Some other thoughts. Written last night before bed.

It's funny, because today I was reading through some blogs, and one of them mentioned African Americans in Unitarian Universalism. It's so funny how topics seem to bubble up in disparate places at oddly coincidental times.

At the meeting of the Racial Justice Committee, the outgoing co-chair's husband brought up the fact that he feels that a racial justice committee that focuses it's attentions on a UU congregation is preaching to the choir. And in many cases, this is true. There are many many members who have in some capacity learned about white privilege, and are painstakingly aware of their whiteness. I feel that, perhaps, this is the reason why a UU church isn't more comfortable for people of color; the mostly white, well-off parishioners are so self-aware that their attitude reverses the pain of racism through suppressed ignorance and turns it into racism as exoticism or tokenism.

There's nothing worse than being taught about your own people by someone who is decidedly not.

So what does this have to do with the RJC? I attended the meeting because I was curious to see how the other half lives, I suppose. Here I've immersed myself in the young, poor, (politically) active culture, and feel terribly unaware of what else is going on. What are other people doing (to fight racism)? People who have the money and influence, I suppose, and maybe the experience, to get things done on a different plane.

I admire what mNSC and other young groups are doing: combining race and class for one monolithic fight. And, after the RJC meeting, it's apparent that this is what "the others" are doing. (the others meaning... middle class, white, middle aged, and so forth.)

Somehow, though, it seems that the world still wants to listen to people like the members of the RJC and not members of mNSC.

But I want to work with both. There must be ways to dabble in both: the privileged and the destitute, the content and the restlessly active, the influential and the revolutionary.

Hmm.

The RJC is involved in a few things. One member leads Racial Healing workshops. One woman participates with the Center for Teaching Entrepreneurship. Another attends MICAH (Milwaukee Innercity Congregations Allied for Hope). And one member recently started a Race and Criminal Justice Task Force. So they have their fingers in awareness, education and inter racial/interfaith networking.

I really want to be involved in any way possible. I'm grinding my teeth and ready to kick some doors down!


NOTE: I may be starting a Race and Film Task Force at First Unitarian Society in Milwaukee!!

Strange how you forget

I wrote this, well, I don't know when. It has to have been fairly recently; it's in my most recent journal, and because of where it was located on a random page in the back, it probably is from within the last 4 weeks or so. And it's strange; I don't remember writing it, but thought I'd put it here as an example of how I was feeling until very recently.

He said start writing to manage your grief. I don't know if his definition of grief includes that which builds up inside you but isn't so much from loss as from the heavy piling on of everything. Unless it's the loss of a sense of self. I don't know.

I sometimes wonder if mine is a manufactured sadness; false in some way. An inherited habit, a legacy of tears. The women in my family carry a weight of grief, passed down like a surname; it disguises itself and seems lost, but with a little investigation, I learn of her tears and her rages and her dark laughter.

In my tiny bedroom with it's dirty walls, I've begun to enjoy the stillness, I think, too much. Through the unopened window, I can hear my neighbor, name unknown, hammering efficiently. And far away, on the street, I can hear the cars, busy swishing down the street.

My roommate's fat old cat is napping in the crook of my back; a tiny living heater in gray marble.

I'm not sure why I've let this anti-social melancholy blanket me, but to fight it, I want to cook. Or drink. If only I could motivate myself to move into the kitchen. I'm surrounded by books and bill that keep weighing me down.

Squirm

Ooh boy. There are so many things I want to write about it makes me squirm. But I can't concentrate here at my desk, surrounded by MYSO audition sheets, stranded violin bows and phone message beeps.

The Democratic National Convention?
The meeting of the Racial Justice Committee that I attended last night?
The conflicted feelings for myself and others?

Ahh, and if only I could get a cup of coffee and write and write and write until my hand cramps and my eyes blur.

Exciting things to come.

Diversity in Student Programming

MYSO is having seating auditions this weekend. We started Thursday morning, and it's Sunday afternoon and we're still chugging along. Close to 800 kids are trooping through the corridors; instruments, crumpled pages of music, and nervous parents in tow.

I don't remember much about seating auditions last year; I was new to my job and the overwhelming numbers made that weekend a noisy blur. And at placement auditions in the spring (auditions to get into the ensembles), I was busy walking kids from the warm-up room to their audition room, so I saw students in small chunks, more as individuals than as a group.

