Because she is articulate and seems genuine.
Because I buy into the hype.
Because I believe her when she says she believes in change.
Because she's a mother and a mentor and a public servant.
Because this country needs the Obamas in the White House.
Anybody want to volunteer at the Obama campaign with me this Thursday?
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Saturday, August 23, 2008
On the topic of Friendship
When my momma managed the Family Dollar store at Bullfrog Corner, she became best friends with a hairdresser named Eunice who worked at the Mac's. No. 2 hair shop in the same strip mall, past the Super Valu that used to be a Piggly Wiggly that used to be a Big Star. That was back in the late 90s when I was just starting out in high school and came home crying a lot because I just didn't have any friends. Fourteen, fat, and effeminate were not traits that put one on the fast track to likablity and Horn Lake High School, and I knew it well every afternoon when I had no one to sit with on the school bus. My momma, though, she always knew how to make friends. A real go getter, my mother takes situations by the reigns and guides them in the direction of her favor. I still smile when I think of the story of Momma and Eunice's (now defunct) Friendship. It goes like this.
Eunice used to walk down to the store on her breaks from hairdressing and waste her tip money on polyresin angel figurines. Being the astute Southern woman that she is, Momma noticed Eunice's melon nail polish one day as she rang up her covey at the cash register and told her how much she loved the color. Within the same conversation, Momma found out where Eunice worked, her living situation (poor thing rented a mother-in-law wing from some family on Horn Lake Road) and decided they'd be friends. So, she said it, just like that: "Eunice, you look like somebody I want to be friends with, so let's be friends."
They were good friends for quite a few years, too. Eunice used to come over to the house and bring Momma little boxes of candy and neon colored cigarette lighters, and Momma would drive Eunice to see her mother at the nursing home. For a while there, I even got into the habit of calling Eunice "Aunt Nez," as Inez was her middle name and she had no nieces or nephews to regard her affectionately. She even would cut my hair for free if I went down to the shop after it closed.
Eunice was a recovering alcoholic, though. Momma knew this going into the relationship. Hell, she probably found out that much in the initial cash stand meeting, and that probably made her want to be Eunice's friend even more. I'm a lot like my momma in that we both take on the underdogs, the underachievers, the fucked up friends we hope to fix. Momma did her best to fix Eunice, even took off work for two days, paid for the gas, hotel--everything--and drove her to the hospital in Jackson so she could get on the list for a liver transplant.
I doubt Eunice got the transplant. How could she have ever afforded it? And anyway, Momma put her down a year or so later because the poor hairdresser got depressed and turned back to the bottle. That made my momma so mad that she swore she'd never talk to her again, and I don't think she has except once, a year or so ago. She called Eunice because she had read in the paper that her momma died.
I say all of this because I've been thinking a lot about my friendship style in the past couple of weeks, and I am trying to make sense of my motivations. Taking a cue from my mother, I approached a new MA student named Eric and informed him that he will be my new best friend last week. We have hung out together every day since. I wonder if that was a creepy thing to do--to approach a relative stranger and demand mutual affection beyond the boundaries of acquaintanceship when we really are not more than acquainted at this point. I like to think I'm being proactive in the situation, and I remind myself that I've routinely done this type of thing before, just on a more discrete level. I meet people, decide I want to be friends with them, then proceed in charming them with my dazzling, albeit self-deprecating, wit. That's what I do.
But I hope my motivations are pure. I really do believe they are, but I always worry that I try to orchestrate too much in my life instead of allowing things to develop organically. I like to be in control of what happens to me, y'all, because I feel like if I don't take my life by the reigns, surely someone else will. I'm a chronic rehearser, I come from a family of planners, and, like my momma and daddy before me, I weigh all the options before making decisions. It's my legacy.
Maybe this friendship style is, too.
Eunice used to walk down to the store on her breaks from hairdressing and waste her tip money on polyresin angel figurines. Being the astute Southern woman that she is, Momma noticed Eunice's melon nail polish one day as she rang up her covey at the cash register and told her how much she loved the color. Within the same conversation, Momma found out where Eunice worked, her living situation (poor thing rented a mother-in-law wing from some family on Horn Lake Road) and decided they'd be friends. So, she said it, just like that: "Eunice, you look like somebody I want to be friends with, so let's be friends."
They were good friends for quite a few years, too. Eunice used to come over to the house and bring Momma little boxes of candy and neon colored cigarette lighters, and Momma would drive Eunice to see her mother at the nursing home. For a while there, I even got into the habit of calling Eunice "Aunt Nez," as Inez was her middle name and she had no nieces or nephews to regard her affectionately. She even would cut my hair for free if I went down to the shop after it closed.
Eunice was a recovering alcoholic, though. Momma knew this going into the relationship. Hell, she probably found out that much in the initial cash stand meeting, and that probably made her want to be Eunice's friend even more. I'm a lot like my momma in that we both take on the underdogs, the underachievers, the fucked up friends we hope to fix. Momma did her best to fix Eunice, even took off work for two days, paid for the gas, hotel--everything--and drove her to the hospital in Jackson so she could get on the list for a liver transplant.
