11/29/2008

New Jersey 17, or Recent Notes

Thanksgiving was, in a word, great. In more words, it was full, delicious, golden, laughter, games, pride, beauty, family. We finished the cooking ahead of schedule, and everyone worked really well together in the kitchen. We listened to The Who, Bette Middler, Laura Love, Arlo Guthrie, our own chatter. We took bread and cheese breaks, and made way too much stuffing. Among the cast was J, our ex-Jehovah's Witness stray that my sister brought in five years ago and has been Thanksgiving sous-chef every since, C, and C's best friend, J (not to be confused with the first J). We were a merry bunch.

Sometime in the middle of dinner, when it became apparent that no one wanted to say grace or anything, I took myself outside and breathed deeply and said a prayer. Dear Apache, dear Algonquin, dear Iroquois Nation, dear Lenni-Lenape and Delaware, dear Cheyenne and Dineh and Inuit, dear Eskimo and Apache, dear Hopi and Navajo, dear Abenaki and Adirondack, dear Lakota, dear every tribe and nation I've silenced with my ignorance, dear people who are not here, now. If I knew that somewhere in the world people gathered to laugh and share meals with one another in twisted commemoration of my people's destruction, I would have nothing but anger for them. Because my people know what it means to be marched from their land and burned, to agree to legislation that will invariably hurt them, to trust without fighting because it seems like the best chance for survival...all of this is in my blood's memory. And every year my family gathers and eats more than they can hold, and it is beautiful that we do this. That we can do this. And I can't ask for your forgiveness, because I don't deserve it. The fact that I sit here and pray for you on one night a year does nothing to change the invasion, infiltration, the blankets, the schools, the reservations, the poverty, the alcoholism, the looks on the street, or the land o' lakes butter girl. And without beating myself up with guilt, I want to hold this moment in recognition, between me and the stars. And recognize the wrongs that have been done in the name of my skin. I don't know how to ask for a people's friendship, don't know how to go about building a bridge in a swamp, don't want to make a useless gesture of apology. So, between me and the near-frozen ground: I'm so sorry the betrayal continues. And if you were to knock on my door tonight, or any other, I would let you in.

J (C's best friend) and I spent the next day wandering around Union Square, eating and people watching and talking, and eventually realized that it was Big Shopping Day. A woman handed out coupons to a fancy shoe store in the form of scratch tickets, and I took two. No free shoes for me. People dressed up as elves held signs declaring themselves "Fair Trade Elves: Escaped from Santa's Sweatshop" They played drums and tambourines and offered dance lessons. We helped a family from South Carolina find the right train to 51st street and smiled at little kids. C and I avoided saying goodbye, again. We figure we can squeeze a visit in around Christmas, before I leave.

And finally, lifted verbatim from a friend's blog:

Two months ago 800 people were rounded up and arrested simply for sitting around in a park nearby a protest nearby the Republican National Convention, and charged with "conspiracy to riot."[Dane's insert: one of them was a poet-acquaintance who is currently fighting the charge]

Today 2,000 people trampled a Wal-Mart worker to death, and continued to harass and trample the police officers trying to give him first aid. Nobody was arrested or charged with anything. No rubber bullets were shot. Nobody was tasered. Nobody thought riot gear would be necessary.

The lesson? Always pretend you're shopping.

11/23/2008

Boston 1, or Update

I went down to Washington DC this week to visit my dear Abby, who longtime readers will remember was studying abroad in London at the same time I was in Prague. Visiting her this time had the same result as did visiting her two years ago - I was refreshed and energized by the trip.

About halfway through the trip (on the magical Internet bus), I realized how happy I was to be traveling, to be on the road again. I've been really anxious about moving these past few weeks, and taking a trip reminded me that I can totally do this. Abby and I get along pretty effortlessly, and we had a lot of fun making dumplings and pasta and catching up.

I seem to be in a slight writing block right now. I've been sick for almost two weeks with a sore throat and a cough. It doesn't seem to be at all contagious, and it doesn't interfere a whole lot with my life, but it's hard to fall asleep, even with disgusting knock-em-dead cough syrup.

This weekend, I'm in Boston, helping my parents house-search for a new place. (Dad got a new job up here, and my parents are moving!) And now my mother's calling - time to go plan the Thanksgiving menu. This year, we've got our first vegetarian Thanksgiving guest, and I'm dying to break out the tofu.

11/21/2008

Bus 1, or We Really Live in the Future Now

I'm writing and posting this from a bus.

A bus.

With internet access.

Insightful content to resume shortly.

11/11/2008

Vermont 2, or Buried

[snapshot]

I'm alone in the library, while C is in class. This is the only place I have access to the internet up here, but I find myself pulling away from the computer in favor of books. This library is quite a place. There's almost no restrictions on noise, checking out a book means slipping a sheet of yellow paper into it to remind yourself to bring it back, and all over the place, students have set up camp. Thesis students in their final year bring sleeping bags, extra lamps, even a desktop computer. The library is open twenty four hours a day. People have been known to live here, particularly during finals. They set up tents, stringing clotheslines across the aisles. My inner nine-year-old is agog. If only she'd thought of of running away to live in a library.

[snapshot]

I grab tea from the dining hall in a compost-able paper cup, inhaling mint and honey steam on the schlep up the hill. My throat woke up cranky today, and I'm blaming it on the forced-air heat in the apartment. I have a gig tonight, hosting a poetry open mic and slam, so my voice needs to be in shape. I'm almost glad to have so few people to talk to.