But this August, I volunteered to be the staff photographer. I've been photographing each student after they check in for their audition, and now, even though auditions aren't over quite yet (only 3 more hours to go!), I've started the tedious process of labeling each picture with a name, an instrument and an ensemble.

What delights me, and what will ultimately be the topic of this entry, is the growing diversity in a program that I've been involved with for many years now.

In 7th grade, I auditioned for and was accepted into the Junior Wind Ensemble of MYSO; a middle school band, essentially, but the first step for all wind players into the program. After one forgetful year, I moved up to Philharmonia, and then to Senior Symphony. I spent 2 years in Phil and 2 in Senior, and throughout, participated in chamber ensembles, and other extra programming. I was a member of MYSO for five years total, and always played a little game at concert-time.

For many years, MYSO has had enough ensembles to need two, and now three, concerts per semester. A concert will generally include two or three ensembles playing their repertoire, so concerts were and are the best time to see the largest group of MYSO students gathered in one place at one time. The game that I played was a little diversity counting game. I would wade through the crowd and try to find all the minorities participating in MYSO; young classical musicians from the general southeastern Wisconsin area.

One thing I didn't realize until I got into college, and was really rather disturbed that I thought this way, was that I usually measured diversity in black and white. Sometimes I would forget to count Asian students, because, growing up, I suppose I wasn't raised to see Asian people as an oppressed minority like I viewed African Americans and Latino/a people. This is a topic I'd like to explore, but will have to come back to it later.

I based my counts on phenotypic assumptions, and used this as a check mark against the youth orchestra program; in all it's recruiting efforts across the southeastern part of the state, we still drew more than 95% white students.

Now, ten years later, I work for MYSO, because, even though I disliked the racial discrepancies, and the social, class, and experience superiority that so many of the kids flaunted (including myself, at times), I still admired MYSO for what it did. MYSO was, for me, something to give my teenage years grounding. Nothing really made sense at 14, 15, 16, but every week, I walked into a high-ceilinged room, sat before a black metal stand and thousands of rests and notes, and felt something. Music made sense when very little did.

So here I am, working for them, newly promoted Program Coordinator, dealing in donations, scheduling, and mailings, and loving and hating it simultaneously. And really really eager to get involved in the new diversity efforts. There are programs designed to target city of Milwaukee students just as so many Milwaukee Public Schools are losing their arts and music funding; there are programs for encouraging low-income children to join at lower tuition rates; and recruiting has finally spread it's fingers throughout the city of Milwaukee. It always bothered me that the Milwaukee Youth Symphony Orchestra consisted mainly of suburban and small-town Wisconsin students with few ties to the city of Milwaukee.

So I'm seeing more and more brown faces entering the halls these days. And, camera in hand, I'm starting to feel a little giddy and righteous. Excited that all those suburban and small-town kids will now have to face a reality they heretofore were never exposed to. This is a first step in the fight against the institution of racism. Starting young, teach students that they can bond with kids that come different backgrounds over common interests. I want those parents to disapprove, I want there to be blow-ups and name-calling and other such awful things because somehow the topic has to be addressed. Ignorance has to be exposed if it's going to be eradicated. And racism has to be acknowledged- the legacy and structure of inequality - in order to be dismantled. To begin dismantling.

More later. Back to work.

Age of Aquarius. I mean, Capricorn.

"The bewilderments of the eyes are of two kinds, and arise from two causes," wrote Plato in The Republic, "either from coming out of the light or from going into the light, which is true of the mind's eye quite as much as of the bodily eye." He goes on to say that when a person leaves the light and enters into the shadows, his vision is perplexed, being unaccustomed to the dark. And when he moves from the murk into the brightness, it takes a while for his sight to adjust to the dazzle. According to my analysis of the astrological omens, Capricorn, you had to deal with the first kind of temporary blindness about three weeks ago, and will begin experiencing the second kind any day now.

While I'm skeptical of horoscopes and how we must stretch the vague into relevance, sometimes a horoscope strikes me as prescient, or at least hopeful, and so I save them, pressed to my heart like a small treasure. The soft light of hope, a starry wish on a clear night... Because sometimes I need that, in the midst of my cynical life.

