If you could drink tea (or whiskey) with any author, who would she be?

I asked myself this question when I was at Barnes and Noble with my husband. We were doing our weekly loitering session, reading magazines we wouldn't buy and nursing cups of coffee in the cafe area.

I just finished reading an interview Alice Walker in Bust Magazine and then another interview she did for Yes! Magazine. I almost forgot how awesome Walker was and then I landed myself into a full on daydream session.

Toni Morrison, Alice Walker, Maya Angelou and I are hanging out on an old porch, sitting in rocking chairs and sipping on tea or bourbon. We're just shootin' the shit. Talking about life and being strong black women. I don't know. I haven't given too much thought about this!

They're all still alive and perhaps it's still in the cards for me to have a porch meeting with them. Maybe they could help me workshop some of my poems? Uhg, no that's boring. I think I want to hear the salacious tales of Maya's dancing days.

What would you be doing with your favorite writer?

A Lesson from Nuns: Create with Patience

At 1:30, I find the ceramic studio and Sister Margaret, one of those nuns who doesn't seem to suffer fools. I tell her I'm to volunteer with her and the other nuns. I'm there to do whatever they need me to do.

"Have you ever painted?" she asks briskly. I told her I have. I don't tell her in what capacity. I also don't tell her that I'm not overly religious either. None of that will matter, because she sets a ceramic tile of a frog in front of me.

"This is Frankie." I stare down at the frog. Okay.
"That's short for St. Francis. It's a new project of mine and I want you to paint one of these Frankies. She gives me an example of a finished "Frankie" and shows me hows she wants them done. Easy as pie, I think.

"What do you know about frogs?" Sister Margaret asks. I know that they're amphibians. "I'm going to say two words and I want you to finish out the sentence, all right?"

I nod.

"Forever rely. . . "
I'm getting quizzed on something. Something that's not strictly ceramics. "Forever rely. . . on. . . God?"

She nods, pleased with my response. "That's what Frankie means to me. All right, then, let's paint!"

I sit down to my own work station. I've got my brushes and three types of green acrylic for "Frankie's" body. As I get started, I don't realize my first mistake is loading down the first layer with too much paint. It's so thick it looks glazed. Oh well, nothing to do but to keep trucking. 30 minutes later, Sister Jane, the oldest of the nuns and perhaps the nicest, passes by my work station and nods. "Very lovely."

I find out later the Sister Jane corrects all of the mess-ups and she'll no doubt have to correct my tile. Sister Margaret tells me so. "You're going too fast."

"Am I?"

She sidles up next to me and shakes her head. "You've got to slow down and take your time." She shows me what I've down wrong; sloppy edges, dripping paint. My "Frankie" doesn't look quite as nice as her "Frankie." I hold my left hand in my lap, fearing she'll slap it (everything I know about nuns, I got from television).

As I watch her correct my mistakes, I realize how quickly I do work. When I start something creative, I want to be done with it as soon as possible. Or else, I grow bored of it. I want results and I want them now. And I half expected the sisters to congratulate me on my speed and offer to hang my "Frankie" on the wall.

I realize that one three hour session is not enough to finish my frog. I'd have to come back next Friday and work on it again. This isn't how I write poetry, is it? Steamrolling until I have a finished product and patting myself on the back for my speed?

I look around the studio at these women who are completely zenned out. Public radio plays in the background and they have no where else to be but here. Here, with their art. Sister Jane, with her spider-veined fingers and intent eyes squinting behind glasses, chiseling away at the Virgin Mary's face. She's at least, 95-years-old, but she's in no hurry. She knows that with time and patience, she can make her next mosaic project sing.

It's 4:30. My frog looks like crap. Sister Margaret appraises it thoughtfully. "It's pretty good for your first time."
"Yeah?"
"Oh sure. Now I want you to come back on Friday and finish it."

So I'm due to return to the studio next Friday. But the next time, I hope to bring a different attitude. I'm hoping to learn the valuable lesson of patience through these women. Anything created with love and patience is bound to be magnificent, right? We'll see how "Frankie" fares.

