A Good Hair Day to Meet Old Friends

Last night I waxed off half of my left eyebrow. I do this, accidentally about once a year. I get out the hot wax believing this time it will be different, this time I'll make my brows arch with perfection but I always really mess them up.

After drawing one of my brows back in I began to laugh. I laughed because it looked funny but mostly out of joy. I laughed because I was on my way to have drinks with some old friends and I knew they wouldn't care.  I could have waxed off both brows and we all would have laughed about it and had a good time happy to be in each others presence. 

Whenever I reconnect with an old friend there is pressure to present my very best self.  I try to plan out the prefect outfit, prepare my hair, and discuss all the ways I've become a better person since we last saw each other.  I believe we all do this. But the magic of seeing an old friend is not proving the major changes we've made. It's the awareness that we've survived each other.  I believe friendship is an act of endurance and faith.  We endure betrayal, humiliation, jealousy, misunderstanding, and rejection.  We endure these things because we have faith in each others abilities to be better people.  A friend helps you to be your best and is there when you are at your worst. We as humans maintain friendships because we need each other.  We need someone to remind us that all the things we are trying to hide or improve about ourselves are not so bad.  I love my friends and look up to them, they inspire me. It's very affirming to be around people that have surmounted similar challenges, and are still standing firm, perhaps missing an eyebrow but there none the less. 

My Summer, Fall and Random Rants

Me and Patches, at home in Mt. Horeb, after a rough night of sleeping and watching "Sex in the City". Patches hit the bottle pretty hard...I'm just cleaning up her mess.

Where was I? Ah yes I left TJ with an inexpensive, yet sound root canal.  The rest of the summer was spent working at a coffee shop and selling spa packages so I could afford my trip back to Maui. I still had a good time. Played lots of free soccer, bought a surf board but never really used it. Went to museums and spent time with my new friends.  As summer came to a close I began to get a little nervous.  I had moved to California to establish residence so I could attend graduate school for a reasonable price and I hadn't spent any time preparing for school.  I considered staying in San Diego but in the end realized it was best to stick with my plan and head back to the Midwest.  So after my trip back to Maui, I packed up my car, stuffed my cat in her tinny carrier and drove from San Diego to Mt. Horeb Wisconsin. 

The trip took 3.5 days. It was a beautiful drive through the desert, the mountains of Colorado and Nevada.  I didn't even know Nevada had mountains until I found my way winding through them in the dark of night. Even the flat lands of Nebraska seemed somewhat enchanting...well at least I stayed awake for the drive.  Finally, I arrived at home and was welcomed by my mother, our cat, two dogs, four houses, my mother's husband and his son.  Really I wasn't welcomed by my mother's husband's son but I think I'm growing on him.  He's very quite but we speak a few words to each other from time to time. 

So here I am, sitting in the library of my call center job desperately trying to complete a statement of purpose for San Francisco State University.  I've answered all of the questions but one: "Discuss 12 course credits in Ethnic Studies."  Umm discuss three courses I took 4-6 years ago. Crap...I tried rereading one of my old course readers on Black Political Theory and I almost pulled my hair out. It was depressing.  

At the "McCarthy Bonfire" in Richland Center, Wisconsin... contemplating the Revolution. 

What is race? What does the word race mean? How has it changed? Why do Europeans always try to exploit groups of people they are able to convince to be inferior? I remember how pissed off I was when I focused all of my energy on ethnic studies.  That stuff is a real downer.  None of my texts talk about love, or forgiveness.  Let's all forgive the Europeans that made the serious error of being lazy and greedy.  Now when I talk about Europeans I'm not talking about white people. I'm talking about a system of governance; steal, cheat, lie and manipulate. I forgive the Europeans for being assholes and everyone else for believing their garbage.  I forgive everyone with power for misusing it because they were lonely or lacked a feeling of acceptance.  Whatever the reason was I forgive you. Now let's all go on with our lives. 

For my next rant I'd like to address Tyra Banks' Weaves.  

Dear Tyra,

Your hair looks fake and funny.  It creates a the illusion that black women should have very long straight hair or at least have tens of thousands of dollars a year to purchase fake looking weaves.  I don't blame the Europeans that established this as a beauty standard I blame you because you have the power to change it.  I don't mind dyed hair, or permed hair but I do mind fake hair.  What the hell is so wrong with our natural hair that we have to cover it up? Wait I can answer that...there is nothing wrong with our hair, Nothing, Nothing, Nothing. 

That's it. 