Like getting over Nic. Realizing that I'll never fully get over him until I forgive him. And myself. That's an important step, if not a full recovery.

Understanding that maybe my grandest goal in life is to accept and love myself.

Knowing that honesty with myself is tantamount in a relationship, and honesty with another, an exciting prospect.

I'm restless, but gritting my teeth, and hoping. Hoping. Hoping.

And I've got a very long weekend ahead.

Moneymaker

When I was in elementary school, I was pretty mischievous. Whenever someone told me not to do something, that was a direct invitation for me to do it. I was smart and I was sassy and I got in trouble, a lot.

But I loved my school, and my teachers even more, and hated getting in trouble.

The way that we kids got in trouble at Golda Meir elementary was to be called back into the coatroom, and we'd get a whispered or shouted scolding, most of which could nevertheless be heard by the other kids just in the other room.

The confusing thing was that sometimes, you would be called into the coat room to receive a compliment too. I remember once, my amazing yet intimidating teacher called me into the office and I was so convinced that I was in trouble that upon standing up from my desk, I already had tears in my eyes. In the coat room, Mr. Horowitz, no doubt trying to be funny, said "Sara, I have some terrible news for you." And my heart sank; I was convinced something awful was about to happen. "You are good at math." That's what he said. He was trying to convince me to enjoy that subject which I still, to this day, despise. I was so shocked that he had to let me stay in the coat room for a few moments to compose myself before going back to the classroom.

This morning, I received an email from my boss saying simply, "Sara, can I see you in my office for a moment?" My heart started pounding, I remembered Mr. Horowitz's math revelation, and wondered if I was going to get in trouble for calling in sick to work yesterday.

But what my boss had to say was, "would you accept our offer for the position of co-program coordinator?" Which doesn't sound ALL that snifty, but is indeed a promotion from lowly administrative assistant. And raise included.

Sweet lord.

Me? Promoted? Who knew. I'd nearly given up on myelf.

A Week of Eating Dangerously

I've been feeling somewhat heavy lately. Not in a weight sense, but in other ways. Spiritually, almost. Like, because I'm rather broke, and because I've been sleeping badly and consequently exhausted and lazy after work, I've been throwing together quick and dissatisfying meals. And that weighs me down somehow. Not being able to control what I eat has a big impact on my life. I think about food all the time; after eating one meal, or very often during, I'll plan the next, and not being able to afford the energy or ingredients I like means spiritually heavy meals. Like a quick fuck, it satisfies some immediate need, but does not quench the desire. And I know that the food/sleeping cycle will only spiral downwards if I don't address it soon.

I became a vegetarian in 8th grade because of that desire to take control of my culinary life (if no other part), and there were years when I was more diligent than others. I entered a pattern of weight yo-yoing which has negatively affected my self-image. So, while eating carefully may not serve as a weight-loss diet exactly (and I'm no longer sure that's what I aim for), it certainly affects my self-perception.

So I kept telling myself, and of course ignoring my own advice, that I should make a food diary. Perhaps not long-term, maybe just a week would be sufficient, but I've needed to hold myself accountable. When I did so last spring, yes, I did lose 30 or 40 pounds, but more importantly, I felt in control. I felt responsible. I felt fucking great.

But lately, I've been resting on my laurels and my eating habits (with the help of birth control pills taking my hormones out of my relative control) have been out of my own control.

So, I'm going to start a little cuisine experiment. The first step will be to record my eating habits. Everything I eat, starting next Monday. And maybe, though I'm not sure how to begin, record how eating has made me feel. But I will not alter what I eat. Yet.

Then, I will do some things I've wanted to do for a while. One is to make my way through a cookbook. But since I'm calling this my week of eating dangerously, I'll most likely choose previously untried recipes from my shelf-full of cookbooks, and cook them, regardless of who I'm sharing it with (because as of late, I've let the idea that I'm cooking for one stop me from joyful cooking.)

Another thing I'd like to do is make some cooking experiments. This involves other people. (My favorite activity: sitting down to a table with good people and good food.) I'd like to have a group of people arrive with any ingredient, and for the group of us to think of ways to create a meal out of - hopefully - disparate ingredients.

So these are my first thoughts on eating. I'll work from there.

