but I rarely -- if ever -- sound off about such things. You could come over wearing your fur coat, take me to a French restaurant and order the fois gras and I wouldn't say a word. This is because I don't think that guilt should inform food or clothing choices. That can be really damaging (ask me sometime about an animal rights activist with an eating disorder I knew who had a poster of a vivsectioned monkey on her refrigerator and nothing but bottles of water inside -- true story!). Also, notice I am not a vegan. And I often buy my vegetables from the Randall's grocery store close by (which I do not like) that sells me ginger from China, not locally grown organic stuff from the community. I'm not pure (although I am obsessed with the concept, and wrote many chapters of my dissertation about it), but there are weeks that go by where I realize I have been eating vegan, and being conscious about that is important to me. I would rather not smoke corpoprate cigarettes [or any tobacco, for that matter], but I do that, too -- talk about dangerous and bad for you . . . These are things that, if they are going to change, it's not going to happen because someone has made me feel bad. You see what I'm getting at?
That said, if it's in demand, I'll go ahead and make another tofurkey this year -- from scratch. Since Hank and I have moved in together, I've made a couple of them based on a recipe I got from David E. (true veggie-friend who has a tattooed cow on his back -- ask him if you can see it next time you run into him). It's really easy and a lot of fun, and it makes me smile when it comes out just right.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
how to spend election day
Forget to tell students to remember to vote. Receive phone call from discourse-obsessed partner reminding you that there will be hours of radio and television to monitor this evening, and that Todd is coming over to listen and watch. Have disheartening discussions with left-wing colleagues about the future of the nation. Ignore Libertarians who hang out and table on bridge near workplace. Notice how many Kinky posters are up on co-workers' doors. Wonder if your precinct's polling station has moved since last year. Look forward to the walk over to the beautiful school. Think about all of the walks you took to cast your ballot over the years. Remember 2000 when you stayed up all night drinking white wine hoping that, for once, the person you voted for would win and how, when he lost, you yelled (rather dramatically [and perhaps a little drunkenly]) the word "NO!!" long and loud at the top of your lungs out the front door and into the wee hours of the Montrose morning. Shudder over all that's happened since then. See a W'04 sticker on an SUV on Allen Parkway and wonder if the driver feels stupid for having it. Consider that this might be what people think about your own SUV=WWIII sticker. Arrive home early to your partner who has realized that he is still registered to vote in the Heights. Give the key to the SUV=WWIII vehicle to partner so he can go vote. Find the mail amazingly free of political flyers or envelopes. Realize you haven't paid Green Mountain in two months. Wander over to the polling place, carefully avoiding those canvassing. Feel self conscious about how you walk. Open the door and see no one waiting in line. Recognize your neighbor, the old woman across the street, who checks your voter's registration card (secretly be pleased that you don't use your, um, driver's license). Remember that she didn't recognize you last year, either. Vote. Come home and snooze for about a half hour. Awaken to your partner cooking tacos. Pay attention to the voice that says you do not want another bean-filled meal. Cook spaghetti and a small salad. Enjoy it. Receive a phone call from your older sister, on her way home from voting in the hills of New Jersey. Discuss politics briefly before inquiring about your nieces and nephew. Laugh about your nephew's reticence, how he only points to communicate. Tell your sister how much you love her. Hang up and wait for the polls to come in. Pop a bottle of wine, as per tradition.
Monday, October 30, 2006
squeeze
I want you to understand,
especially on days when I feel most vulnerably human, and I have been sad since I woke up, and when I know that you do not think or perhaps you do not even believe that I have a life outside the role you see me in, and, since I'm seeing you linger outside the classroom door and you've been there for half the class waiting for me to come over to you, rage and not pity makes my heart skip fast beats in my chest and I really do not want to have to remember that you will believe, for whatever reason, that I am not me but, instead, your parole officer or absent father or jerk older brother or perhaps you have confused me with an interested therapist or forgiving priest or kind reverend or, in its most surreal manifestation, homosocial homeboy;
especially on days when it is all of this combined with the fact that you have suddenly realized with utter shock that, yes: you are going to fail despite the countless times I have stayed after class and spoken with you one-on-one (alternating quiet concern and hopeful enthusiasm or brass tacks honesty) about the critical importance of reading and writing well or, if not this, then at least the importance of shaking bad habits, and despite the time I took to clearly and sensitively make positive suggestions on your essays so much so that I actually got up in the middle of grading one of your papers to move away from it -- I was so pissed that you seemed to have forgotten everything I had taught you in the last two weeks and you reverted to positively annoying text-messaging/email language -- because, deep down, I believe that no one deserves to feel that wrath of misplaced anger (how easy and deliciously cruel it would have been to have crossed it all out and written in crazed capital letters in your too-big margins ARE YOU A COMPLETE MORON??) and because I need to teach and not be angry at you;
especially when you start to tell me I have done you wrong or tricked you or lied or ruined your life or your chance at success in the world, and when you begin to cry and tell me how hard you have tried, that you have quote not even gone to church on sundays just so you could work on this unquote, it is so hard not to listen to a tiny voice that says, "I saw this coming on the first day of class," and then hear how quickly the second voice says "Don't think that -- what good does it do?"; but I still remain with you and allow you to project all of your hatred onto me for a full twenty-minutes because, I am telling myself, you need to do this and it doesn't really matter if it stings a little bit, after all, in another hour I'll be sitting in a meeting discussing something administrative and this whole thing will be another part of a longer day that, surely, will not prevent me from sleeping or from cursing someone like Rod Paige or the increasingly popular (and totally iditotic) idea that active learning in the writing classroom means giving students something called "clickers" with which they can play a kind of video game to answer questions about grammar when the whole point, in my estimation, is to tear students away from point-and-click reward systems and have them think out loud, discuss, write, and revise their ideas with a circle of people that, eventually, become part of their intellectual community;
that I am on your side, and that I am working my best to figure out how to do this without either of us getting crushed in the squeeze.
especially on days when I feel most vulnerably human, and I have been sad since I woke up, and when I know that you do not think or perhaps you do not even believe that I have a life outside the role you see me in, and, since I'm seeing you linger outside the classroom door and you've been there for half the class waiting for me to come over to you, rage and not pity makes my heart skip fast beats in my chest and I really do not want to have to remember that you will believe, for whatever reason, that I am not me but, instead, your parole officer or absent father or jerk older brother or perhaps you have confused me with an interested therapist or forgiving priest or kind reverend or, in its most surreal manifestation, homosocial homeboy;
especially on days when it is all of this combined with the fact that you have suddenly realized with utter shock that, yes: you are going to fail despite the countless times I have stayed after class and spoken with you one-on-one (alternating quiet concern and hopeful enthusiasm or brass tacks honesty) about the critical importance of reading and writing well or, if not this, then at least the importance of shaking bad habits, and despite the time I took to clearly and sensitively make positive suggestions on your essays so much so that I actually got up in the middle of grading one of your papers to move away from it -- I was so pissed that you seemed to have forgotten everything I had taught you in the last two weeks and you reverted to positively annoying text-messaging/email language -- because, deep down, I believe that no one deserves to feel that wrath of misplaced anger (how easy and deliciously cruel it would have been to have crossed it all out and written in crazed capital letters in your too-big margins ARE YOU A COMPLETE MORON??) and because I need to teach and not be angry at you;
especially when you start to tell me I have done you wrong or tricked you or lied or ruined your life or your chance at success in the world, and when you begin to cry and tell me how hard you have tried, that you have quote not even gone to church on sundays just so you could work on this unquote, it is so hard not to listen to a tiny voice that says, "I saw this coming on the first day of class," and then hear how quickly the second voice says "Don't think that -- what good does it do?"; but I still remain with you and allow you to project all of your hatred onto me for a full twenty-minutes because, I am telling myself, you need to do this and it doesn't really matter if it stings a little bit, after all, in another hour I'll be sitting in a meeting discussing something administrative and this whole thing will be another part of a longer day that, surely, will not prevent me from sleeping or from cursing someone like Rod Paige or the increasingly popular (and totally iditotic) idea that active learning in the writing classroom means giving students something called "clickers" with which they can play a kind of video game to answer questions about grammar when the whole point, in my estimation, is to tear students away from point-and-click reward systems and have them think out loud, discuss, write, and revise their ideas with a circle of people that, eventually, become part of their intellectual community;
that I am on your side, and that I am working my best to figure out how to do this without either of us getting crushed in the squeeze.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Friday, October 20, 2006
who knows what's nesting?