Oh... and I forgive the skin heads that created a plot to kill O'bama.  They looked like they needed a hug. So I'm sending them an electronic hug and hoping that whatever they thought would get better in their lives by killing someone they never even met, will get better without killing him. :)

My Summer Until Now Continued

Let’s see now. My mother picked me up in her small red sporty sedan and we got food from Willy Street Co-op, it’s the only place I really miss in Madison. I spent the rest of my time in Wisconsin cleaning her house and throwing away all the junk I left behind when I moved to California.  We did some growth based fighting and some heart to heart talking and I was back on a plane headed for San Diego.

When returned I alternated between sleeping and looking for a job.  After two weeks I was employed at a wonderful little coffee shop in North Park and a spa promotions com

pany.  I spent my early mornings attempting to remember customer’s names, and their regular drinks.  In the evening I went out with my roommate Sara and her boyfriend’s friends.  They were from Wisconsin and coincidentally went to UW Madison. They lived in Ocean Beach.  If Never Never Land were a real place, it would be Ocean Beach, San Diego.  It’s a 24-hour party everyday of the week.  One night I had a terrible toothache.  I decided a bottle of tequila would solve the problem.  The sales guy at the liquor store felt so bad for me he gave me a free lime with instructions on using salt and lime to clear out the infection.  I finished most of the bottle myself, partied all night and awoke to surf with my friend Spenser the next morning.  I wore my bra, a tank top and his board shorts. He wore his leather shoes and surf shorts.  We must of looked ridiculous, most likely still drunk attempting to catch a wave but it ranks as one of the best memories of my summer.

The bum tooth not only forced me to drink, it lead me to Tijuana and a wonderful dentist by the name of Gypsy Morena.  If you have ever seen the movie “Jacob’s Latter” she reminded me of the main characters chiropractor who also was his guardian angel.  She spoke very little English and I’m unable to speak or understand Spanish.  But with my good friend Cerissa’s help we negotiated prices.  I went to TJ a total of 3 times.  At the cautioning of my friends, the last time I went alone.  I think the best reality check in the world is to be poor.  Nothing seems like a big of a deal when your only choice for emergency dental care is to cross a border into a country where  you don’t speak the language and there is no guarantee anything will be ok.  It was like therapy for me.  I was a little freaked out at first but she did a great job.

 Cerissa and me at Dr. Morena's Office.

 

My entire summer until now....

Sorry I haven't been blogging. Unlike when I started the blogg I've been living instead. I made my way down to San Diego in June and it's been a whirlwind summer ever since. After moving to my adorable apartment in San Diego I flew to Chicago to visit my old college buddy Beder. We had a few Tequila shots, swam in lake Michigan...well I waded in as he watched in fear of the cold ass water and discussed the good old days. He walked me to my bus, we kissed and I left with the intent of never seeing him again.  

 I got on the bus headed to Cleveland drunk and weepy. My step mom my picked me up from the bus stop 5 hours later. I was thirsty but happy to be in one of my homes. As I got off the cherry red double decker mega bus I spotted three young black women with large pride signs. I wish I had grabbed my camera. The image made me tear up again. They were teenagers, maybe 17 and in rainbow colors. They weren't from the suburbs of Cleveland but I could only assume from the heart of the city. They ran with joy to greet their friend letting the whole bus load of people know it was PRIDE damit!! And I guess Cleveland knows how to do pride like no other. Unfortunately I was unable to attend pride but I did get to go to my family's reunion, which was just as historical. It would be difficult to explain why we were having a John's family reunion if I didn't first describe how it all came about.

Last fall I went to Maui. Connected with an old friend from high school and had an emotional breakdown that lasted for several months. This breakdown was due in part to realizing I was 26 in control of my own life and completely unhappy. I had only myself to blame for my unhappiness and I didn't know how to change it. I thought I was on top of the world. I had a good job, made good money and was finally moving to California like I had always dreamed of but I was suffering. For those of you who were reading my blogg before I won't recall the suckyness of my last job. So at the advice of my friend from high school I began looking at how I was either making myself happy or making myself sad. I realized I was unhappy that my father didn't have a real relationship with me or my older brother. I wanted them so badly to meet and make our family whole again. When I was 20 my oldest brother died and since then we've had a hole in our family.  So I began pushing for a family reunion. And it was wonderful. All the living siblings under one roof in my father's house. It wasn't perfect but it was necessary. I hope everyone took something away from it. I'm so often in my own world I don't sense how other people are dealing with situations. I spent a week in Cleveland preparing for the party, navigating family ties and spending time with my little sister, big brother and soon to be sister in law Risa. It was a blast. After the party was over my Dad and I met my brother and Risa at the airport to say our farewell. It was the most touching part of the entire reunion when my Dad nervously turned to me and asked "Do you think he had a good time?" It was nice to know my Dad really cared.

