Friday, January 28, 2011

My Life has...Purpose?

So a few of the research opportunities to which I'm applying call for Statements of Purpose as part of their applications. When I learned that I started freaking out, like I'm 20 years old (for a few more hours), I'm just a student who wants to keep being a student--you want my life to fit together into some sort of a cohesive narrative about why grad school is right for me and I don't think that's going to happen yet (ever?). I was scared I was going to have to bullshit the whole thing and I wasn't going to get in because this was going to be a piece of crap, and I was scared of how I was going to un-piece-of-crap-ify it by the time legit applications roll around. 

And then I started writing, and shocked myself. It...works. I didn't have to BS any of it, because once I got going, I realized there were signs and there are reasons why I want to do what I want to do and as much as I wouldn't have believed it a few days ago, there is a purpose to all of this. I've never thought about my life as something purposeful before. It's...interesting, to say the least. I won't call it fate, I might call it destiny, because I think it's more than coincidence....It's weird how we're writing stories that have follow-able plots without even being aware that we're holding pens. I always say that I want to be a professor because really, what else would I do? Nothing hopefully seems a lot more obvious after you read this:


Then entirely confident in my future as an English major, I enrolled in my first Sociology course on a whim, but quickly became enamored with the discipline and the change in perspective developing a “sociological imagination” entailed. A particularly interesting reading in that first class inspired me to take Families later, and in retrospect, I think I knew that introduction to the field had changed my life plan even before I enrolled in Inequality: Class, Race, and Gender instead of the last prerequisite to declare English. That course, in addition to introducing me to the truly interdisciplinary nature of Sociology, presented me with my first experience with original sociological research, in the form of a group project surrounding social stratification found in the most common fields Princetonians enter after graduation. From the earliest stages of that project, it became clear that I devoted myself more entirely to the research than my fellow group members, printing piles of articles and enjoying the process of enveloping myself in the structural faults of the nonprofit sector—my English-heavy close-reading background translated into research suiting me well. Recognizing this love for research prompted me to realize that my friend’s half-joke that she could see me as a professor held some weight; a tutor throughout middle- and high schools, and the friend who is ever-ready to enlighten others with some nugget of knowledge, teaching comes naturally to me, and despite having always been an avid writer, I had very recently realized that writing scholarly works might come just as naturally. These combined realizations led me to apply for, and thankfully be awarded, recognition as a Mellon Mays Undergraduate Fellow, a feat which I hope, like this research opportunity, will enhance my chances of acceptance into a prestigious PhD program in Sociology.
Though my group didn’t have full freedom to choose a research topic for that assignment in Inequality: Class, Race, and Gender, the choices presented to us demonstrated something integral to my love of sociological research—the ease with which a topic of general interest to me could become an academic project.  From that point on, whenever I read an article or had a discussion with a friend about some social issue, I began to wonder how I could study it and come to some sort of informed conclusion; my junior independent work this year grew out of the same process. Almost since enrolling in college, my friends at other institutions and I had often debated the benefits of going to our respective schools over others, and after reading an article in the New York Times about college’s effect on students, I realized that I could turn this debate into a substantive research endeavor. Under the guidance of a graduate student, Alex Davis, and my advisor Professor Rebekah Massengill, I developed an interesting research question and constructed a thorough questionnaire and extensive list of variables on which to compare institutions; this pair has proven instrumental to my research as I can further develop ideas through conversations with them, as well as approach them with questions about survey design, data collection, or even use of STATA for data analysis. At different stages in my research process, each of these mentors jokingly informed me that I was working too hard for a junior project, reflecting again the fact that I take naturally to research and truly enjoy it more than most.
Befriending and having intellectual discussions with persons from a wide range of racial, economic, cultural, religious, national, and regional origins throughout my time at Princeton has engaged me academically with the often-overlooked intricacies of identity politics. Additionally, my current research topic has shown me that, at this stage of life at least, higher education and the changes to individual identity it prompts fascinate me—I hope to study another aspect of this topic in my Senior Thesis next year. The Sociology courses I have taken so far, in conjunction with my overall college experiences and the people I have come to know during my time here, have inspired me to seek to understand the gray areas of social life and society, most clearly in the areas of individual identity, both in terms of culturally significant identities that are not traditionally studied (such as identifying as an adult), and the complications that can arise from various conflicts and convergences amongst traditional identity markers. In my current research project, in which I ask whether one type of institution better facilitates its students’ transitions to adulthood than does another, I hope to broaden the expanse of knowledge regarding the effects of higher education on young Americans by drawing attention to and filling an overlooked gap in the literature, effectively demonstrating that “higher education” as a topic of study contains its own gray areas and points of heterogeneity that warrant further study. I plan to continue to conduct research in this manner in the future, by delving deep enough into areas of interest to me that I find yet-unexplored layers to be probed and analyzed. As truly strange as my friends and classmates may find this, I find exhilaration in being surrounded by books and articles, reading and highlighting, trying to find my way to a research question—in the simplest of terms, I love research, and would relish the chance to make a career of it. A winding road comprised of specific courses, professors, and graduate students led me to pursue a degree—and hopefully, a career—in Sociology; without these individuals and their work, I may have gone on to criticize contemporary novels and lived blissfully unaware of the ways in which I could add to the knowledge of the world, and I cannot bypass the opportunity to affect others in the same way by continuing on to graduate school and, eventually, professorship. A multi-tasker by nature, I aspire towards a dual career in professorship and administration, so that I may ensure the incorporation of diverse ideas and teachings into curricula and academic atmospheres.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Black + White = Black?*