[snapshot]

C and I invite G over for dinner and depressing movie-watching. We make vegan burritos, velvety black beans stewed with onions and garlic, the luxury of tomatoes and avocado, quinoa to bulk it out, and cashew nuts blended with lemon juice and soy sauce to make "cheese". G says he doesn't mind doing all the dishes, which inspires me to take a scrub brush to the patchy linoleum floor. We snuggle together on the futon to watch Boys Don't Cry, which I have never seen. G and I make comments about how incredibly handsome the lead actor is throughout the first half of the film. Afterward, we finish the dishes and send G home. C and I curl up together and say we're okay. It's a hard movie to watch. C's plaid shirt looks like the ones the main character wears in the movie.

[snapshot]

J asks if I want to go to the Wednesday night Proposition 8 protest in the city, and I want to say NO. I also want to say OF COURSE. I want to say CAN'T WE PROTEST SOMETHING WORTH PROTESTING? D writes about how Prop 8 distracted him from issues that matter to him far more. I am sick of the default. I'm not interested in standing in a crowd with a bunch of folks who will shout testimony about the virtues of marriage. I hate being pigeonholed into defending something I don't believe in. I say maybe I'll go.

[snapshot]

This is a land of maple syrup and cheddar and fallen leaves. I have managed (knock on wood, kinahora) to not injure myself this time. I stop shaving my armpits. The impulse to grow insulation is fierce.

[snapshot]

I wonder what my grandparents will say after having read this entry. Lately, I've been pushing away from them. It hurts. All of us. I remember the way E picked fights with me before I moved away like he was trying to make it easier on himself. It's always easier to depart angrily. I have spent my life alternating between choosing the easier path because it's easier and choosing the harder path because it seems right. Don't worry that I don't love you anymore. I'm still your little bird. Grant me my wings, my claws and beak. They'll serve me better than a nest. I love you. I love you. I love you.

11/05/2008

New Jersey 16, or Celebration with Reservation

In 1987, Ronald Reagan nominated a conservative legal scholar to the Supreme Court named Robert Bork. When the Senate rejected the nomination, Sweet Honey in the Rock performed what seemed to be a spontaneous celebratory chant/song to his defeat at their Carnegie Hall concert in 1988. I've adapted some of the lyrics, only replacing the word "Bork" with the word "Barak".

A bitter battle!
A bitter battle for Barak!
The battle for Barak is over!
The battle for Barak is done!
The battle for Barak is history -
you know:
OUR
SIDE
WON
!!


That's one side of me. The other side crumpled, like the bad side of a stroke victim, as I watched California, Florida, Arkansas slam down their judgments on gay marriage and the rights of gay couples to adopt children. Careful readers and friends will know I don't actually support gay marriage. But it's not just gay marriage - I don't like marriage as a state institution. Keep it to your churches, your synagogues, your covens and backyards and chapels. Keep it out of the courthouses.

That said, as long as we hang on to marriage as a civil institution, I have to support gay marriage - if for no other reason than, as one friend said, "If the conservative base gets away with [voting Yes on California's Proposition 8], then it gives them the courage, if not the mandate, to do something really ugly next time."

My emotions were an oil-and-water mess by midnight - grief and elation irreconcilably taking up space. One friend, a straight man from Los Angeles, called me to commiserate, but almost every queer person I spoke to before midnight had to be reminded that "our side" had lost pretty crucially. Talk about finding community where you least expect it. (After midnight, when the news got out more broadly, I started seeing the reactions of the queer community.)

And on one other note, I want to second the sentiment I've seen everywhere about McCain's acceptance speech: it was absolutely and admirably gracious.

11/02/2008

Vermont 1, or Knees and Leaves and Fennel Seeds

[snapshot]

My bad knee is giving me trouble. I haven't walked so cautiously in the five years since I've injured it, but every tiny stumble makes me breathe sharp, quick, nervous. I put a brace back on it, and it hurts to go down the stairs. C rolls over in her sleep, and I wake up when I feel her weight on my leg. I don't like pushing her away at night.

[snapshot]

The ridgeline looks rusted over as the leaves die. Odd that I think of the foliage in terms of fire, and then once the leaves give up their color, I think of rust. The sun glimmers through the still-thick tree cover, like embers, dried blood, weathered paint against a fresh sky.

[snapshot]

The tea lounge has furniture that looks like it was rescued from abandoned classrooms and on the side of the road. One man runs the place, speaking gently and looking entirely out of place for small-town Northeast Kingdom - coffee-colored skin, thick, locked hair, a small piercing on the bridge of his nose. He brings me a pot of white tea mixed with green, tasting of spearmint, lemon balm, chamomile. C and I set up our computers. She's working on a website, I'm writing. She looks cute today - all plaid and pockets and inquisitive eyebrows. I sneak looks at her when I think she's absorbed.

[snapshot]

Vegan brunch downtown - full of tempeh sausage, seasoned with fennel and dried chiles, soft biscuit-scones, tea flavored with agave syrup. People talk about their favorite vegan cookbooks the way academics discuss their favorite theorists. I feel like a bit of an impostor, and possibly the only omnivore in the crowd, so I ask "What was hardest to give up?" The woman to my left grins at me, "My mother's borscht with sour cream. I'll never forget the first time I tried it without any. Yech."

[snapshot]

At the tea lounge, someone has taken large, long-necked gourds and painted them to look like Canada geese. They sit in the window, nuzzling each other in their little display nest. Inside, a woman's MacBook bears the sticker "Resistance is NOT Futile!"

[snapshot]

Stars. More than I've seen in a long, long time. And breath made visible. And the way the crescent moon hangs low, a cradling arm gesturing to lonely walkers on the paths across campus.