I remember this past summer when Melanie, Hank, and I were traveling in upstate New York, and the sky was the color of Scope, and the day was full of cool air, and I felt so lucky to be out of the scorched dirt of Houston. Today, however, is miraculous -- about 65-70 degrees during the day, with that big, blue Texas sky. It could trick you into thinking the city has no pollution problems whatsoever.
At noon, I took the elevator ten floors down and stepped out of the university with four colleagues to get lunch. On the university's deck, looking out over the Bayou and the edge of downtown, watching the waters from the recent rains rush past, I could do nothing but stretch my hands in the air and try to grab the sky. The day felt huge, the city -- smart and clean. We descended the long, winding concrete staircase that leads from the deck to the Bayou, followed a little path, and crossed the bridge into downtown, admiring the workers who were putting the new, huge lettering on the side of the building. We turned right and ducked into the Vietnamese cafe right there on the edge of Market Square, ordered our $2.00 tofu sandwiches, and chatted in the sunlight as students, lawyers, theater folks, columnists, waitstaff, and businessmen stood in twos and threes, decked out in sunglasses and carrying the local free city rag.
This evening, I'm thinking about Westheimer Square, the huge, affordable apartment complex whose parking lot borders the gated and locked dead-end of our street. Much to my surprise, a sign went up a couple of months ago claiming that it was going to be knocked down to build some -- surprise! -- pre-fab highrises that no one I know could afford (Well, maybe I can think of one person. Or two.).
The apartments have been vacated, and it looks like they've already begun the process of ripping some of it apart. I've known a few people who've lived there over the years, mostly working class queers and Mexican families inhabited the place. We used to squeeze through the gate when we first moved in here to go swimming in one of its many pools, get some sun when it wasn't too hot outside. In addition, it was really easy to sneak in with a couple of pairs of jeans and secretly thrown them in the washing machines, which only charged .75 as opposed to the $1.50 the local laundrymat charges per load.
My other worry (sorry . . .) is about what will happen to all of the vermin that live over there once the wrecking ball starts to swing. When I lived over on West Alabama, a mostly empty four-plex about three lots down from where I lived was knocked down one summer. That night, while sitting out on the porch drinking beer with my friends Walter and Rebecca, a massive carpet of roaches suddenly and grotesquely swarmed over the front wall of my apartment and began to dive-bomb us. I remember Rebecca, who has very beautiful, long, thick, curly hair, yelling "They're in my hair!! They're in my ha-a-a-air!!!" as we ran down the staircase and out onto the sidewalk. It was awful, even as it was funny, but the roaches were thick that summer, and I was told that it was the result of the knocking down of the building. The place just west of us is not just a building, it is a huge, sprawling complex. Who knows what's nesting over there . . .
Tomorrow there are free films showing on the lawn of the Menil made by or about Paul Klee. We're hoping our friends join us with picnic baskets and coolers and blankets to check it out around 7pm. (If the rain stays away.)
At noon, I took the elevator ten floors down and stepped out of the university with four colleagues to get lunch. On the university's deck, looking out over the Bayou and the edge of downtown, watching the waters from the recent rains rush past, I could do nothing but stretch my hands in the air and try to grab the sky. The day felt huge, the city -- smart and clean. We descended the long, winding concrete staircase that leads from the deck to the Bayou, followed a little path, and crossed the bridge into downtown, admiring the workers who were putting the new, huge lettering on the side of the building. We turned right and ducked into the Vietnamese cafe right there on the edge of Market Square, ordered our $2.00 tofu sandwiches, and chatted in the sunlight as students, lawyers, theater folks, columnists, waitstaff, and businessmen stood in twos and threes, decked out in sunglasses and carrying the local free city rag.
This evening, I'm thinking about Westheimer Square, the huge, affordable apartment complex whose parking lot borders the gated and locked dead-end of our street. Much to my surprise, a sign went up a couple of months ago claiming that it was going to be knocked down to build some -- surprise! -- pre-fab highrises that no one I know could afford (Well, maybe I can think of one person. Or two.).
The apartments have been vacated, and it looks like they've already begun the process of ripping some of it apart. I've known a few people who've lived there over the years, mostly working class queers and Mexican families inhabited the place. We used to squeeze through the gate when we first moved in here to go swimming in one of its many pools, get some sun when it wasn't too hot outside. In addition, it was really easy to sneak in with a couple of pairs of jeans and secretly thrown them in the washing machines, which only charged .75 as opposed to the $1.50 the local laundrymat charges per load.
My other worry (sorry . . .) is about what will happen to all of the vermin that live over there once the wrecking ball starts to swing. When I lived over on West Alabama, a mostly empty four-plex about three lots down from where I lived was knocked down one summer. That night, while sitting out on the porch drinking beer with my friends Walter and Rebecca, a massive carpet of roaches suddenly and grotesquely swarmed over the front wall of my apartment and began to dive-bomb us. I remember Rebecca, who has very beautiful, long, thick, curly hair, yelling "They're in my hair!! They're in my ha-a-a-air!!!" as we ran down the staircase and out onto the sidewalk. It was awful, even as it was funny, but the roaches were thick that summer, and I was told that it was the result of the knocking down of the building. The place just west of us is not just a building, it is a huge, sprawling complex. Who knows what's nesting over there . . .
Tomorrow there are free films showing on the lawn of the Menil made by or about Paul Klee. We're hoping our friends join us with picnic baskets and coolers and blankets to check it out around 7pm. (If the rain stays away.)
Monday, October 16, 2006
deluge
Houston's tropical weather has kept a massive storm right on top of the city, with rain pouring straight down for the past two days. We tried to keep the windows open to let some of the air in (thinking rain = cool air), but finally the humidity was too much, leaving every surface slightly damp, so we shut the windows and turned on the A/C. All day yesterday, into the evening, the darkest hours of the night, the twilight of dawn under cloud, the rain just kept on coming. A real deluge.