TV presented me with something interesting today. That doesn't usually happen, and it certainly doesn't usually happen on two back-to-back entirely unrelated television shows. So I was waiting for House to come on, right? And I was watching Wheel of Fortune to bide my time (I'm a BEAST at Wheel). And a black woman beat her opponents by a landslide in the end, including trips to both Hawaii and Alaska (woot woot!), and when Pat asked her who was in the audience with her today, she said her mom. The camera pans over to where her mom is sitting, so she can wave, and Pat sounds...confused for a moment until he realizes that her mom is the white woman waving at the camera, and says, "Oh, there she is!" sounding totally and completely surprised. And I can't even yell at him for being surprised, because I totally was too. 
Then House came on. We could tell by the previews for this week's episode that something interesting was going on between the two patients this week: one a middle-aged white drill sergeant and the other a black teenager who's been in and out of trouble and foster care. My friend guessed they were secretly gay lovers, and I had been willing to go along with that, because it's just the kind of plot twist House would go for, but *spoiler alert* it turns out they're actually father and son, in a totally unexpected Luke-I-am-your-father moment (Yes, it is possible to recognize Star Wars tropes without ever having actually seen Star Wars.)
And so twice in one night makes it more than a coincidence in my book. It makes it reminiscent of a social phenomenon. It makes me think of the "Mixed Race Movement" and my friends S and J who refuse to identify themselves as one race or the other. They are my black friends whom I cannot call non-white, and they often make me question whether I can call myself the same. It reminds me of how, a few weeks ago, my friend JW said that he can't tell when black people are Blasians; they just look black to him. I thought it was funny because I can pick the Asian features out almost instantly, because I'm so familiar with what the absence of them looks like. But no Blasian person could ever pass for just Asian. If TV says white mom plus black dad = socially black, and TV says black mom plus white dad = socially black, and society when scrutinizing Obama's presidential campaign said white mom plus African dad = not black enough, then what is blackness and where are the lines drawn?
Racial mixing is really interesting to me, especially in conjunction with a mixing of the socioeconomic classes. A strange creative part of me wants to turn The Little Mermaid into The Little Mulatta and still have her hoard her secret life away from her parents, sing "Part of that World", and leave the world she grew up in for something new and different (read: to her, clearly better). Oh, the things it would mean.

*That may be the title of a book or an article about mixed-race individuals, but I couldn't find it on Google so decided to use it. No copyright infringement intended.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Next step(s) in my continual quest for self-improvement: I miss art. I don't even remember how we started talking about this the other night during a half-(meaning only me)-drunken cuddlefest the other night, but B and I were discussing the fact that I used to be really into pottery when I was in middle school. I have this bowl that went on a statewide art tour to a bunch of different colleges, and there's an etched plaque I made of a tree supposedly on permanent display in my middle school. I got to go on this cool field trip to this place in Millville called the Clay College (which I just realized still exists and now I want to go back but I vaguely remember it being prohibitively expensive. But you know what ISN'T prohibitively expensive? What is, in fact, FREE? The Ceramics Studio on campus. I've always talked about wanting to go, but I've never actually gone, and you know what? I'm sick of wanting to do things but letting...who-knows-what get in the way. I just finished watching the pottery episode of Community (my new obsession in life) and I don't care if there are people who are better than me, and I don't care if no one wants to do it with me, I'm going to get my hands dirty again. I want to pick clay from under my nails. I want to feel something forming underneath the palms of my hands and I want to guide it into being. I want to create something from a lump of nothing. And next year, I'm going to take a pottery class (as long as it's not on Thursday nights).  

I want to make a major life change...

...that may be a little premature according to the tangible markers of adulthood I've attained, but should have happened a longggggg time ago emotionally: I am going to start referring to the house I grew up in as "my mom's house", rather than as "home". While seeing my family still feels like "home" for the first day or two, and seeing the friends I grew up with can have the same effect, this place is no longer my home. My home is in Princeton, NJ right now. My home is where I live. It's 113 Edwards 33 Prospect Street, for now, but that will change over the summer, and again in a year and a half, and again and again after that. But this house that I'm in right now, it's not home anymore, and while that makes me feel slightly homeless sometimes, it's something I need to come to terms with.

I've said this over and over this past week:

"I feel like a...'college student'".

Which begs the question, well what do I feel like the rest of the time? (Some part of my brain answers 'a Princetonian'.)

Anyway, I've been...watching LIVE TELEVISION. Watching TV and drinking. Going TO THE MOVIES. Playing video games. Playing video games and drinking. Watching other people play video games and drinking. Drinking for no reason at all. Ordering pizza at 1 am because we're drunk and hungry. Doing the very minimal amount of productive work to feel as though my life is not an entire waste. Making money by doing paid psychology experiments instead of having a real job. Not setting an alarm any day of the week. I suppose the best statement to describe how I've been feeling is "like a BUM". Why do I associate these two things in my head? They obviously don't go together in any way in my understanding of college for myself, or even for the majority of the people who have taken my survey, most likely. So what's going on here?

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

The following question was inspired by a random wall post from one of my friends to another one of my friends...

Would you date yourself?

It's an interesting question. Really calls on you to do SERIOUS self-assessment, but from an outsider's perspective instead of an insider's one, and from the particular-outside-viewpoint of potential romantic interest. I don't suppose this will be an easy task...