So the next day I got back on the bus headed to Wisconsin. As fate would have it I got on the same bus as my ex-grandfather who I affectionately refer to as Grandpa Bill. He's my mom's ex-husbands father. He was my grandfather for a huge chunk of my young life. The period in which I development my middle class values and Catholic school upbringing. He was a professor at UW Madison, the school I attended for my undergraduate and the soccer coach for the men's team. It's funny I never realized what a HUGE impact he had on my self development until I sat with him. I was mostly interested in how he met my grandmother and why he decided she was the one. It was simple... he missed her. They met in teachers college. He was older than her but a year behind since he had served in the army to pay for school. They hung out but when she was done with school she moved to Maui. While she was in Maui he missed her. I thought that was the most honest and valid reason for wanting to be with someone I had ever heard. So he moved to Maui. In fact I was surprised to find out that the town they used to live in was my favorite towns on the island. It was the only place I would have wanted to live. It's an old Plantation town outside of Hana. So the bus came to a halt in Madison and we hugged promising to keep in touch but knowing it would not happen.

I got off the bus and forgetting I was in Wisconsin not California, I sat in the grass and immediately was covered in mosquito bits. F-Wisconsin. A few minutes later my mom came flying into the parking lot in her cute little red car....TBA

I fucking love poetry

Ok, 

So I'm coming to my last two weeks at Scripps and I'm getting a little stir crazy. The students are gone and gas prices are up. This means I have a lot of free time with no where to go. Which is good. Spending time with myself is fun. I've watched a lot of movies and read some books. Listened to music. Worked on my blog. Thought about how infinite and good we all are. Went to the ocean.

 By the way for those of you that read this and don't know, I'm moving to San Diego in a few days and I quit my job. I've been pondering the reality of love, passion, dreams, fate, heaven and hell on earth, God, communication, positivity, need and loneliness over the last 11 months. In the next few weeks my blog should be filled with information on roommates, looking for a job, feeding myself, dancing and surfing.  

Also the Johns' family reunion. 

Here are a few of the poetic moments that constantly remind me I'm alive. Enjoy!

Ask me a riddle and I'll reply

"Things are as they are"

The Tao of Pooh

"We said "Be" and it became."

The Qur 'an 

"So when the world knocks on your door 

clutch the knob and open on up

running forward into it's wide spread greeting arms with your hand before you 

finger tips trembling through they be." Anis Mojgan 

"Let's get together and make the whole world believers."

Jay Z

"You gotta touch the bottom before you can come back up"

Let it be Sung (Artist Unknown)

"Cause it's a hard road to hoe, 

If your ass don't move and the rain don't fall, and the ground is dry,

But the roots are strong so some survive to your surprise" 

Outkaste

Love's Got the Bill Tonight.

Uggh....I'm getting close to broke...so here is my message to all my friends. I'm unemployed and I live in California. I have no more money. From here on out my love is my gift to you. I'm like St. Francis Assisi, I'm giving it all up and handing out bucket loads of positive energy, happy thoughts, and kind words. I won't bring you down, I won't ask you to pay my bills and I won't complain as much as usual. I love you. I'll make you a card on your birthday, write you a story on mother's and day give you a hug when you get that big promotion. My excitement will be geniune when you over come some major obstacle in your life, move forward in your career or just have a great day. 

My love might not pay my rent but it will make the world a better place and really at the end of the day wouldn't you rather have someone listen to you complain about what a jerk your partner is, or how much your boss hates you then a gift you'll never use? 

"You gotta little mulatta in you?"

Me: Happy St. Patrick's Day...I'm Irish!! Yeah

Drunk White Dude at Bar: "Your Irish huh...You gotta little Mulatta in you?"

Me: "Umm, Yeah"

If you don't have a "little mulatta in you" one might be amazed the number of times a month I get asked this question.  Sometimes it's "what are you?" or "you got some black in you" or "what are you mixed with?" Generally I don't mind the question. It's an innocent question right, we are all asked to define ourselves so people can decide what they can say and what they can't, if you are dating material or friendship material, or if there is any common ground at all.  But I'm frequently asked the question for less innocent reasons.  People want to remind me of  my location in society, they want to sexualize me or they want me to act a certain way to make them feel more comfortable.  

Today I was asked about my ethnic make up but it was creepy.  I think the guy was hitting on me. He asked me if I was a person of African Descent and I told him "I am."  I said "Yes, my dad is black."  He asked where my dad's side of the family was from the Caribbean or the South?  I told him Cleveland.  He keep pressing the issue "but they're really from the south, right? 

No, I said, "my great-grandmother was from Cleveland, we've been in Cleveland for a while." He began to get on my nerves so I asked him where he was from, he told me his family was from the south. I asked him about his heritage, he told me he had some Native American and some Black ancestors.  He told me "you know what it's like in the south, everyone is part black or native american." I asked him about the rest of the family.  "Oh...were white." Really I said, "where is your white family from?" 