Magic and Miracle

I had this very strange and vivid dream na madrugada. It was interrupted by a phone call, and I dearly wish it could have played out to a conclusion, because it was quite a fantastical dream.

I think it grew from some conversations I'd had earlier that evening. One about my sister's love for the show Charmed, and one about the feeling of dark fantasy that Portishead's new album Third gives me.

I'll try to describe it.

A witch of the highest order (I don't know what this would be - are there ranks among witches?) created a curse of sorts for all other witches, a curse that was also a sort of blessing. Because for the youngest witches, they had the opportunity to bear a son who would become a warlock of the highest order (once a generation, most powerful being, that sort of stuff). But the gestation period would be extremely difficult (for reasons unexplained the dream), and perhaps deadly. So, in compensation for the taxing ordeal, the witch who was chosen would, for a period of less than 24 hours, find magic and miracle in three occurrences in her life.

To be chosen, a witch had to particpate in a race, called The Race of the Arm, I think. And here's the most vivid and surreal part of the dream. The scene took place in this vast green expanse of a rolling field, green from horizon to horizon, and perfect blue skies. Each witch holds on to a giant zipper and must race across this field - but I don't know to where; I was interrupted before I found out. The surreal part was that this vast expanse was also somehow the body of a woman, and attached to the zipper were her giant hands, which the witches had to manouver around in order to race.

There were five witches competing, and they had just begun to run when I woke up.

I wonder what it means.

Trying to Get Involved

Tuesday night, after my expensively awkward haircut, I went to People's Books for an MNSC meeting. Small group of people, only some of whom I recognized. The dynamics were fascinating.

There was Sarandi, trying to be serious and business-like. One girl, with piercings and skinny jeans and moccasins, and essentially immature; not insecure exactly, but sort of desperate to prove herself; heartbreaker, dedicated volunteer, hard-core Riverwester. Then, a small dedicated girl; a nest of hair and adorable but worldly charm. Later, her tall and skinny boyfriend showed up; doting and dainty, and somehow a very vague presence. The architecture student; pretty, tall and plump, 20 and still with stars in her eyes. (I remember those doe eyes when I met her, when she turned them on the boy from Brazil. It's funny how our eyes give us away.) Another girl who came late, who didn't talk much, and left early, who seemed a bit like me, so I couldn't quite relate. Involved but sort of resentful, lives in Riverwest and broke, but not proud about it; she even used to play French horn. But if I met myself on the street, would I chat with me?

There was another, who seemed the only "woman" in the group; she seemed the only one who was just comfortably adult. A little wry about trends and insincerity, but not mean. And then Phil, who seemed young (dimples! poke-y beard!) and kind of vacant at first, but, turned out after several drinks to be more mature, telling stories that bordered between boasting and sincerity.

These groups of kids fascinate me, and I don't know why more so than others. Maybe because I am so much of an other that I watch them very carefully. Maybe because they're such dynamic kids; my age, similar situations, but so beautifully flawed that I can't help but sit back. At the risk of not participating.

We ended up at Nessun Dorma, the whole light-skinned revolutionary group of us, drinking on the sidewalk, drinking under the incoming clouds.

And this morning, supposedly, a small contingent of them are biking over to Fond du Lac market to find out if they can expand the Free Market out there. That is something I could sink my teeth into. Somehow, even though I respect the ideals behind the market here in Riverwest, when I see the stalls full of Riverwest kids; young, white, gainfully employed; I don't feel all that inspired to help. But moving out to Fond du Lac and 22nd peaks my interest. Not only would they (we?) be getting involved with some local sellers, they (we) would be setting up in a neighborhood that needs the help more than poor-by-choice Riverwest kids.

Response or adendum to Women of Color and Beauty Carnival

I wrote this short script for a writing class I took last summer. And what made me think of it now was the Women of Color and Beauty carnival over at yennenga. I'm going to pop it in here. (Sure do wish anyone was reading this.)


...(cutting out some introduction stuff)...

Suzanne. It’s kind of weird.

Felicia. What is?

Suzanne. Dating Mark.

Felicia. Because we’ve known him so long?

Suzanne. No, not that. That’s a whole different kind of weird. I mean, the idea of dating a blond, blue-eyed white boy is a little strange.

Felicia. But it’s not like he’s some stereotypical white oppressor.