Would I date myself? I'm not sure. I'm a little crazy, but then again, everyone's a little crazy in their own little way, right? I've got big dreams that I will achieve, lest I die trying, but hopefully we've reached an era of life when ambitious guys can handle a lady having some ambitions of her own. I'm not that pretty in a lot of the stereotypical-impossible-airbrushed-dominant-culture kind of ways, but I do my best to work with what I've got and I think it shows. I'm a big girl, but a big guy needs someone who can take it. I'm not the housewife type, but we're talking about just a little dating. I'm a bit clingy, though, which I can see being an issue, but my clinginess is a byproduct of the fact that I give as much of my heart as I can spare to the people who are important to me. I'm kind of an intense person about a LOT of things, but who wants to be a candle when you have the potential to be a bonfire? I love to snuggle and if you don't I don't want you anyway, XD. I'm not very walk-all-over-able, and I will challenge your ideas and want to have intellectual debates but again, if this is a bad thing in your book, keep right on movin. I drink, and I curse, and I sometimes have problems with authority, and I don't "do the whole religion thing"; there are other lifestyles that simply can't get with those qualities, and I respect that--I probably couldn't be with someone who is super-religious, or someone who categorically does not drink or curse, just like I couldn't be with someone who smokes. I'm not a great dancer, but I will get out on the floor and shake somethin, and according to Lee Ann Womack that's what life is all about, right?

But I think I'm approaching this wrong. The question is not would some rando guy date me, it's would I, knowing everything I know about myself, date me? I, knowing how I am when I'm by myself, knowing that I change my mind all the time, knowing the kind of thoughts that run through my head and the way I approach things like friendships and relationships, knowing my every little bad habit and all the things that piss me the fuck off about other people. And I'm...struggling with this. At first, I am inclined to say no, because I don't really like to be alone with myself. I'm working on it, but have not successfully reached comfort in alone time yet. (Unless this counts; blogging might be my only legitimate hobby. Meditation too, kind of. I want to take up yoga once the new semester starts.) But I love the person I am when I'm spending time with the people I love. I'm an extrovert; my energy and happiness and the warmth in my life mostly comes from my relationships, which I put so much of myself into and expect so much from. Knowing everything I know about myself means knowing my goals and aspirations and knowing the person I'm striving to become as well as I know the person I am, right? I would date the person I'm trying to be. I think that means I'd also like to help me get there...     

Signs of being an alcoholic...

I just told a friend I couldn't get free facials with her on Thursday at 7pm because I'm planning to already be wasted by then. XD

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Does King Deserve to be King?

One of the biggest tangible changes being an African-American studies certificate pursuer has made in my life is my like, newfound...let's say "objection" to Martin Luther King Day as a holiday, as part of a larger...yeah, I think we can actually say "disgust" with the commonplace representations of the Civil Rights Movement in contemporary American classrooms and homes. I hate being lied to, particularly by authority figures. I hate the images of Christopher Columbus and Abraham Lincoln that are portrayed to young children everywhere. I hate when culture tries to rewrite history to make it more convenient. And similar to all these hatreds, I hate that America puts MLK up on a pedestal without addressing any of the flaws in his strategies and ideologies. 

Now don't get me wrong; Martin Luther King was an incredible man who did phenomenal things for black people in this country, and who tried to do similarly phenomenal things for poor people. There was a time when I would have said that I owe my very lifestyle to him; but that kind of statement, and the mindset it reflects, is exactly what pisses me off so much about this holiday. I owe my lifestyle to the Civil Rights Movement, fact, but while culture elected King as the Movement's face, there are so many other people who made contributions just as--if not more, in light of the fact that I am a black WOMAN--relevant and effective on my day-to-day being. With all of my knowledge of African-American history, I can think of NO reason King deserves to be elevated over Malcolm X or Ella Baker. I can think of NO reason for the American public--even the BLACK American public--to think of Rosa Parks as just some little old lady who wouldn't get up from her seat on the bus one day, as opposed to the die-hard political activist she really was.

Martin Luther King was many many wonderful things, but he was also a stickler for some pretty bad ideas: a) political sexism, and b) passive resistance. I think that to some degree, the black "community" as a whole is still struggling to recover from the lasting implications of the utter dominance of these ideologies, and the effective hero-worship and idolization of King in this country simply pushes conversations about the inherent badness of these ideologies further and further under the rug. If we can't address the faults of the persons we are told to view as having been great in the past, how will we ever recognize them in the future? Sexism in the black community is STILL un-talked-about by anyone but black feminists, and fact: no one really listens to them anyway. My mother STILL says she's oppressed as a black person but not as a woman, and black women's position in society will NEVER increase until we can eradicate the existence of such limited mindsets. But how can we if we continue to praise King as our savior? Political sexism is, in some aspects, even worse than in-everyday-life sexism, because it's like saying there are specific areas in which women can never be equal to men and certain arenas in which they should never be listened to, as opposed to just being generally ignorant. Passive resistance too often leads to just sitting there and taking the shit this country throws at us, and maybe I'm a radical but I will fight to the death for the things I deserve. We all should; it's the only way to get anyone to listen. The Movement has DIED; now we all practice passive resistance, and our men and boys rot in jail, and our children fail in failing schools, and our success stories are ostracized and remain single and childless for being strange exceptions to unwritten rules...it's not getting us anywhere. Blindly accepting King as the face of the Movement, as the King of race relations in America and as having the chief ideas that should be recognized and remembered just sets us back into the faults of his time, and I for one shall not regress.