I doubt Eunice got the transplant. How could she have ever afforded it? And anyway, Momma put her down a year or so later because the poor hairdresser got depressed and turned back to the bottle. That made my momma so mad that she swore she'd never talk to her again, and I don't think she has except once, a year or so ago. She called Eunice because she had read in the paper that her momma died.
I say all of this because I've been thinking a lot about my friendship style in the past couple of weeks, and I am trying to make sense of my motivations. Taking a cue from my mother, I approached a new MA student named Eric and informed him that he will be my new best friend last week. We have hung out together every day since. I wonder if that was a creepy thing to do--to approach a relative stranger and demand mutual affection beyond the boundaries of acquaintanceship when we really are not more than acquainted at this point. I like to think I'm being proactive in the situation, and I remind myself that I've routinely done this type of thing before, just on a more discrete level. I meet people, decide I want to be friends with them, then proceed in charming them with my dazzling, albeit self-deprecating, wit. That's what I do.
But I hope my motivations are pure. I really do believe they are, but I always worry that I try to orchestrate too much in my life instead of allowing things to develop organically. I like to be in control of what happens to me, y'all, because I feel like if I don't take my life by the reigns, surely someone else will. I'm a chronic rehearser, I come from a family of planners, and, like my momma and daddy before me, I weigh all the options before making decisions. It's my legacy.
Maybe this friendship style is, too.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Absorbing the Cost
For years now I've been plagued by expensive repairs just before school starts. For any of you college students out there, you know that the beginning of the semester is also The Most Expensive Time Of The Year, which is always painfully true for me. And compounded by a plethora of other, unpredicted expenses, causes me to stress and average about 20 "WTF?!"s a minute. Allow me to elaborate.
When I was about to move to UCA for college way back in 2003, somehow the windshield of my car burst into a trillion pieces while sitting in my grandmother's driveway one hot Mississippi August day. Of course I only had liability insurance, which did not cover glass breakage, so I had to pay out of pocket in order to fix the car. $300 I'll never get back.
Then last year, when I was about to leave Good Ol' Conway for Even Better Knoxville, my car broke down near Hot Springs, from where I had to be towed, a new timing belt and starter had to be installed, and a whole slough of other repairs I can't quite remember except that they totaled near $800. That I'll never get back.
This year it wasn't the car that did me in (though I did have the muffler replaced a month ago), but my computer, or more specifically, my HP Pavillion Notebook whose warranty expired mere weeks before the hard drive decided to go bust. The hard drive with my syllabus and pictures and entire academic record of my first year of grad school. The computer store (a local place, thank you very much) was unable to save anything from the old hard drive, but fortunately I'd backed up most of the academic work, poems, and syllabus in Google docs. But no more pictures or Miley Cyrus songs. Good bye, summertime memories. Have fun exploring the infinite abyss with the $260 that I'll never get back.
At least in these trying times I've had the money (or good credit standing) to afford the fixes. At least I have things sorted out now, since school starts tomorrow, and ohmigod I'll be Mr. Sisk every day for the rest of my life. I've got my bearings now, and my syllabus is done, too. Those are two very important things to have your hands on.
Good luck this semester, y'all. Of course I'll keep you updated on the teaching life.
When I was about to move to UCA for college way back in 2003, somehow the windshield of my car burst into a trillion pieces while sitting in my grandmother's driveway one hot Mississippi August day. Of course I only had liability insurance, which did not cover glass breakage, so I had to pay out of pocket in order to fix the car. $300 I'll never get back.
Then last year, when I was about to leave Good Ol' Conway for Even Better Knoxville, my car broke down near Hot Springs, from where I had to be towed, a new timing belt and starter had to be installed, and a whole slough of other repairs I can't quite remember except that they totaled near $800. That I'll never get back.
This year it wasn't the car that did me in (though I did have the muffler replaced a month ago), but my computer, or more specifically, my HP Pavillion Notebook whose warranty expired mere weeks before the hard drive decided to go bust. The hard drive with my syllabus and pictures and entire academic record of my first year of grad school. The computer store (a local place, thank you very much) was unable to save anything from the old hard drive, but fortunately I'd backed up most of the academic work, poems, and syllabus in Google docs. But no more pictures or Miley Cyrus songs. Good bye, summertime memories. Have fun exploring the infinite abyss with the $260 that I'll never get back.
At least in these trying times I've had the money (or good credit standing) to afford the fixes. At least I have things sorted out now, since school starts tomorrow, and ohmigod I'll be Mr. Sisk every day for the rest of my life. I've got my bearings now, and my syllabus is done, too. Those are two very important things to have your hands on.
Good luck this semester, y'all. Of course I'll keep you updated on the teaching life.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Snippets (with a nod to C.D. Wright)
In another universe, I might would be the ankle-sprained member of a women's Olympic gymnastics team. The spirited stunter with a heart of gold, enthusiasm to spare, who would see her team to victory had she not torn her ACL dancing the Cupid Shuffle in the locker room shower. Out of the way already, toots. So close, but still no gold.