Suzanne. I know, but – I mean, he would have been my type 15 years ago.

Felicia. When we met him.

Suzanne. Yeah. You know, blonde, shuffling charm, musician.

Suzanne. All through high school, I was pursuing the white ideal of beauty, both for myself and from anyone I dated. But as I kept getting fobbed off, I had to conclude, for the sake of self-preservation, that not only were white boys not interested in this dark-haired, light-skinned, big-hipped halfie chick, but that I wasn’t interested in them.

Felicia. Or they just didn’t want to admit that they liked you.

Suzanne. Which is almost worse, because who wants to be the one that someone likes but doesn’t want to admit to. Almost like I’m a weakness.

Felicia. True.

(Mark enters.)

Mark. What are you talking about?

Felicia. You.

Mark. That’s good. What’s she saying?

Felicia. Nothing good.

Mark. Great. Did she tell you that I fart in my sleep and about my awful cigarette breath in the morning?

Felicia. And that you don’t wash yourself very well.

Mark. So the general conclusion is that I smell?

Felicia. Pretty much.

Mark. Wonderful.

Felicia. We were talking about how Suzanne tends to date guys who-

Mark. Smell bad?

Felicia. Exactly. What was that guy’s name from Chicago?

Mark. Paul? That guy was a tool.

Felicia. Wasn’t he?

Suzanne. Let’s not talk about Paul. Sometimes a girl can make a mistake.

Mark. And what a mistake he was.

Felicia. Always challenging everybody to philosophical debates.

Mark. Sometimes I just don’t want to think that hard.

Felicia. And he always made me feel so dumb.

Suzanne. And he smelled?

Mark. That was a hard relationship of yours for me to sit through.

Suzanne. Well, at least it made me realize how great you are, Mark.

Mark. Then I think we should thank Paul, don’t you think? Should be give him a call?

Felicia. I may still have his number written down somewhere.

Mark. Were you planning on giving him a call, Felicia?

Felicia. No, of course not.

Mark. I think you were. I think you were secretly attracted to his musk.

Felicia. His must, you mean?

Suzanne. You are the one who said that if you like the way a guy smells, it plays a major part in whether you like him or not.

Felicia. I did not like the way Paul smelled.

Mark. Liar.

Felicia. Alright. Fine. I’ve been calling him over once or twice a week after midnight.

Suzanne. So that’s what I’ve been hearing so late!

Mark. You mean smelling!

Suzanne. Yeah.

Mark. What were you actually talking about?

Felicia. You, nosy.

Mark. What about me?

Suzanne. I was saying how strange it is to be dating a white guy.

Mark. Why is that so weird?

Felicia. Because all white guys have-

Suzanne. Because I spent so many years chasing after the blue-eyed ideal, and just when I thought I had gotten over it, I start dating you.

Mark. Gotten over white men?

Suzanne. Yeah, I mean, I had to conclude that if they were not interested in me – or unwilling to admit it – then I was uninterested in them.

Mark. Why?

Felicia. Because white men especially have trouble admitting that they might be attracted to a woman of color, to a woman with curves.

Mark. I guess so. I mean, sometimes I think we’re the most indoctrinated by this idea of perfect and beauty.

Suzanne. And the creators of it. So you’ve created it-

Felicia. And you’re the victims of it.

Mark. But it’s not as if women don’t perpetuate it.

Suzanne. Oh, I know, but –

Felicia. Sometimes I think all the primp and care I put into my appearance in the morning is more for the benefit of other girls than it is to get the attention of men.

Suzanne. Oh definitely. Half the time, if a man compliments me on how I look, I think, “you creep.” But if a woman says something…

Felicia. I think, “sweet, she liked my sweater.”

Mark. So you can’t say women are unwilling victims of beauty standards.

Suzanne. Sure I can.

Mark. Why?

Suzanne. Because I’m a woman.

Felicia. And it’s different for us. Because we didn’t establish the standard. Just because some women choose to perpetuate it, doesn’t mean we all do.

Suzanne. And it doesn’t mean it’s fair.

Mark. Of course it’s not fair. But if it’s so unfair, shouldn’t you be fighting against it?

Suzanne. Are you fighting against it?

Felicia. He’s dating you, isn’t he?