Monday, January 17, 2011

Lament!

WHY
ARE 
ALL 
THE 
BOYS 
WHO 
LOVE 
ME 
GAY?!??

Something Incredible Happened Saturday Night...

Nearly 8 years ago, my mother and stepfather got divorced. [Insert chorus of HALLELUJAHS! here] Lots of wonderful things resulted from this, along with something terrible. As soon as the divorce was final, my stepbrother's mother decided that he was no longer to have any contact with his "other family". She wouldn't let him talk when we called, and when we kept calling, she changed their phone number. My brother, the one who is the same age as me, with whom I bathed and slept and played and grew and loved during all the earliest years of my life, was suddenly gone forevermore. 


I've missed him to varying degrees throughout the rest of my life, more and more since Greg reminded me what family is supposed to feel like. I don't really give a shit that we're not technically related anymore; that is my brother and I won't really tolerate anyone saying anything different. When he turned 18, my mom and I really started trying to get back in touch with him, because his mom couldn't stop us anymore. First we called his father, but [don't get me started on] that man hadn't spoken to his firstborn son in years and was disturbingly disinterested in our desire for reconnection. Fuck him. So then I started periodically searching Facebook in an attempt to find him, but he has both and very common first name and a very common last name, and I didn't know where he lived or where he was going to school or anything that could help me narrow the search. I have two friends at school who live in the area he lived in when were growing up, and I asked them if they knew someone by his name, and one of them did! But it wasn't him. 


To make a long story short, we were very discouraged. Short of hiring a private detective, there seemed to be no way to put our little family back together, and that fact was generally a small piece of sadness inside me all the time. (I am so sick and tired of people ruining MY family with THEIR issues. You no longer wanting to call someone "boyfriend," "husband," or even "son," does NOT automatically entail that I no longer want to call him "mine" in some form. There are some bonds I can never imagine breaking, no matter how hard they are strained.)


I can't really even express in words, then, how I felt when I checked my phone after watching a movie and saw that I'd missed a bunch of texts, two of which were as follows: One from my little sister saying B**** had friended her on Facebook, and one from Facebook saying those impossible little words: B**** J****** has requested to add you as a friend on Facebook. I was just talking the other day about how fragile life is, how it can just turn upside down and inside out in the blink of an eye. Sometimes upside down is a wonderful wonderful way to be. Life has this funny way of scaring and blessing you at the same time. My dad is so sick, just laying in bed because sitting down hurts, waiting for a call that he can come back to the hospital, and I am so worried about him. But my long-lost brother just walked back into my life and has missed me as much as I have missed him. He wants to see me as soon as possible and I just want to hold him for hours. I just want to look at him so I remember his face again. I have his number and I can't wait to hear his voice.

Confession: Everything I ever say about family and how mine isn't that big a deal to me is total and complete BULLSHIT. I think I just tell myself that to avoid remembering how much it hurts to have lost such important parts of it. But I don't have a word for how deliriously ecstatic Facebook-chatting with my brother the night before last made me feel, or for how terrified I am about my dad's health right now. My friends are my family, but my family is my family too, and my heart is feeling so much at one time right now. Daddy, I love you. BJ, I love you too. There are some bonds that can never be broken.

Saturday, January 15, 2011

This post is not meant to be a Debbie Downer...

I usually have something witty and cute to say about life in general, or my life specifically, like how they say change is the only constant in life, but today I want to take a moment to recognize that that volatility makes life really really fragile. Not only in the oft-talked-about highs-and-lows/rollercoastery ways, but just in the ideas that it can change irrevocably in the blink of an eye, and it can be over just as fast.
"When a tragedy like this strikes, it is part of our nature to demand explanations, to try to impose some order on the chaos and make sense out of that which seems senseless." -- Barack Obama
 National tragedy this week in Arizona: Six regular people living their regular lives decided to go out and participate in democracy--crazy idea--and it cost them their lives, some of which were long and full, but others of which were truly just beginning. 14 more people were injured, with various degrees of severity; their lives have been changed forevermore.

Princeton tragedy: We lost a Tiger this week. A freshman girl from Virginia, who lived in Forbes and played on the softball team. Two of my friends knew her well, and I can't begin to imagine what they're going through because I have never lost a good friend. Her death was ruled "natural causes"; she had evidently been having medically unexplained seizures since May, but had decided to come to Princeton instead of deferring a year to try to figure out what was wrong. I've heard a lot of people commenting that they didn't understand why she would do this, but reading the articles on the homepage about how her friends are mourning her, she wanted to sleep in her uniform, and even her parents called us Tigers her family, it makes sense to me. This place has given me the best years of my entire life thus far, years I sometimes doubt will ever be matched, and from what I can gather, it gave her the best 5 months of hers. And that makes me glad. I just...she was (relatively) fine at dinner the night before, and they found her dead in the morning. Just like that.

Something that has the potential to become a personal tragedy: Okay, I'm being melodramatic. But I'm worried. So I've been pretty quiet about this because I don't know what to think, but things have escalated to the point that it must be shared: my father has been in and out of the hospital for the past week-and-a-half or so. This may be more information than you need to know, but he woke up last Thursday morning with a full bladder and couldn't go. The pressure just kept increasing and increasing so he went to the hospital and had to get a catheter put in. That was in for a week--and he missed work for a week--and when they took it out this Wednesday, he still couldn't go. Now they're saying he has to have surgery next week, and they're going to run tests on samples from his prostate, which means prostate cancer is a feasible explanation for what's going on right now. How do you go to bed one night feeling relatively alright (my dad has high blood pressure and diabetes) and wake up the next morning showing potential signs of having CANCER?! He gets regular checkups and everything! My mom says I'm worried about nothing right now, but I can't help it; I'm freaking the fuck out. 