When I woke up this morning at 6am, I had a feeling the university would be closed since its location (right where two major bayous meet before they head out to the Gulf) makes it succeptible to flooding. Sure enough, the web page had a sign telling us to stay home and, soon after, the chair of the department kindly called with a message to stay put. For sure, tomorrow there will be at least a dozen long and pointless phone messages from students on their cell-phones who want to thrill me with stories about how they got into their cars, got on the highway, got stuck in traffic, cannot see, want to turn around and go home, and how I have to call them back as soon as I get this message. Hm, sure, I'll make it my top priority . . .
Meanwhile, I actually drifted back to sleep while listening to weather reports and the latest from NPR. I got up and listened to Democracy Now! and heard Amy Goodman's interview with the civil rights attorney Lynne Stewart, which left me feeling so sad and anxious to hear how the judge will rule. (see full story here: http://www.democracynow.org/article.pl?sid=06/10/16/143257).
The rest of the day will be a chance to play catch-up with grading and preparing for classes, reading the blogs of friends and total strangers. My seniors finish Go Tell It on the Mountain this week and start with Giovanni's Room, so I should have something smart to say about the two, together.
When I woke up this morning at 6am, I had a feeling the university would be closed since its location (right where two major bayous meet before they head out to the Gulf) makes it succeptible to flooding. Sure enough, the web page had a sign telling us to stay home and, soon after, the chair of the department kindly called with a message to stay put. For sure, tomorrow there will be at least a dozen long and pointless phone messages from students on their cell-phones who want to thrill me with stories about how they got into their cars, got on the highway, got stuck in traffic, cannot see, want to turn around and go home, and how I have to call them back as soon as I get this message. Hm, sure, I'll make it my top priority . . .
Meanwhile, I actually drifted back to sleep while listening to weather reports and the latest from NPR. I got up and listened to Democracy Now! and heard Amy Goodman's interview with the civil rights attorney Lynne Stewart, which left me feeling so sad and anxious to hear how the judge will rule. (see full story here: http://www.democracynow.org/article.pl?sid=06/10/16/143257).
The rest of the day will be a chance to play catch-up with grading and preparing for classes, reading the blogs of friends and total strangers. My seniors finish Go Tell It on the Mountain this week and start with Giovanni's Room, so I should have something smart to say about the two, together.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
telescope, or kaleidoscope?
It is literally the middle of the semester, and this past week has been filled with not only trying to meet the deadlines I have imposed for all of my students (which means the stack of papers and one stack of exams were, at one point, up to the ceiling), but also my own struggle to meet the ones of the university and the its committees. Everything needs to be in by mid-October so that something can be done with it before the semester ends.
People zoom from floor to floor, elevator to elevator, room to room, building to building with their own stacks of paper, clipboards, handouts, and a wild sense of how important it is to accomplish something. I enter classrooms with dry-erase markers and a sense of daring, demanding that we try something new, shake things up, learn differently. I experience a dream-like sense of time that telescopes into and out of itself, making Monday mornings through Thursday afternoons one, long complicated day. Friday seems like its own day, as do the days of the weekend, but the rest of the week becomes a kaleidoscope of hundreds of different human encounters that turn in my head, in the evenings, for my contemplation:
We sat in a circle of thirty-five.
The flourescent light danced on his balding scalp.
I smelled beer on her breath.
He puzzled over the color scarlet.
He talked on his cell phone in a bathroom stall.
I asked too many questions.
She cried because she failed.
There was silence in the room and I had to remember not to fill it.
I knocked on his door but he wasn't in.
We discussed the difference between guilt and shame.
She grabbed a set of keys and unlocked the door of an office I had never seen before.
He left because the film was too upsetting.
She slipped a demanding note under my door.
She rushed past my office and yelled, "Go home, Chuck! It's late!"
Different people and different rooms and different times of day. I am impressed with the quotidian and banal because both seem to be freakishly human.
People zoom from floor to floor, elevator to elevator, room to room, building to building with their own stacks of paper, clipboards, handouts, and a wild sense of how important it is to accomplish something. I enter classrooms with dry-erase markers and a sense of daring, demanding that we try something new, shake things up, learn differently. I experience a dream-like sense of time that telescopes into and out of itself, making Monday mornings through Thursday afternoons one, long complicated day. Friday seems like its own day, as do the days of the weekend, but the rest of the week becomes a kaleidoscope of hundreds of different human encounters that turn in my head, in the evenings, for my contemplation:
We sat in a circle of thirty-five.
The flourescent light danced on his balding scalp.
I smelled beer on her breath.
He puzzled over the color scarlet.
He talked on his cell phone in a bathroom stall.
I asked too many questions.
She cried because she failed.
There was silence in the room and I had to remember not to fill it.
I knocked on his door but he wasn't in.
We discussed the difference between guilt and shame.
She grabbed a set of keys and unlocked the door of an office I had never seen before.
He left because the film was too upsetting.
She slipped a demanding note under my door.
She rushed past my office and yelled, "Go home, Chuck! It's late!"
Different people and different rooms and different times of day. I am impressed with the quotidian and banal because both seem to be freakishly human.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
tak.a.boost (drink.a.toast)
Tak.a.boost (which you can also call Drink.a.Toast, and both names appear on the bottle) is exactly like flat Pepsi or Coke. You know it if you grew up in South Jersey, across from Philadelphia, by the Delware River: Riverside, Delran, Palmyra, Rancocas Woods, Cinnaminson, Burlington. Although I haven't had it since my early-teenaged years, I can still remember it as a powerfully sweet and licoricey beverage. Usually poured on ice and served to you at the day care in the bowling alley, in the municipal building where your Mom went to vote, or handed to you as you finished something like the Crop Walk, it was supposed to give you sugar and coat your stomach. I really did not like it. How many times did I eagerly approach a collapsable table thinking paper cups of Coke were sitting ready for my consumption, only to realize, too late, that the unfizzy Boost was all there was. I would rather have had Orange Drink, which seems to be the equivalent elsewhere in the country. (Note: Delran, the name of the township [not even a town] where I grew up, is not Del Ran, but Delran, a condensation of the Delaware River and Rancocas Creek, between which it lies, trying desperately not to produce the next spate of white high school shooters.)
Didn't Boost come in a weird shaped bottle, almost like a jug of moonshine, with large bottom and a tiny little neck, and a spout the size of a half-dollar? Am I remembering that right? My family never kept a bottle of it around, so maybe that's why I never developed a taste for it. Legend was that it was a sure thing for a hangover.