Gas Station Gizzards

Rallys is the only drive thru 
open at one in the morning.
My brother and I read a back lit
menu for food when I see
Churches Chicken next door.
“Gizzards and chicken livers,”
I read aloud.

He says he wishes they were open
and we discover we both like gizzards.
I tell him about the gas station
I went to as a kid, the gizzards there
were good in a guilty way.
He shakes his head. He’s learning
about me and it makes him laugh.

Fall So Hard Motherfuckers Can't Find Me

Lynda Barry has my back. Or, I think she would if we ever met. Her 2008 book, What it is, is 30% writer’s guide, 30% autobiography and 50% visually-dynamic existential freak out/cure for said freak out. “But that’s 110%!” you might be thinking to yourself. And you’d be correct in your calculations, which is why mathematics is an inappropriate mode for me to talk about how much Barry’s book is meaning to me right now.

It all started, like these stories often do, with a harmless trip to Milwaukee. After a solid breakfast of freshly sugared donuts my girlfriend, her brother, her brother’s girlfriend, and I decided to make a quick stop at Boswell Book Company. While perusing the graphic novel section, my girlfriend’s brother’s girlfriend (from now on, my GBG) pointed out What it is and told me that, as a writer, I’d probably be into it. I opened the large book and randomly (as much as anything in this life happens randomly) flipped through its pages, finally landing on page 39 where I found the following:

"There are certain children who are told they are too sensitive, and there are certain adults who believe sensitivity is a problem that can be fixed in the way that crooked teeth can be fixed and made straight. And when these two come together you get a fairytale, a kind of story with hopelessness in it."

After reading the material I immediately did two things:

1. Tried to hide my scrunched-up, pink-eyed, about-to-cry tear face from my GBG.
2. Bought the book.

After reading What it is in its entirety, the providentially placed passage on page 39 was set in even more powerful context. Barry had a childhood and a half. She loved the arts, had a wild and vivid imagination and a good heart, and felt things in ways that other children found weird and adults found concerning. She was told, as many overtly creative young people are told by American authority figures of various brass, to shut up, sit still, and keep her odd ideas to herself.

            And she did keep them to herself for a while, and in that time of creative hibernation (artistic slumber/unconsciousness) a part of her started to die. And the remarkable thing is, no one seemed to care. In fact, the people in her life (parents, peers, teachers, etc.) were perfectly happy with Barry’s spiritual atrophy. It meant they didn’t have to worry about what she was going to say or do. Her silence (both physical and emotional) was a sign of health. The idea, of course, is that if someone isn’t complaining they can’t possibly be miserable, right?

            Barry’s childhood memories struck me especially hard because they were so reminiscent of my own. Some of the clearest images in my hazy past-life history-thoughts contain people I wanted to like me (parents, peers, teachers, etc.), telling me in no uncertain terms that everyone would probably be better off if I wasn’t so weird/talkative/energetic/creative. So I wasn’t anymore. And people liked me. And everyone went about his or her business pretending that we all loved ourselves. And there was a lot of silence.

            People not being allowed/encouraged to be/express themselves can go on kind of fine for awhile (even decades), but it almost always ends in someone crying in a bookstore in Milwaukee. Somewhere along the line, sensitive children who are told by adults they are too sensitive have their emotions straightened out like teeth are straightened out. Then, everyone lives in the fairytale world of no-feelings and the adults think “That worked out well just like we knew it would, because thoughts and feelings are like teeth, they just need to be straightened out from time to time.” And then, maybe in a bookstore in Milwaukee, the oversensitive child realizes the fairytale is threaded with a plot of hopelessness, and really isn’t a fairytale at all but a tragic comedy. But no one is laughing; there’s still only silence.