Too much has happened this week. The world is a crazy place, and our time in it could very well be shorter than any of us imagine. So LIVE your life, okay? Drake has some new song out with Nicki Minaj (said in a disgusted tone, but the reason behind it is another story for another time) in which he says, Every one dies but not everybody lives, and he's entirely right about that. I'm NOT going to say to live each day like it's your last, because let's be real: you'd probably end up in jail or in the hospital or do something to directly cause it to be your last.

I will say this though: I was doing this self-affirmation exercise for a while last year but I stopped: at the end of the night before I went to sleep I would think about one positive thing that happened that day, one thing that made that day worthwhile. It sometimes meant actively taking steps to make something worthy of this title happen each day, and that's something I want to start doing again. It's something EVERYONE should do, because whether we like to think about this or not, your whole world could turn upside down, inside out, or just plain dark overnight. 

Cheesy Blogaversary Post

Sunday marked a whole YEAR of me keeping this blog, and that should be celebrated! I don't know if I thought I'd stay with it this long when I started it...I hadn't really put all that much thought into it, but though school/life sometimes wins over me updating this regularly, it means so much to me and here's to hoping I have another year of wonderments and misadventures to share with all of you! Yay!

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Warning: the image below is NOT attractive.





This is not me anymore. My mother was shocked to see nails on the ends of my fingers when I was home over Winter Break, and I am determined to keep them! They're approaching longer than they've ever been--which isn't particularly long, but hey--and it will surely be a test of my willpower (and the effectiveness of Develop 10 Brand Bite Ender clear nail polish, which tastes TERRIBLE) to get through this finals season with my nails intact. BUT IT WILL HAPPEN. 

This has been a declaration of purpose. Old habits die hard, but they will die. 

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Ex-lovers and friends

So I have a friend who, when discussing her recent exes, always brings up that she wants to be friends with them after the dust has settled, not like my situation with J (just-the-letter J, not J******) where he keeps trying to hang out with me and I want nothing to do with him. I finally felt the need to clarify that I don't want nothing to do with him because we dated, I want nothing to do with him because...looking back on that chapter of my life, I have no idea why I EVER wanted anything to do with him. I like to call him all-the-rebellion-that-was-supposed-to-infest-my-teenage-years-balled-up-into-7-weeks. 

What I didn't remind her of, though, is that he's not the only ex I have, not the only situation for her life to be compared with. *sigh* We were laughing yesterday at a Yahoo article that said one of the worst New Year's Resolutions to make was to quit Facebook, because everybody uses Facebook. That's...not exactly true. More and more recently, I've found myself desperately wanting to Facebook-stalk one person I can't: my first ex, the one none of my friends like to talk about because they think I was being ridiculous about the whole situation. I'm not going to go through the whole thing again: he's been talked about before. I don't tell people this, but every time I'm home I hope I'll randomly bump into him at the mall or Wal-mart or somewhere. When I'm bored and randomly clicking around on facebook waiting for something interesting to happen in someone's life, I sometimes type his name into the search box just to see if he reactivated his profile, because I want to know what's going on in his life more than I care to admit. 

Don't ask me why. I don't know. I don't want to get back together with him, not in the slightest. I meant what I said in that tear-filled phone call from freshman year, and I will not retract those statements. But I hate that not wanting him romantically means I can't have him at all. I hate that I miss the way I feel when I'm with him, because I'm almost positive that what I'm missing is the naivete and sense of endless possibilities that encompassed the entire time we were close, but even more so I hate that we can't be friends. He has faded nearly entirely into person-I-once-knew status, and dammit, I want to know him. But sometimes that decision isn't ours to make.

Monday, December 27, 2010

Habari gani? Kujichagulia!


Habari gani? Kujichagulia! Kujichagulia means self-determination and is the second day of Kwanzaa. On this day, we pledge to define ourselves, to name ourselves, to create for ourselves, and to speak for ourselves, instead of being defined, named by, created for and spoken for by others. On this day we design for ourselves a positive future and then vow to make that prophecy a self-fulfilling one.



Kujichagulia is my favorite day of Kwanzaa. Do you, Kujichagulia says. Be a rebel. Find something--anything--to throw your fist in the air and yell about. Today is the day to say FUCK the establishment, FUCK the status quo, FUCK people who are resistant to change, FUCK anyone who can't appreciate your beauty and your truth.


Africans. Niggers. Negroes. Coloreds. Blacks. African-Americans. Niggas. Persons of the African Diaspora. Multi-generational African-Americans. Self-definition is an interesting concept to me, particularly as it relates to identity markers. Black people in this country have been struggling for centuries to answer these questions: What is blackness? Who gets to define it? Through time it has been the whites, then the upper-middle-class blacks, then the militants...no one's really sure who it is now. There are lots of people who say blackness should be whatever every individual black person wants it to be; but then how do the non-black interpret blackness, and how do we honor yesterday (unity)? I ask the same thing about gender identity, sexual orientation identity, political party identity, class identity, age identity, religious identity...labels in general. I always say I don't like labels. I don't like generalizations. I don't like that if I said I was a feminist, you would have a prescribed notion of what feminists are, a mold you'd try to put me in. I worry about the same things when I say black. When I say female. When I say 20 year old. When I say Princetonian. I WILL NOT BE COOKIE-CUTTERED TO FIT YOUR NOTIONS OF REALITY.