Didn't Boost come in a weird shaped bottle, almost like a jug of moonshine, with large bottom and a tiny little neck, and a spout the size of a half-dollar? Am I remembering that right? My family never kept a bottle of it around, so maybe that's why I never developed a taste for it. Legend was that it was a sure thing for a hangover.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Sunday, October 01, 2006
thirty-five
1. Grey
2. Right knee pop
3. Softening middle
4. Publication frenzy
5. Dog dreams
6. Miso
7. Blog
8. Spider painting
9. DVD player
10. Children's laughter
11. Plants
12. Compost
13. Patience and kindness, together
14. Nose hairs
15. Kale cravings
16. New flatware
17. Workplace elations
18. Openings
19. Quality of light
20. Wide sense of time
21. Compulsive knuckle cracking
22. Birth
23. Mother's milk
24. Interconsciousness
25. Extimacy
26. Lung capacity
27. Muscle strength
28. Whole days
29. Words as things
30. Eye hugs
31. Persistent fear of death
32. Memory hangovers
33. Voyeurism
34. Joy in faces
35. Spirals and axes
2. Right knee pop
3. Softening middle
4. Publication frenzy
5. Dog dreams
6. Miso
7. Blog
8. Spider painting
9. DVD player
10. Children's laughter
11. Plants
12. Compost
13. Patience and kindness, together
14. Nose hairs
15. Kale cravings
16. New flatware
17. Workplace elations
18. Openings
19. Quality of light
20. Wide sense of time
21. Compulsive knuckle cracking
22. Birth
23. Mother's milk
24. Interconsciousness
25. Extimacy
26. Lung capacity
27. Muscle strength
28. Whole days
29. Words as things
30. Eye hugs
31. Persistent fear of death
32. Memory hangovers
33. Voyeurism
34. Joy in faces
35. Spirals and axes
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
do colds move? (and is it gross to describe it?)
Since forever, I've known colds to be different from allergies because they move. The one I have right now started as a scorching hot pain in my throat (mixed with sheer physical exhaustion), but has subsided to a weird itchy thing that nearly chokes me when it is in my throat, and causes convulsive sneezes when it travels to my nose, all the way out to the tip. I sense that it travels back and forth between my throat and my nose throughout the day, and into the night.
Do others sense that colds move? I know that when I was a freshman in college, and taking the worst care of myself ever, I had colds that started in my sinuses and went deep into my lungs, where they settled until I needed antibiotics. Allergies stay exactly where they begin (usually in the nose). Is this true of everyone? Instead of google the answer, I thought I'd let experience speak itself as truth, if anyone cares to respond.
The reason I ask is because I swear this is one of those things I've described to friends (or maybe it was a family member) before, only to be met with one of those really jarring "O, Chuck, you and your ideas! No, Mr. Ph.D., colds don't 'move'!!" responses to which I am particularly sensitive.
Relatedly, I feel better, although I am not yet where I want to be (as my mother always says, pouring herself a fourth cup of coffee). I need another good night's rest.
In any case, my colds move. Do yours?
Do others sense that colds move? I know that when I was a freshman in college, and taking the worst care of myself ever, I had colds that started in my sinuses and went deep into my lungs, where they settled until I needed antibiotics. Allergies stay exactly where they begin (usually in the nose). Is this true of everyone? Instead of google the answer, I thought I'd let experience speak itself as truth, if anyone cares to respond.
The reason I ask is because I swear this is one of those things I've described to friends (or maybe it was a family member) before, only to be met with one of those really jarring "O, Chuck, you and your ideas! No, Mr. Ph.D., colds don't 'move'!!" responses to which I am particularly sensitive.
Relatedly, I feel better, although I am not yet where I want to be (as my mother always says, pouring herself a fourth cup of coffee). I need another good night's rest.
In any case, my colds move. Do yours?
Monday, September 25, 2006
symptoms
When was the last time you slept all day? For me, it was today.
I've got a bad cold, and it has left me absolutely drained. It came down on me late-Saturday night and when I woke up Sunday morning, I was feeling miserable. Last night was painful (throat, sinuses), and I woke up, covered in drool, this morning at 6am to email work to let them know I wouldn't be in. I figured, since I was up, I'd be reading, grading papers, catching up on some things. But instead, I immediately fell back asleep, only to wake up five hours later, have some soup (thanks, Antonio and Melanie), and go back to sleep until just now. I bet if I went back into the bedroom I'd be out like a light.
And this gorgeous day outside has been feeling all mixed-up. The sounds of the school children gathering for morning announcements, followed by the crackle of car or bike tires on fallen pecans, long breezes drifting into the room, the sun moving, so slowly, all day, a cat meowing upstairs, the school children being let out of class, the sound of a coach's football whistle, a person walking by on a cell phone . . . time is passing in a very strange way, and I really, really miss my partner.
I've got a bad cold, and it has left me absolutely drained. It came down on me late-Saturday night and when I woke up Sunday morning, I was feeling miserable. Last night was painful (throat, sinuses), and I woke up, covered in drool, this morning at 6am to email work to let them know I wouldn't be in. I figured, since I was up, I'd be reading, grading papers, catching up on some things. But instead, I immediately fell back asleep, only to wake up five hours later, have some soup (thanks, Antonio and Melanie), and go back to sleep until just now. I bet if I went back into the bedroom I'd be out like a light.
And this gorgeous day outside has been feeling all mixed-up. The sounds of the school children gathering for morning announcements, followed by the crackle of car or bike tires on fallen pecans, long breezes drifting into the room, the sun moving, so slowly, all day, a cat meowing upstairs, the school children being let out of class, the sound of a coach's football whistle, a person walking by on a cell phone . . . time is passing in a very strange way, and I really, really miss my partner.
Friday, September 22, 2006
solitude (done up right)
When I lived by myself, one thing I loved to do on the weekend was spend an entire evening watching a film, allowing for multiple disruptions by nosy neighbors, drop-in visits from friends on bikes, long-distance phone calls, smoke breaks, and sudden moments of such clarity about my life and my work that I just had to grab my journal and scribble down my stunning insights. It might sound a little mundane, but I enjoyed the leisurely way the night proceeded and how deeply into my own head I allowed myself to go. There were many nights like this that started around 8pm and the film finished up in the early hours of the morning. I'd stop the film, turn on the lights, and shove the twelve books of cultural theory, the many articles I suddenly realized I needed to look at, my journal with its madly scribbled notes, and the empty bottle of wine out of the way and head off to bed, feeling thoroughly done.
While one cool thing about living with Hank is that the conversations I used to have in my head are now very much externalized, there is a part of me that romanticizes the solitude of my twenties, what I felt was a complete withdrawl from the realm of the social in which I did not have to interact with anyone if I so chose. I feel lucky to live with someone who understands the importance of solitary reading and writing, but it is rare that I find myself truly alone these days. There are at least some hours every day, sure. And there are the days I travel back to see family in the north-east, or when I spend a night or two at a hotel while out of town for a conference, but that is not really the kind of "alone" time I'm remembering. For someone who used to really relish his solitude for so many years, I have been remarkably not-alone for about two and a half years. That's a long time, my friends . . .
The reason I'm bringing all of this up is because Hank is out in east Texas this week, working on Broke. He's been gone since Tuesday, and returns this coming Tuesday. It's the first time I've had more than a couple of hours to myself since we've moved in together, and so I am really enjoying it. (Actually, the first Christmas after we moved in together, Hank spent a couple of days with his family, and so those count as alone days, but it was really very brief, and plus, even though I convinced myself that I was looking forward to weathering the holiday alone, I totally broke down and wept Christmas morning.) I have no plans this weekend, really, except to pick up a film or two for this evening and see what transpires.
(My friend Andrew points out that he has seen all of this in a comic strip somewhere, which is exactly right!)
Updates:
1) The pomegranate has been picked and is sitting in our fruit bowl. I kind of want to wait to open it until Hank returns, but I don't want it to rot. My friend Kayte took a photo of it with her digital camera, so I should be posting that soon.