When I was seventeen, all I wanted to be was Winona Ryder's character in Mermaids. Charlotte, the confused, slightly macabre, too-smart-for-her-own-good teenager whose life is drastically changed for the better after she loses her virginity to the handyman in the belfry of the convent next door. I wanted to scream out the window of a stolen car, "I want to live a violently exciting life!"
A violently exciting life is not something one can plan. I'm young and naive and a pretty bad poet, but I've learned at least that much from living the life of a Compulsive Rehearser.
Sometimes, when I'm rehearsing aloud to myself, I answer back in different voices. You think I'm not as crazy when I do that.
You think I'm more crazy when I admit that I've lied extensively about the number of people I've slept with. Or perhaps you'll think lying about sex is the curse of youth. Either way, I'm a liar and you still like me.
If this were Mississippi and over there was the Mississippi River, the humidity would uppercut us, leave us gasping. Instead it's a beautiful day in East Tennessee, cloudy, 65 degrees. A change could make me cry.
I'm not the weepy type, but were I, I'd cry in front of you. Only so you'd pet me. Instead I write and bebop and lie in catatonic states. I'm pretty busy.
*I've been trying to mimic C. D. Wright's poem, but all I can get down is tone, not style. Yesterday a friend told me I should write prose more, and though I've never envisioned myself as a prose writer, I gave it a shot with my "Snippets." Maybe, if I can muster the craftsmanship, I can go back in and make my paragraphs ghazals. Then Galway Kinnell would love me.
When I was seventeen, all I wanted to be was Winona Ryder's character in Mermaids. Charlotte, the confused, slightly macabre, too-smart-for-her-own-good teenager whose life is drastically changed for the better after she loses her virginity to the handyman in the belfry of the convent next door. I wanted to scream out the window of a stolen car, "I want to live a violently exciting life!"
A violently exciting life is not something one can plan. I'm young and naive and a pretty bad poet, but I've learned at least that much from living the life of a Compulsive Rehearser.
Sometimes, when I'm rehearsing aloud to myself, I answer back in different voices. You think I'm not as crazy when I do that.
You think I'm more crazy when I admit that I've lied extensively about the number of people I've slept with. Or perhaps you'll think lying about sex is the curse of youth. Either way, I'm a liar and you still like me.
If this were Mississippi and over there was the Mississippi River, the humidity would uppercut us, leave us gasping. Instead it's a beautiful day in East Tennessee, cloudy, 65 degrees. A change could make me cry.
I'm not the weepy type, but were I, I'd cry in front of you. Only so you'd pet me. Instead I write and bebop and lie in catatonic states. I'm pretty busy.
*I've been trying to mimic C. D. Wright's poem, but all I can get down is tone, not style. Yesterday a friend told me I should write prose more, and though I've never envisioned myself as a prose writer, I gave it a shot with my "Snippets." Maybe, if I can muster the craftsmanship, I can go back in and make my paragraphs ghazals. Then Galway Kinnell would love me.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Even artichokes have hearts
In an attempt to outrun the emotional onslaught of too many goodbyes too soon, I came back to Mississippi on Tuesday under the pretenses of celebrating a friend's birthday then attending a wedding this weekend. Well, I guess those aren't total pretenses, because they are true. I celebrated a friend's birthday on Tuesday night, and I'm attending a wedding tomorrow. But I sure as hell haven't outrun the heartache.
With so much going for me, so much in the works for my future, I should be plumb ashamed that I pine over the dissolution of my favorite Grad School Group, that I can't help but feel like things Will Never Be The Same. I know things won't be the same, but they'll get better. They always get better, and I always find myself somehow the happiest I've ever been. It's really the best place to find oneself.
But still, for now, I'm sulky that my friends are gone, and I'm doing something about it: calling and texting too much, spending too much time out on the town with other friends, not returning emails. These are my coping mechanisms, y'all. What are yours?
In other news, my poem "When Boys Discovered Flowers Would Get Them Into Girls' Pants" has been selected for publication in the upcoming anthology, Splinter Generation. Check it out, and many thanks to Steph for sending me along the call for submissions.
With so much going for me, so much in the works for my future, I should be plumb ashamed that I pine over the dissolution of my favorite Grad School Group, that I can't help but feel like things Will Never Be The Same. I know things won't be the same, but they'll get better. They always get better, and I always find myself somehow the happiest I've ever been. It's really the best place to find oneself.
But still, for now, I'm sulky that my friends are gone, and I'm doing something about it: calling and texting too much, spending too much time out on the town with other friends, not returning emails. These are my coping mechanisms, y'all. What are yours?
In other news, my poem "When Boys Discovered Flowers Would Get Them Into Girls' Pants" has been selected for publication in the upcoming anthology, Splinter Generation. Check it out, and many thanks to Steph for sending me along the call for submissions.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