Heh, Kujichagulia is kind of why I started this blog to begin with...

Habari gani? Umoja!

Umoja means Unity, and it is the principle for the first day of Kwanzaa. Our families and communities need unity in order for them to be productive and to survive. On this day, we pledge to strive for and to maintain unity in the family, in the community, in the nation that we have helped to build, and with our PEOPLE.
 Unity is a concept I've been on a bit of a roller-coaster struggle with this year. I went to the Black Solidarity Conference at Yale in February, and it was the first time I witnessed and took part in what seemed like a real movement of any sort--a large group of people coming together around some issue, trying to be solutionaries (to steal a word from the Umoja Student Development Corporation, where I worked this past summer). That experience was so enriching and inspiring that I really thought we could recreate the feelings it gave us on campus, but over time I learned that it seems that three people simply aren't enough to change a community climate. As time has gone on, I've begun to doubt whether "community" is really even a truly applicable word to describe the population of persons of African descent on Princeton's campus--or anywhere for that matter. Community implies some measure of overall togetherness of thought and action, to my best understanding of the word anyway, which I don't believe we have on any grand level; additionally, it must be asked whether the streamlining process inherent in "strengthening" any community engenders gross generalizations--would an attempt to make the "community" more cohesive be nothing more than self-generalization? How do you reconcile a supposedly encompassing community with the population it so clearly does not represent? What is a community without unity, and with so many factions and interests coexisting [somewhat] peacefully within the population, is true unity even a legitimate possibility? How can intersectionality and unity coexist productively? 

I have questions but no answers.

Saturday, December 25, 2010

The Meaning of Christmas...

GAH, MY FACEBOOK NEWS FEED HAS TURNED INTO SOME RELIGIOUS WEBPAGE WITH SHOUTOUTS TO JESUS, AND CALLS TO REMEMBER THAT HE'S THE REASON FOR THE SEASON. *runs for cover*

Just so you know, this is not another religion-bashing post. This is, after all, their holiday. But as someone who didn't realize that Christ had anything to do with Christmas til late childhood, I'm endeavoring to understand what exactly Christmas is supposed to mean to me. I love that the Wikipedia page for Christmas recognizes the secular aspects of the holiday early on; I feel...validated in my understanding of Christmas as an American cultural holiday, as opposed to as a Christian religious one.


I've talked about Christmas a lot already, because this Christmas is...different for my family this year. To make a long story short, times are tough for everyone involved--myself definitely included--and thus things are being kept...simple. And I've been kind of down in the dumps about it. But on the phone tonight, my friend M a) inadvertently reminded me how good a friend she is and how much I miss her, and b) told me that it takes a Christmas like this to appreciate all the other Christmases. And she's right. It's a Christmas like this, apart from the small children and the cookies for Santa and the tree and the anticipation that makes me sit back and think about what Christmas really means.


Christmas means taking at least a few days off from the rest of life. Christmas means being with my family, even if not everyone is thrilled about this. Christmas means doing everything within your means to get your loved ones in the Christmas spirit, meaning the spirit of love and peace and joy and giving. Christmas means love, the kind of love that, while it may lie peacefully dormant for most of the year, shows itself flamboyantly in bouts of colorful joy every once in a while, and gives of itself even knowing it can expect nothing in return. Christmas means creating your own traditions to supplement the ones your childhood gave birth to. Christmas is being in the arms of someone who loves you, and resting your head on your mom's shoulder, mixed in with a hint of how it feels to be picked up for the first time in years. Christmas is the familiarity of your Grandmother's kitchen combined with the thrill of a young Denzel and a pre-crack Whitney in The Preacher's Wife and the slightest of desires to jingle when you walk. Christmas is always wanting to believe Santa is real, no matter how old you get; it's hating snow but wishing for it anyway. Christmas is warm and somewhat fuzzy and somehow magical. Christmas is love.

 

Friday, December 24, 2010

Thanks for bringing me home.

This post is in honor of all the people you don't realize how much you've missed until you're with them again. We've somehow reached that age where the weeks between seeing old friends can turn into months and even years easily if we're not careful. I'm writing to tell you to be careful. Take a random opportunity to do a familiar activity with a familiar face. That feeling of sliding comfortably back into a past you thought was lost forever is what being home is all about in the first place isn't it? It's funny how people can hold onto little pieces of your heart for so long that you forget they even have them, til you're with them again and you feel home; home is where the heart is, and tonight reminded me that, while not broken, my heart is in a million places. Only a true friend can remind you of memories you forgot you had. Only a true friend turns a bad day into a warm, fuzzy one. Only true friends remind you that no matter how old you get, or how time changes you, there is always a way to belong.

Go find those people in your life over this break. Do something with them. Actively remember the person you once were, regardless of whether once was last month or ten years ago, and add this to your resolutions: do more to espouse the things you loved about her.  

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Period.