2) So far, no rat. Hank bleached out the area under the sink and stuffed the holes around the pipes with steel wool. There are boxes of poison distributed throughout the apartment and little baggies in the crawl spaces under the building (but these are not in any place that little green-parented children can get into, I promise!). My trench-composting in the backyard has come to a screeching halt until I can deal with it again and maybe find a way to do it that does not attract vermin. Other than that, I am, sort of unbelievably, suffering from a form of post-traumatic stress disorder since I hallucinate the rat at least once a day, and I have to steel myself before I go into the kitchen and use it like a normal person. Also, I have told every person I know the rat story, and have heard dozens of frightening stories concerning rats in apartments that I did not need to hear. Isn't that terrible?
3) This morning, I found out that a short piece I wrote about Courtney Love is going to be published in special issue of a really kick-ass film studies journal on divas. Applause!!
While one cool thing about living with Hank is that the conversations I used to have in my head are now very much externalized, there is a part of me that romanticizes the solitude of my twenties, what I felt was a complete withdrawl from the realm of the social in which I did not have to interact with anyone if I so chose. I feel lucky to live with someone who understands the importance of solitary reading and writing, but it is rare that I find myself truly alone these days. There are at least some hours every day, sure. And there are the days I travel back to see family in the north-east, or when I spend a night or two at a hotel while out of town for a conference, but that is not really the kind of "alone" time I'm remembering. For someone who used to really relish his solitude for so many years, I have been remarkably not-alone for about two and a half years. That's a long time, my friends . . .
The reason I'm bringing all of this up is because Hank is out in east Texas this week, working on Broke. He's been gone since Tuesday, and returns this coming Tuesday. It's the first time I've had more than a couple of hours to myself since we've moved in together, and so I am really enjoying it. (Actually, the first Christmas after we moved in together, Hank spent a couple of days with his family, and so those count as alone days, but it was really very brief, and plus, even though I convinced myself that I was looking forward to weathering the holiday alone, I totally broke down and wept Christmas morning.) I have no plans this weekend, really, except to pick up a film or two for this evening and see what transpires.
(My friend Andrew points out that he has seen all of this in a comic strip somewhere, which is exactly right!)
Updates:
1) The pomegranate has been picked and is sitting in our fruit bowl. I kind of want to wait to open it until Hank returns, but I don't want it to rot. My friend Kayte took a photo of it with her digital camera, so I should be posting that soon.
2) So far, no rat. Hank bleached out the area under the sink and stuffed the holes around the pipes with steel wool. There are boxes of poison distributed throughout the apartment and little baggies in the crawl spaces under the building (but these are not in any place that little green-parented children can get into, I promise!). My trench-composting in the backyard has come to a screeching halt until I can deal with it again and maybe find a way to do it that does not attract vermin. Other than that, I am, sort of unbelievably, suffering from a form of post-traumatic stress disorder since I hallucinate the rat at least once a day, and I have to steel myself before I go into the kitchen and use it like a normal person. Also, I have told every person I know the rat story, and have heard dozens of frightening stories concerning rats in apartments that I did not need to hear. Isn't that terrible?
3) This morning, I found out that a short piece I wrote about Courtney Love is going to be published in special issue of a really kick-ass film studies journal on divas. Applause!!
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
o, rats!
It had been a full Sunday just with the grading of papers and the preparations for class. I kept changing locations so that a fresh environment would keep me on my toes and hard at work. After coming back from Deidrich's on Westheimer, where I finished grading, I heated up some leftovers, and plunked myself down on the futon in front of the TV, hoping the new seasons of cartoons would be on and i would have a good hour or so of time off for my teaching brain.
What I remember most is that I was coming into the kitchen to deposit my dishes in the sink, put away the tupperware containers of leftovers, and possibly even open a bottle of wine to go with the animation.
Suddenly, a RAT was -- what? hopping? leaping? from the back room (the sun room, the gentleman's retreat, if you will) into the kitchen and, my first reaction was to let out a startled yelp and call out for Hank. At this point I named what I thought I saw ("A mouse!!") until it dawned on me that, actually, it was much bigger, and much scarier looking than a mouse ("No -- a rat!!!") and as I yelled this and backed away it, the rat, zoomed into the kitchen and, without looking to see where it was going, I turned and ran screaming from the room.
Maybe its because he didn't actually have the pleasure of seeing the rat, or maybe because he grew up visiting families that lived on East Texas farms, or maybe because he labored at Deep Springs, or maybe because, simply, he is far more butch when it comes to confronting small vermin than I could ever hope to be -- but whatever the reason, Hank grabbed the nearest weapon (in this case, the extra dowel that we bought with the intention of hanging clothes from it in the closet) and a bucket, ready to trap, bash, or chase out the rat and restore order to the domestic sphere.
Not following the rat with my eyes was a bad idea, though, since I could not answer Hank's practical question, "Where did it go?". When Hank asked me to help him get a flashlight, I sort of turned into Barbara from Night of the Living Dead, because all I could manage to do was stare off into space and kind of poke around in a daze, watching while Hank went in and out of drawers, and gathered some other items that might help at least chase the rat out of doors for the time being.
After about a half an hour, however, the rat was clearly not coming back, and I was beginning to calm down. I asked Hank a lot of inane questions (Do you think it's gone? Do you think it'll come back? Do you think it has a family?), and finally decided, along with Hank, that the rat was probably more afraid of me than I was of it, and that my presence alone was enough to make it run for the hills (or at least the compost heap). I called the landlord who promised to send an expterminator the next morning and then, for some reason, compared having a rat in the apartment to being raped. Um, sorry, what did you say? I think he must have immediately regretted this comparison, because the tone of his voice changed immediately and he talked on an on about the importance of cats and did we want to adopt one?
Having finally found some closure, and since the Simpsons was about to come on, I decided to make the best of a bad situation. I grabbed the bottle of wine and the opener and headed back to the kitchen for a wine glass. The nightmare returned. The rat came right out from under the stove and zig-zagged all over the kitchen floor, looking for an exit. Once again, I turned and ran, letting out another long, terrified yell that combined vowels with a cry for help. Hank came bounding in from the living room, but by this time the rat had disappeared under the dishwasher. This was a breaking point.
What were we going to do?
My intial thought was to leave. Call a friend and stay somewhere else. Hank suggested going out, getting traps or poison ourselves, and trying to kill the rat on our own. Neither sounded good to both of us. In a moment of total frustration, Hank grabbed our bar stool, his dowel, a hammer, and the bucket, set up a post by the kitchen table, and claimed that he would stand guard and kill the rat himself. Suddenly, I envisioned a screeching, half-dead rat that hissed, bit, and fought tooth and nail with Hank on the kitchen floor; then I pictured brains, blood, and a carcass (um, not Hank's). It was too much for me. I didn't want to see it.
I then got the bright idea that, even though we didn't have a cat, perhaps our friend Laura would bring over her two dogs, both Springer Spaniels, and they would flush the rat from our kitchen, like a duck from a bush. I called Laura and she kindly agreed to bring them over, although she did express a concern that the rat might be rabid and in attack mode but I, somehow, strong-armed her into not worrying too much about that, and she was over within minutes. The dogs came in and were told to "get the squirrel" and then, when that had them looking at the ceiling, to "get the kitty." They made a good attempt to find something, but came up with zero. (I should note that Edison, the more autistic of the two dogs, did try to chase the shadows on the kitchen floor, and Clarabelle, the more vocal of the two, barked at us in confusion.)