"Scotland, but I grew up in a small town of poor white people and black people and they all intermixed. 

Every time this dude in his early forties asked me another question, he moved in a little closer. I was so uncomfortable I ended up hiding my body under my purse.  Based on his body language and the way he phrased his questions, the message I received was simple, I'm white but as you know in the south white men like to get it on with black women and native american women. 

Me: Gross....Yeah I remember how that all went down....Lets not repeat that history again. 

As for the drunk dude in the bar the message was also clear. You aren't Irish your Black. Black people can't be Irish. That's funny I pretty sure my grandpa's family migrated here from Ireland but I guess when I my grandpa's daughter met my dad, fell in love, and had me, that erased her history completely. Huh...whatever. 

Despite the annoying and regular disbelief of my ethnic make up, I see it as a blessing.  I exist, I'm complete, and I'm not Mariah Carey (although I like her a lot these days). I come from some amazing survivors, leaders and intellectuals.  Some Black, some Irish, some bohemian, and all a part of me. 

Cup of Liberation

Why do most Americans willfully agree to go to work every morning? We get dressed, eat breakfast and rush to a job we know will be a painful experience. There are occasional moments of pride but these moments are swiftly crushed by the realization that although one project is complete there are more to come. I rarely meet people who love their jobs. My father hates his job, my mother used to hate her job and most of my friends hate their jobs. What would happen if everyone who hated their job quit? What if we all quit on the same day? How would the world change? I was told if I didn't want my job there were 100 people who would love to take it. This might be true but I doubt there are 100 people who want my job, there are lots of people who need my job. This is completely different. People have kids, sick parents and sick partners, which forces them to appreciate any job with benefits, decent hours and good pay.

If I had one wish for the world, it would be for everyone to live with passion. I used to wake up every morning and drink a cup of passion tea just to remind me that it existed. Some how by drinking it I thought it would filter through my body and materialize making my work day pleasurable. It worked for a while but eventually I realized it was time to leave the tea bags behind, end my job and create the passion myself. Following ones passion is a privilege that shouldn't be wasted or taken lightly. After I started moving towards my real love, people around me become uncomfortable. I didn't understand it at first but then I realized it's a gift most people don't give themselves. The best way to liberate others is to liberate yourself. So, viva la liberation.

The Miracle of "Pumps and a Bump"

While lying in bed this morning pondering the reality of miracles I began to think about the first concert I’d ever attended. It was MC Hammer and Vanilla Ice at the Coliseum in Madison, WI. I went with my close friend and catholic elementary school classmate Claudia Achumpung. I remember preparing for the concert in her living room, practicing dance moves while listening to a MC Hammer record. During this lesson I kept wildly waving my arms above my head, in my mind a natural accompaniment to gyrating my hips and rapidly moving my feet, while my close friends Claudia and her older sister Joann, saw it was an un-rhythmic indication of whiteness. Both Joann and Claudia had been born in Ghana and were first generation Black Americans. I can only assume they had spent the better part of their young lives studying Black American culture as a means to fit in, and what I was doing certainly did not fit.

None the less, this morning I was struck by Hammer’s song “Pumps and a Bump” ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yNz225f1230), in the mid nineties this song was very popular and may have pulled Hammer out of server debt. What I find amazing about “Pumps and a Bump” is how terrible the song was then, yet each generation of self proclaimed hip-hop intellectuals shakes their heads in disgust at the sad state of hip-hop. Like it was so different back in the day. There was garbage Hip-Hop in the nineties and there will be more garbage Hip-Hop to come. Remember “Me so Horney” or “Dazy Dukes”, “Do you Qualify” by Domino? Clearly the mind remembers and celebrates the good instead of the bad.

Yet this is not the connection I was drawing to miracles. The first concert I ever attended was not Hammer but instead an R&B concert with my dad and step mom. All I can remember is that Morris Day and the Time were supposed to be there and they never showed up. I was maybe 7 years old and really pissed. I had a huge crush on Morris Day. I loved his vanity, theatrics, hair, and suits. He was the bad guy with a sense of humor, sexy (to a seven year old) witty and my future husband. In my mind we had connected. Fifteen years later I met Morris Day in a small club in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. There he was, sitting in the VIP section, looking slightly older but still vain, with perfect hair. I had a few drinks, so I sat next to him and immediately professed the love I had cultivated for him as a seven year old girl. Considering his career was at it’s end and he was close to sixty, he was flattered. We hugged, he gave me his number and we parted ways never to see each other again.

The moral of the story, believe in the impossible. It might not be what you envisioned but after a few drinks it really doesn’t matter, cause ten years down the road you're more likely to remember Dre’s the “The Chronic” then Paperboy’s “The Nine Yards” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ROVkXEBeQWE).