Dear Pad Commercial Designers,
Maybe I’m doing it wrong, but your vials of
blue liquid convince me of absolutely nothing.
Touchably dry, my bloodstained fingertips scoff.
Your free floating cartoon pad drifts like a magic carpet
across my screen, and as it loop-de-loops, it promises
to stretch to fit my body’s natural curves.
Problem with that statement number one:
You sound like a Pamper’s Cruisers commercial.
Two: someone once told me a “regular” sized pad is designed
around the body of a size 6 woman, and I don’t like
what you’re implying about my “irregularity”.
And seriously, anyone who was just dying for a thong pad
is in dire need of a reality check.

But don’t think you’re getting off the hook that easily,
Tampon Commercial Designers. No, I’ve got a complaint or two for you.
Who are these actresses you cast? What menstruating woman in her right mind
really wants to lounge flirtatiously on a pool chaise in a bikini
between overly muscular gentlemen, or chase her dog barefoot
through the wet sand, or go clubbing in the tightest of black dresses,
or nail that difficult new yoga pose while sporting white spandex?
Sorry to be the one to break it to ya, but no one trusts you that well.
And just because you make it tinier (read: easier to leak) and dress it up
in a polka-dotted case does not make me want to show it off to my class,
and I won’t be the first person in line to twirl in slow motion through the field
of flowers or splash gaily in the waterfall either. Now is not a good time to discuss purity.

Of course, not everyone paints periods as a pocket full of sunshine, but Midol and Pamprin
Commercial Designers, you’re next on my list. If I see one more woman get half out of bed
then fall back in, or poke her water weight in the mirror/struggle to button her work pants,
or moan in agony while grabbing her waist/back/head, I’m going to scream.
Yes, it hurts. We all know that. We’ve all known that from tender ages of innocence.
We also know that the cute tight pants are out of commission for a few days, and no matter
how tight the budget is, that morning coffee is a must this week. We know we’ll be crying at
the sappy movies and not having the energy to move, but the real world expects us
up at our normal times and moving at our normal rates and not taking twice as many bathroom
breaks because we either feel like we’re back in diapers or our tampon is so small we can’t feel it
and that’s worrying but either way popping two pills doesn’t stop the feeling that we’re dying
so either show the woman with the clenched jaw and the halfhearted smile who suffers invisibly 
or shut the fuck up.

That last bit is meant for all of you.

Signed,

Your Consumers

Monday, December 20, 2010

I "paint" to make myself feel better...

They say the most suicides happen around the holidays...

...because people whose families are gone or split up or just not coming to town get really depressed, especially as said people get older. The opposite kind of phenomenon happens to me when I go home for the holidays...

The hardest thing for me to get used to about being home is consistently the shock of how much time I spend alone. I thought this would change this year, because I have a single, but I simply don't spend any significant waking time there, so it unfortunately has no desensitizing effect on me. Even at a school that falls into the "small private" category for my JP, on campus I'm almost always in the presence of other people. Even though I live in a single, a hundred or so people live in my building, and I can hear the girls across from me laughing sometimes. It's no big deal for the girl in the shower stall next to me to ask to borrow my body wash; bathrooms have been deprivatized. (Yes I just made that word up.) I eat all my meals with a subset of the same group of 70ish people, the Large Library has a crew, and there are certain friends I can't see without hugging.

But my house isn't structured for such interactions. With the split levels, it's really as if every person has his or her own floor. My sister and I flip-flop between the living room (2nd landing) and our bedroom (5th landing), rarely coexisting in the same space. My brother's room is on the third landing, next to the office with the computer he broke, so no one else is ever there, and my mom spends all her time in her room on the third landing. We each exist in our own separate worlds, and rarely do they meet.

My friends aren't within walking distance here. Even if they were, I don't feel the same ability to just show up uninvitedly; here in the real world, there are families and gatherings and other plans.

So here there are days when I realize I hadn't spoken until after 3 this afternoon, simply because there was no one to say hello to til then.

India would say Sometimes I'm alone, but never lonely. I wish I could agree with her. And E says this shouldn't bother me as much as it does. She says free time is a gift that I should be thankful for, but free ALONE time has always been a curse to me. I'm good at creating space and time for me within lots of hustle and bustle, but I'm at a total loss when "free time" stretches before me like a lake with the stillest of waters. It's not even that I would like to have everything planned out, because I'm not the biggest of planners, it's just...if I'm watching TV, I would rather have someone to laugh at the TV with, someone to steal the blanket from, someone to roll their eyes at me when I tear up. It's that, while I wouldn't mind getting one of those fancy new touchscreen handheld Scrabble console things, I would always rather have an actual partner to play an actual game with. It's so quiet here. I miss the strange commingling of first-person-shooter and Mario Galaxy sounds coming from the Game Room.

Fact that others may find sad but I just consider to be a fact of life: My friend circles have always felt more familial to me than my actual family feels most of the time. That only really bothers me at all around the holidays, when everyone disappears from AIM and Facebook and talks about all the fun they're having/going to have with their families. I smile and nod like I'm cosigning that, but really all I think about is how much I miss the people I share my life with. Those people and the people who share my DNA or even my permanent address have never been one and the same.

Thought that actually saddens/terrifies me: Is this what's waiting for me when undergrad life ends?