            Barry gives the sensitive children-now-adults one option to combat the fairytale-hopelessness and silence: write/make stuff. Making things implies that life can be better; it implies there is a future that is better (or at least more complete feeling) than the one we currently inhabit. Often, making stuff doesn’t feel like enough. Writing simple words on simple paper feels like it is no match for the years of “shut up/sit still/be normal.” And maybe it isn’t enough. But there is something important, maybe even essential, about making noise in a world that would rather you be silent. There is something important, maybe even essential, about declaring vitality in a world that would rather you die quiet. 

The Mark of a Good Book

"You haven't read Invisible Man?" asked my friend in Columbus, GA. We sat around on her porch smoking cigarette after cigarette and drinking bottles of beer. I hadn't and I prepared myself for the onslaught of "Oh my god, you've gotta read it!" and "It's definitely YOUR book!"

I don't know how I've graduated high school and college without reading this canonical piece of literature. But I was never interested in it. Now that I'm 28 and I'm having one emotional crisis after another, I've turned to the book for answers.

I only did it after the umpteenth person questioned my literary prowess. I went to Noah's bookshelf (yes, he's read it too) and got started on it. And now that I'm halfway through it, I can honestly say that Invisible Man is changing my life.

Every page holds some sacred nugget of knowledge. All of it's characters are pivotal to the story and hold some importance in my own life. After I've finished a chapter, it's usually customary for me to take a break, but I keep going until I feel like I'm drowning.

The physiological response to reading so much Ellison, might need to be measured. After I've found a proper stopping point, I swim furiously back up to the surface and inhale sweet air. When I've folded down a page corner to mark my space, I'm exhausted. I've learned something new about myself, some new about the world and I'm simply exhausted.

Is that the mark of a good book?

I tend to believe it might be. I'm shocked that I let this one get away from me for all of these years. This book seemed to have been written for me. A young naive man following a carefully the orchestrated plan set by someone else, is being introduced into the world under the most strenuous circumstances. If he can learn to navigated this circumstances, he might be able to recognize himself as a full human being.

It's difficult for me not to take such a personal approach to a book. I'm guilty of asking: "Yes, but how does it all relate to ME?" Not all books are for that. But I feel that Ralph Ellison wrote this text to included everyone. Not just the invisible black man, but the invisible human in a world of industry and the invisible young person grappling with life lessons they were never prepared for.

As I've mentioned, I'm only halfway through the book. I'm positive that when I finish the book that I will have the deflated yet uplifted feeling after all good books. I'll be mildly depressed about leaving the characters behind and forging a path of my own. My thoughts will have to return to my own head instead of mingling with the nameless narrator. My own neuroticisms will have to be just that. My own. I'll feel lonely.

But I believe that's what a good book is suppose to do. It allows you to escape, on a bus, at work, in the doctor's office, into its pages until it has no more to give. And believe me, I love taking and taking.

Language and it's Sex Appeal

You wouldn't know it just by looking at him, but former Gov. Jon Huntsman, is dead sexy.

This silver foxed Mormon with the grin of gold is pushing his way into my heart with only one charming attribute. It's not his conservative financial reform plan, no, it's something that makes him hated by the other 2012 GOP Presidential Candidates.

He can speak Mandarin.

I watched him weasel his way out of telling us what he really thinks about GOP pick Mitt Romney, on the Colbert Report yesterday. . . in Mandarin! Of course, the man was an ambassador in China from '09 to '11, so he must of picked something up!

But like I said, this is something that makes him reviled within his own party. This "living abroad with Mao" among other things is despicable to the "new" American Conservative. Nevermind, a certain soulless Henry Kissinger was in China so much, he probably had a second family over there.

This resentment towards other languages is boiling over into our political sphere and it's threatening our global relationships. You can see how our relationship with Mexico has colored our perception of language dramatically. "Why the fuck do I need to know Mexican?!" You can picture anyman Redneck spitting this question on to the pavement.

One of the many things that attracted me to my husband, Noah, was his grasp of language. If I asked: "Hey babe, what language family does Bantu come from?" And without skipping a beat or looking away from the television, he'd give me an intelligible answer and that's hot. But maybe I'm just a word nerd.