After packing a small bag, I announced that I was not staying the night, simply because I did not want to get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom or get some water and have another shocking scream-fest that might wake everyone up. Plus, I really did not want to see the rat again. Hank, however, was brave, and stayed put.
Yesterday evening, Hank, after a day of dropping off the first installment of his serialized fiction (titled Broke and available at all Houston hotspots -- get one now and collect all nine!! Ask for an autograph!!), picked me up at work and we went out to eat (note: El Tiempo on Washington is a terrible place to get Mexican food. Expensive, bad service, and bad food.). We got home just before President Coo Coo Bananas (as Homer would say) made his September 11th speech. I drifted off into a pretty good sleep, and woke up refreshed.
The house has been, as far as I have seen, rat free. The landlord actually did not hire an exterminator, but came over himself and put rat poison in the openings under the duplex, under our sink, in the a/c closet, in the water-heater closet, and in the closet of the front toom. I hope it works.
Even though I have lived in places where I could hear rats in the walls (Berthea Apartments) and where I saw rats every single day in the courtyard or trees surrounding my apartment (Jack Street, West Alabama), I have not yet, as far as I have known, had one in my kitchen. Apparantly, the poison is a strong dose of vitamin K that causes extreme thirst and, the theory goes, the rats will leave the building and look for water outside, and then die the thirstiest death of all. My friend Gretchen points out that the whole "then they leave the building and die elsewhere" is a bit of a myth, since many have reported having to deal with them once they die in crawl spaces or attics.
I want to believe the myth, and I never want to see one inside, again.
What I remember most is that I was coming into the kitchen to deposit my dishes in the sink, put away the tupperware containers of leftovers, and possibly even open a bottle of wine to go with the animation.
Suddenly, a RAT was -- what? hopping? leaping? from the back room (the sun room, the gentleman's retreat, if you will) into the kitchen and, my first reaction was to let out a startled yelp and call out for Hank. At this point I named what I thought I saw ("A mouse!!") until it dawned on me that, actually, it was much bigger, and much scarier looking than a mouse ("No -- a rat!!!") and as I yelled this and backed away it, the rat, zoomed into the kitchen and, without looking to see where it was going, I turned and ran screaming from the room.
Maybe its because he didn't actually have the pleasure of seeing the rat, or maybe because he grew up visiting families that lived on East Texas farms, or maybe because he labored at Deep Springs, or maybe because, simply, he is far more butch when it comes to confronting small vermin than I could ever hope to be -- but whatever the reason, Hank grabbed the nearest weapon (in this case, the extra dowel that we bought with the intention of hanging clothes from it in the closet) and a bucket, ready to trap, bash, or chase out the rat and restore order to the domestic sphere.
Not following the rat with my eyes was a bad idea, though, since I could not answer Hank's practical question, "Where did it go?". When Hank asked me to help him get a flashlight, I sort of turned into Barbara from Night of the Living Dead, because all I could manage to do was stare off into space and kind of poke around in a daze, watching while Hank went in and out of drawers, and gathered some other items that might help at least chase the rat out of doors for the time being.
After about a half an hour, however, the rat was clearly not coming back, and I was beginning to calm down. I asked Hank a lot of inane questions (Do you think it's gone? Do you think it'll come back? Do you think it has a family?), and finally decided, along with Hank, that the rat was probably more afraid of me than I was of it, and that my presence alone was enough to make it run for the hills (or at least the compost heap). I called the landlord who promised to send an expterminator the next morning and then, for some reason, compared having a rat in the apartment to being raped. Um, sorry, what did you say? I think he must have immediately regretted this comparison, because the tone of his voice changed immediately and he talked on an on about the importance of cats and did we want to adopt one?
Having finally found some closure, and since the Simpsons was about to come on, I decided to make the best of a bad situation. I grabbed the bottle of wine and the opener and headed back to the kitchen for a wine glass. The nightmare returned. The rat came right out from under the stove and zig-zagged all over the kitchen floor, looking for an exit. Once again, I turned and ran, letting out another long, terrified yell that combined vowels with a cry for help. Hank came bounding in from the living room, but by this time the rat had disappeared under the dishwasher. This was a breaking point.
What were we going to do?
My intial thought was to leave. Call a friend and stay somewhere else. Hank suggested going out, getting traps or poison ourselves, and trying to kill the rat on our own. Neither sounded good to both of us. In a moment of total frustration, Hank grabbed our bar stool, his dowel, a hammer, and the bucket, set up a post by the kitchen table, and claimed that he would stand guard and kill the rat himself. Suddenly, I envisioned a screeching, half-dead rat that hissed, bit, and fought tooth and nail with Hank on the kitchen floor; then I pictured brains, blood, and a carcass (um, not Hank's). It was too much for me. I didn't want to see it.
I then got the bright idea that, even though we didn't have a cat, perhaps our friend Laura would bring over her two dogs, both Springer Spaniels, and they would flush the rat from our kitchen, like a duck from a bush. I called Laura and she kindly agreed to bring them over, although she did express a concern that the rat might be rabid and in attack mode but I, somehow, strong-armed her into not worrying too much about that, and she was over within minutes. The dogs came in and were told to "get the squirrel" and then, when that had them looking at the ceiling, to "get the kitty." They made a good attempt to find something, but came up with zero. (I should note that Edison, the more autistic of the two dogs, did try to chase the shadows on the kitchen floor, and Clarabelle, the more vocal of the two, barked at us in confusion.)
After packing a small bag, I announced that I was not staying the night, simply because I did not want to get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom or get some water and have another shocking scream-fest that might wake everyone up. Plus, I really did not want to see the rat again. Hank, however, was brave, and stayed put.
Yesterday evening, Hank, after a day of dropping off the first installment of his serialized fiction (titled Broke and available at all Houston hotspots -- get one now and collect all nine!! Ask for an autograph!!), picked me up at work and we went out to eat (note: El Tiempo on Washington is a terrible place to get Mexican food. Expensive, bad service, and bad food.). We got home just before President Coo Coo Bananas (as Homer would say) made his September 11th speech. I drifted off into a pretty good sleep, and woke up refreshed.
The house has been, as far as I have seen, rat free. The landlord actually did not hire an exterminator, but came over himself and put rat poison in the openings under the duplex, under our sink, in the a/c closet, in the water-heater closet, and in the closet of the front toom. I hope it works.
Even though I have lived in places where I could hear rats in the walls (Berthea Apartments) and where I saw rats every single day in the courtyard or trees surrounding my apartment (Jack Street, West Alabama), I have not yet, as far as I have known, had one in my kitchen. Apparantly, the poison is a strong dose of vitamin K that causes extreme thirst and, the theory goes, the rats will leave the building and look for water outside, and then die the thirstiest death of all. My friend Gretchen points out that the whole "then they leave the building and die elsewhere" is a bit of a myth, since many have reported having to deal with them once they die in crawl spaces or attics.
I want to believe the myth, and I never want to see one inside, again.
Friday, September 08, 2006
do you swear to tell the truth?