Suzanne. So I’m a political decision? To thwart the establishment of beauty?

Mark. I don’t think of it that way. I think of it as, This girl is different.

Felicia. From the established order.

Mark. Yeah, but I don’t analyze it like that. That’s what –

Felicia. Girls do? You’re saying girls overanalyze things? If anything, guys underanalyze things, and that gets them in just as much trouble.

Mark. That’s not what I was getting at. You know that’s not –

Suzanne. The thing is, I do think about it that way. I’ve thought for a little while how much love is an intensely political decision. Political and almost revolutionary.

Mark. Really?

Suzanne. Yeah, I mean, think about it. There has been legislation on love for centuries. Every major government, society or culture establishes rules on who you can or can’t marry.

Mark. Who you can fuck.

Felicia. How you fuck. Look at the American government.

Suzanne. Don’t get me started on the American government. Until 40 years ago, my parents’ marriage was still illegal in some parts of the country. Interracial relationships have always been a problem, in every culture. Marrying across certain culture, caste, color lines scares the shit out of the “establishment.”

Felicia. Because by regulating who and how you love, they’ve potentially got control of the population.

Mark. How so?

Felicia. Oh, you can regulate (more here).

Mark. And you think this every time you enter into a potential relationship?

Suzanne. Not always, but eventually it comes up. I mean, lots of considerations go into involvement with another person. I think everyone at one point in their lives has wondered why they’re attracted to someone. But you can’t control who you love. You can try, and that’s where the politics come in. I think everybody thinks about love and the choices we make about love. I mean, I hope they do. Maybe I just think about it a lot more. Because I’ve had to.

Felicia. It’s like you’ve made a philosophy of love.

Mark. And you think about these things when you’re kissing me? About interracial relationships and gay marriage and caste?

Suzanne. Well, yeah, but especially interracial relationships.

Mark. Why?

Suzanne. Because every relationship I will ever have is interracial.

Mark. How do you mean?

Suzanne. Because I’m mixed, everyone else is like meeting across a line.

Mark. The race line?

Felicia. Unless you date a mixed guy.

Suzanne. He’d have to be Creole and Scots-Irish and Cherokee. And even then we’d be meeting across multiple lines.

Mark. But you could say that everyone meets across certain social barriers.

Felicia. They’re not barriers, per se. They’re –

Mark. Well, lines or whatever. Everyone has to deal with lines like class and religion and geography.

Felicia. And gender and sexuality.

Suzanne. I’m just saying that I think about it a lot.

Mark. Does it every hinder who you end up dating?

Suzanne. Oh god yes. It took me years to admit that I was attracted to you as a lover and not as a friend.

Mark. And all of this consideration went into why you didn’t want to be attracted to me? I wasn’t your type?

Suzanne. You were and then you weren’t, and I didn’t want to get hurt by another uncertain white boy.

Home yet?

After getting home from work yesterday, I was at the kitchen sink washing dishes and thought, "I could get used to this." The kitchen and the living room make me happy. Open, well-lit and well-stocked, a mixture of funky utility and artistic intellectualism; those rooms feel like they could be home.

But in my room, laying on my bed, I still feel terribly suspicious trying to get to sleep. Constantly watching the door like the Wolf-Man of 20 years ago will once again attempt a break-in of my new home.

The prospect of moving was always such an exciting one, until this year. I enjoyed the sweaty, cranky, hard-labor mess that it was because it signified an opportunity to reinvent myself. But I'm beginning to think those moves were attempts at denying my past and fleeing the present; an unwillingness to accept myself. And while I'm a huge advocate for the skill of reinvention, for experience for learning's sake and changing that about yourself which you don't like, well, I don't want to say there are some things you can't change, but maybe I think that's partially true. That we each have fundamental qualities that we may or may not recognize, and there's a point at which you accept what you can't change, and change what you can.

Is that true? Is that what I believe? Truly? It sounds too status quo. But I'm also tired to fighting myself.

At any rate, perhaps my tiny room will feel more like mine once I arrange it satisfactorily and decorate it. Maybe. Or maybe I'm hesitant to accept it knowing it's temporary.

Unpacking My Life

There's just a little too much to unpack (physically and mentally) to really get into everything that's happened lately. But I will. Oh I will. Moving and relationships and such.