To me, a man that can speak another language outside of English, is a game changer. Would I pursue married, Mormon Jon Huntsman? No, not at all, but this makes his political message slightly more palatable. He's not a total dick.

I'm currently in Noah's grammar class learning about the history of English. Listening to him challenge his students on what they think they know about English is fasinating. He's showing that there is still a need to know something outside of our borders. At it's most basic, learning another language gives us a better appreciation and understanding of English. Do you know how many different people battled and married so we could get our beloved English? Quite a few! The Normans, Anglo-Saxons, the Norse, the Romans! JEEZ!

So yes, there is a need for learning other languages. Don't be arrogant enough to believe that English is the lingua franca and that the rest of the world will come to you. Don't think that the invention of cool new translating software will make learning unnecessary.

Well think about it like this, if I were still single and a guy approached me trying to "spit game" with this: "Hey girl, you are lookin' fine, head to toe. You need some of this." I would promptly laugh in his face. (Of course, there's a good chance that men don't even speak like this anymore, not since 1987.)

But maybe things would be different if same guy "spit game" in this manner: "Hey girl, tu es si jolie, la tête aux pieds. Vous avez besoin de cela." (I hope that this means the same thing I typed into Google Translate. THIS IS WHY I SHOULD LEARN FRENCH!!)

Burning Books

I had a long day of working at the university bookstore. School has started and the students are filing in to buy their textbooks. Some are also coming in to sell back some textbooks from the previous semester. I had an experience with a customer today, that was a especially interesting.

She wanted to sell us a couple of books, one was a text that we could use, the other was obsolete, an older edition. When I told her that we could only buy back one of her books, she seem fine with it. Which is nice because some students can get really disgruntled over that.

What was amazing was, the customer next to her chimed in to say: "Aw, that sucks when that don't take books back. My friends and I had a huge book burning party last year for the books we couldn't sell back!"

My jaw dropped. My customer also looked a little puzzled by the statement. "That's okay," she said slowly. "I'm pretty sure I can donate them somewhere."

And at this point, I could have (should have) held my tongue, but I'd never heard anything so. . . obtuse. "What are you," I asked (shrilly). "A Nazi?"

Of course, the young woman didn't know what I was talking about. She was about 20 and very proud of the fact that she socked it to the establishment. She shrugged. "I don't know, we thought it was fun."

Still amazed and still unable to keep my bloody mouth, I told her: "That's what fascists did during World War II." Again, the young lady didn't know what a fascist was or when World War II happened. Sigh.

Anyway the whole thing made me a think about how important books are. Even the ones you don't care for. To me, a chemistry book is the same as a copy of Moby Dick. Both are vital for society even if I can't see the importance in chemistry.

People burn books because they are afraid of the knowledge contained in them. They're afraid that knowledge will be read by people who will change the world. That is a real threat for those in control. Slaves in the American South weren't allowed to read because they might rise up and decide: "I might not need to be ruled by another human being."

The Spanish Inquisition burned the Muslim holy book, the Qur'an, in order to suppress a religious idea. The Nazis burned books to suppress a political ideology. A German writer by the name of Heinrich Heine, once wrote: "Where they burn books, so too will they, in the end, burn human beings." The Nazis burned a whole bunch of his books too.

Books were burned because of their filth content. Anything deemed pornographic by the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice (founded 1873). They were responsible for the destruction of about 15 tons of books for being "lewd."

Oh, and parents have partied around a bonfire of Harry Potter novels.

I'm just saying, there's enough trouble getting real sources of information in the world. There's no need for a college student to revel in the torching of information. When people in different parts of the world can't get a hold of books or freely print news, it doesn't make sense for us to just throw it all away.

So the next time you've got a textbook, any book, just laying around, and you don't want it. . . don't throw it in the trash, don't burn it! Donate it to ANYONE! Drop it off at the library, so something! Just let someone else learn something.