This morning, I learned that the state of Texas is the only state left in the U.S. that will allow traffic offenses to have a juried trial. Sitting in the Jury Assembly Room on Lubbock St., a judge who looked exactly like Kathy Bates told us this, and cautioned that, far from being a waste of time, such trials are an essential part of democracy here in Texas.
I have a really full history of being called for Jury Duty. I get called at least twice a year (last year I was called to serve on my birthday!), and I have yet to actually be selected. Today I found out that one of the reasons this might be is that I have one name on my driver's license and another on my voter registration (the first one does not include the III part of my name, and the second one does). No one really likes jury duty, and I always feel especially put upon when I am called since, for me, to miss work means I have to cancel class, and if I actually got picked to serve, who knows how much class would be missed? The whole semester could be de-railed. I have written countless letters asking judges to be excused from jury duty service, always careful to close by declaring that, surely, I am more of a service to the state of Texas by teaching poverty-level and working class students how to write and think than as a juror. So far, this has only gotten my dates postponed.
About two years ago, I was at the voir dire for a capital murder case. The defendent was seventeen years old. The lawyers kept making informative statements followed by questions like, "In the state of Texas, at the age of seventeen, you can be tried as an adult -- does anyone here find that problematic?" and "In the state of Texas, you do not have to have DNA evidence in order to establish guilt beyond a reasonable doubt -- does anyone here find that problematic?" Since I found both problematic, I raised my hand high and spoke at length about the cultural relativity of age, the ethics of human storage, the crowding of death row, innocent men being killed by the state, etc. The woman sitting next to me heaved a big, irritated sigh through her nose and, finally, the judge interrupted me, told me to stop talking, and explained to the jury pool that if life was like television, and forensic evidence needed to be supplied, the whole system would get clogged and nothing would ever get accomplished. After the next question, which had to do with opposing the death penalty for religious or political reasons, I raised my hand again and the judge told me not to raise my hand or speak again since it was already clear that I would not be selected for service.
Today was much less exciting. I sat in the jury room for about two hours before being called to voir dire, and it was explained to all of us that, if we did not make it to the jury, we had to report back to the assembly room and we'd get cycled through again until 5pm. So, unlike the times I have been let go for being a loud mouth, this time I would have to stay, regardless. At 11.30am, we were called into a trial for a man who ran a red light and wanted a jury to deem him innocent or guilty. He was up against a police officer, the ticket-writer. The woman representing the state asked if any of us had ever run a red light and been given a ticket and, this time, I raised my hand but had very little to say about it. In fact, I agreed that it did not affect my ability to fairly decide innocence or guilt. (Although I did have a minor anxiety attack over the fact that I could not remember, after I claimed that it happened, if it was indeed a red light or a stop sign that I ran several years ago. I had, after all, pledged to tell the truth.) The man who was contesting his ticket was being represented by a very young-looking lawyer who made this joke: "Now, I assume we all know what a traffic light looks like, right?" But, for some reason, I am the only one who laughed. The rest of the crew were solemnly nodding their heads, as if to show the austerity of intersections and red light-green light. He explained to us that the man was innocent until proven guilty, and asked if we all understand that it was the burden of the state to prove it to us. More solemn head-nodding. After this, the jury was picked, and I did not make the cut.
We were given an hour to have lunch and get back to the assembly room, and so I walked to a place called the Avenue Grill, which was kind of like Treebeard's, only greasier (and dirtier). The other option was to go to the police station and eat in their cafeteria. (Um, no thanks . . .) On the way to the grill, five women in their fifties befriended me, and we all sat together and ate our okra and tomatoes, mashed potatoes, and rolls. They all had iced tea and diet coke. I drank water. We gossiped about the other people in the assembly room. We guessed the age of the young lawyer. We wondered how the selection of jurors for each trial was determined. Randomness was dismissed. Someone suggested it was done by zip code. The women and I agreed that this must be the case, since we were all from different zip codes. This was also the moment when I learned that if my driver's license and my voter registration had different names on them, I would be more likely to be called. The women were very interested to know that I lived in Montrose and that I was not, as they suspected, a student, but a professor. One woman argued that teachers of any kind should not have to serve on jury duty because of missed class time. I agreed whole-heartedly.
About an hour later, we were back in the assembly room, reading, stretching, waiting, going to the bathroom, talking on cell phones, chit-chatting. There was one very talkative woman who was fully prepared with a book of crossword puzzles, little baggies of chex-mix, apple slices, water bottle, and dum-dums lollipops ("for blood sugar!"). She explained to anyone who would listen that she got called for jury duty every August, like clock-work, and had written all the dates as far back as 1992 on the envelope in which her summons arrived as proof. Slowly, the next jury pool was called for voir dire and, once more, I did not make the cut. More reading and sitting around. Finally, one of the women from lunch, Tama, struck up a conversation with me. She wanted to know what kind of literature I taught. When I told her it was African American literature, she looked very surprised, and was then full of questions. What did I teach? I showed her the book I was reading, Native Son (Richard Wright, 1940), and explained that I was teaching his work along with James Baldwin this semester to a group of seniors. She had never heard of the book or the author. For the next hour, I held this woman captive by describing the entire plot of Native Son. She was a great audience. She even took a bathroom break and then returned, full of questions: How did Bigger get caught? Why did he kill his girlfriend? How does it end? Tama told me she was an English major many years ago at University of St. Thomas, and that she was a life-long reader. The book she had with her was by Deepak Chopra and I cannot recall exactly the title, but it had something to do with peace. She had me read the first paragraph, and then gave me this knowing look, like, "Right on!"
Finally, around 3:45, it was revealed to us that no more trials were to be held today, and everyone applauded and jumped for joy and went up to collect their six dollars cash. As each person turned to leave, each shared a huge smile of sheer satisfaction. Afterwards, I said goodbye to my new friend, Tama, and she told me she'd be seeing me around.
Not such a bad thing, afterall. I came home and took a much-needed nap.
I have a really full history of being called for Jury Duty. I get called at least twice a year (last year I was called to serve on my birthday!), and I have yet to actually be selected. Today I found out that one of the reasons this might be is that I have one name on my driver's license and another on my voter registration (the first one does not include the III part of my name, and the second one does). No one really likes jury duty, and I always feel especially put upon when I am called since, for me, to miss work means I have to cancel class, and if I actually got picked to serve, who knows how much class would be missed? The whole semester could be de-railed. I have written countless letters asking judges to be excused from jury duty service, always careful to close by declaring that, surely, I am more of a service to the state of Texas by teaching poverty-level and working class students how to write and think than as a juror. So far, this has only gotten my dates postponed.
About two years ago, I was at the voir dire for a capital murder case. The defendent was seventeen years old. The lawyers kept making informative statements followed by questions like, "In the state of Texas, at the age of seventeen, you can be tried as an adult -- does anyone here find that problematic?" and "In the state of Texas, you do not have to have DNA evidence in order to establish guilt beyond a reasonable doubt -- does anyone here find that problematic?" Since I found both problematic, I raised my hand high and spoke at length about the cultural relativity of age, the ethics of human storage, the crowding of death row, innocent men being killed by the state, etc. The woman sitting next to me heaved a big, irritated sigh through her nose and, finally, the judge interrupted me, told me to stop talking, and explained to the jury pool that if life was like television, and forensic evidence needed to be supplied, the whole system would get clogged and nothing would ever get accomplished. After the next question, which had to do with opposing the death penalty for religious or political reasons, I raised my hand again and the judge told me not to raise my hand or speak again since it was already clear that I would not be selected for service.
Today was much less exciting. I sat in the jury room for about two hours before being called to voir dire, and it was explained to all of us that, if we did not make it to the jury, we had to report back to the assembly room and we'd get cycled through again until 5pm. So, unlike the times I have been let go for being a loud mouth, this time I would have to stay, regardless. At 11.30am, we were called into a trial for a man who ran a red light and wanted a jury to deem him innocent or guilty. He was up against a police officer, the ticket-writer. The woman representing the state asked if any of us had ever run a red light and been given a ticket and, this time, I raised my hand but had very little to say about it. In fact, I agreed that it did not affect my ability to fairly decide innocence or guilt. (Although I did have a minor anxiety attack over the fact that I could not remember, after I claimed that it happened, if it was indeed a red light or a stop sign that I ran several years ago. I had, after all, pledged to tell the truth.) The man who was contesting his ticket was being represented by a very young-looking lawyer who made this joke: "Now, I assume we all know what a traffic light looks like, right?" But, for some reason, I am the only one who laughed. The rest of the crew were solemnly nodding their heads, as if to show the austerity of intersections and red light-green light. He explained to us that the man was innocent until proven guilty, and asked if we all understand that it was the burden of the state to prove it to us. More solemn head-nodding. After this, the jury was picked, and I did not make the cut.
We were given an hour to have lunch and get back to the assembly room, and so I walked to a place called the Avenue Grill, which was kind of like Treebeard's, only greasier (and dirtier). The other option was to go to the police station and eat in their cafeteria. (Um, no thanks . . .) On the way to the grill, five women in their fifties befriended me, and we all sat together and ate our okra and tomatoes, mashed potatoes, and rolls. They all had iced tea and diet coke. I drank water. We gossiped about the other people in the assembly room. We guessed the age of the young lawyer. We wondered how the selection of jurors for each trial was determined. Randomness was dismissed. Someone suggested it was done by zip code. The women and I agreed that this must be the case, since we were all from different zip codes. This was also the moment when I learned that if my driver's license and my voter registration had different names on them, I would be more likely to be called. The women were very interested to know that I lived in Montrose and that I was not, as they suspected, a student, but a professor. One woman argued that teachers of any kind should not have to serve on jury duty because of missed class time. I agreed whole-heartedly.
About an hour later, we were back in the assembly room, reading, stretching, waiting, going to the bathroom, talking on cell phones, chit-chatting. There was one very talkative woman who was fully prepared with a book of crossword puzzles, little baggies of chex-mix, apple slices, water bottle, and dum-dums lollipops ("for blood sugar!"). She explained to anyone who would listen that she got called for jury duty every August, like clock-work, and had written all the dates as far back as 1992 on the envelope in which her summons arrived as proof. Slowly, the next jury pool was called for voir dire and, once more, I did not make the cut. More reading and sitting around. Finally, one of the women from lunch, Tama, struck up a conversation with me. She wanted to know what kind of literature I taught. When I told her it was African American literature, she looked very surprised, and was then full of questions. What did I teach? I showed her the book I was reading, Native Son (Richard Wright, 1940), and explained that I was teaching his work along with James Baldwin this semester to a group of seniors. She had never heard of the book or the author. For the next hour, I held this woman captive by describing the entire plot of Native Son. She was a great audience. She even took a bathroom break and then returned, full of questions: How did Bigger get caught? Why did he kill his girlfriend? How does it end? Tama told me she was an English major many years ago at University of St. Thomas, and that she was a life-long reader. The book she had with her was by Deepak Chopra and I cannot recall exactly the title, but it had something to do with peace. She had me read the first paragraph, and then gave me this knowing look, like, "Right on!"
Finally, around 3:45, it was revealed to us that no more trials were to be held today, and everyone applauded and jumped for joy and went up to collect their six dollars cash. As each person turned to leave, each shared a huge smile of sheer satisfaction. Afterwards, I said goodbye to my new friend, Tama, and she told me she'd be seeing me around.
Not such a bad thing, afterall. I came home and took a much-needed nap.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
could you use it in a sentence?
My sister Mary Anne sent me an email today that paused, before it asked its question, to let me know that, as she typed her greeting to me, she suddenly remembered being a small girl and finally learning how to spell my name; and that since, for her, it was a difficult name to spell (CHARLES), she felt like it was a real accomplishment.
The simple act of sending an email (this one was asking for recommendations on the kind of yoga she should take up) suddenly, without warning, transports her all the way back to the age of -- what? -- five? six? and its attendant spelling challenges. The past is vivified. She must remember how to spell her brother's name, and then does. I imagine her, back then, so skinny and pale, roller skating on the driveway in her poncho, and the way she, and everyone else I knew, said my name. It was pronounced with two syllables, "Char-rulls," and so I believe she thought it was spelled like this: CHARELS.
(FYI -- We also pronounced my younger sister Kathleen's name with three syllables: Kath-a-leen.)
I was quick to learn how to spell, and knew how to read and write before I entered Mrs. Klopstein's kindergarten class, where we were subjected to daily spelling drills in which dim students did their best to carefully sound out the letters of each word. To me, it was agony. One afternoon, bored stiff, I decided to pretend to be stumped by the word I was given (could it have been the word "THAT"?) and then I mimicked one of the slower students whose voice started to spell in a barely audible articulation, but then grew in volume until he finally blurted out the right letter with a question mark in his voice (like this: "Dog. Um. Okay: dddddDDDDDDDD!??!?! oooooOOOOOO!??!!?! ggggggggGGGGGGG!!?!?!). Funny, though, I don't recollect Mrs. Klopstein's reaction to my performance, just the sensation of doing it and wondering if it would work.
What else could I have done?
The simple act of sending an email (this one was asking for recommendations on the kind of yoga she should take up) suddenly, without warning, transports her all the way back to the age of -- what? -- five? six? and its attendant spelling challenges. The past is vivified. She must remember how to spell her brother's name, and then does. I imagine her, back then, so skinny and pale, roller skating on the driveway in her poncho, and the way she, and everyone else I knew, said my name. It was pronounced with two syllables, "Char-rulls," and so I believe she thought it was spelled like this: CHARELS.
(FYI -- We also pronounced my younger sister Kathleen's name with three syllables: Kath-a-leen.)
I was quick to learn how to spell, and knew how to read and write before I entered Mrs. Klopstein's kindergarten class, where we were subjected to daily spelling drills in which dim students did their best to carefully sound out the letters of each word. To me, it was agony. One afternoon, bored stiff, I decided to pretend to be stumped by the word I was given (could it have been the word "THAT"?) and then I mimicked one of the slower students whose voice started to spell in a barely audible articulation, but then grew in volume until he finally blurted out the right letter with a question mark in his voice (like this: "Dog. Um. Okay: dddddDDDDDDDD!??!?! oooooOOOOOO!??!!?! ggggggggGGGGGGG!!?!?!). Funny, though, I don't recollect Mrs. Klopstein's reaction to my performance, just the sensation of doing it and wondering if it would work.
What else could I have done?
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