Saturday, December 18, 2010

[You're a] Good Man



I don't want this to be the India song I associate with your name, because it's far too beautifully tragic, and you're The Truth and a Complicated Melody already, but last night you said something that made me realize that you're a good man. Not only suave, witty, ambitious, handsome, brilliant--but genuinely good. One of the best I know. You commented on a father-son relationship in Love Actually and told me that you want your son to love you like that. You would have given me one of your dramatic looks if I'd told you this then, but I think that's beautiful. It's like, I already know you're going to be a great father someday. I can already tell that I'll be jealous of your relationships with your kids, not because I want kids of my own but because as much as I hate to admit this, I always wanted parents like that. The kind who love openly. I know your mother is proud of you, even if you aren't always proud of yourself. Hell, I'm proud of you, more and more so every single day. This is just another way I look up to you. I'd have kids if I could be like you. But though I can cherish all of my friends and love you all with open arms, I'm still learning how to love one other person with an entirely open heart.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

I went to New York to see a show last fall

and had to purchase a MetroCard to get around, obviously. This was the card I got:

 I still have this card. It sits in my wallet with my Visa Check card and my photo IDs and my CVS card and my U-Store Membership card and my insurance card and when I find it in the midst of looking for one of those zillion cards, I pause for a split second and I have to smile. It says in tiny letters that it's part of an Arts for Transit project, and mentions the artist's name. I think this card is fantastic. I hope that the small moment of joy it continually brings me is what the artist--and New York City as a governmental figure?--wanted me to feel, and I want to do all in my power to ensure that I have this card until I am old and grey.

My friend K who I talk about, he told me today that optimism is his new plan for the next few months forever. It made me so happy, because I am always so worried about him putting too much pressure on himself and forgetting to have fun and remember that no matter what happens, the big picture is BIGGER than this and in it, he's a wonderful individual. But it also got me thinking...

People constantly tell me that I'm a bright, bubbly, cheerful person. This afternoon a friend told me she can never imagine anyone saying I'm a mean person. Part of me (the you're-your-own-worst-critic part) gives them a look like, Whatchu talkin bout, Willis?! but the bigger part of me recognizes the truth in what they're saying. I think about how I talk to K, or to F or to T, I think about the feelings I try to leave in my wake wherever I go in daily life, the impression I try to impart on my friends and acquaintances, the beauty and growth I try to see in the trials of life, and the care and warmth I try to give to everyone who matters to me in some small degree and realize that I am a bright, bubbly, and cheerful person the vast majority of the time...to most people, but not always to myself.


It's time for that to go. It's not necessary that I don't want to worry about shit, but just that I want to be confident in my abilities and assured in the fact that I can handle my life, and stop stressing over shit that doesn't matter. There's just no damn sense in being your own worst enemy, under any circumstances. Optimism. Live life limitlessly. 



Sunday, December 12, 2010

Tangent to the last post:

Second location/situation that makes me feel isolated from "the black community", especially the black Princetonian community, probably to an even larger degree than do black parties: The Black Church. Well, okay, the Princeton University Gospel Ensemble concerts, which is basically the same thing. I only know of one other active member of the black community here who is non-religious...it's hard out here for black non-Christians!

I basically feel socially obligated to go to PUGE concerts. There were approximately 3 people on stage tonight with whom I am neither friends nor acquaintances. I want to be able to treat a PUGE concert like I treat one of K's Glee Club concerts. In fact, no offense to K, but I want to be able to appreciate it even MORE, because gospel is much more closely related to the kind of music I enjoy listening too. I want to be able to go support and appreciate my friends' musical endeavors. But when the first words out of the emcee's mouth are Praise God, and when she says (like they always say) that we are not here to enjoy a concert, but to praise and worship our Lord, all I feel is isolated. I don't know about the rest of you, but I came here to enjoy a concert, and I don't want to be made to feel like an outsider and a bad person because of it.

I'm sure it's hard for people who were raised in the church, or at least with religion as an active part of their household, to understand that the act of entering a church is hard for me. It is difficult for me to sit in a pew within inches of a Bible. It is difficult for me to sit awkwardly as the congregation stands and bows their heads in prayer. It is difficult for me not to jitter my leg and fidget with my hair and my bracelets as the women sitting behind me shout Hallelujah! and Praise Jesus! and pat me on the shoulder saying "Blessings unto you." It is DIFFICULT, and every muscle in my body is tense for the majority of my time there. It takes nearly every measure of my patience and self-control to fight the urge to take flight. 
 
But I do this. I do this regularly, for every concert PUGE has. Because these are my friends. And I owe them my support...especially when my support doesn't cost any money. But, correct me if I'm wrong, I always thought churches were supposed to be welcoming places. So when a performer, who happens to be a good friend of mine, asks the audience if we love gospel, and when not everyone raises their hands, he says, "Some of y'all lookin real hesitant; I don't know why you're here," I. don't. feel. welcomed. I ducked out before the invitation this year, but Preacher, despite your best intentions, inviting me to join your church and feel the love and warmth and the spirit of Jesus is unwelcoming by its very nature--you are assuming that your way of life is better than mine and that I should want to take up your way. Your Bible recognizes that people should come as they are; I would like you to give me the honor of leaving that way as well, if I should so choose.

I have problems with the black church. I have problems with "the church". I have problems with Christianity, and with Islam, and with Judaism, and with religion as a concept. I have problems appreciating songs that make relationships with God sound like celebrity obsessions or abusive domestic situations. But I try very hard to make these problems take second place to my love and support for my friends, and I hate that my aversion to the isolation and judgment inherent in the invitation makes me miss the reception that would let the friends I came to support know that I was even here. It makes me wonder why I even put myself through this.   

I have a love-hate relationship with hip-hop.

At least, that's how I usually describe it, but in all honestly, the loving and hating are compounded by a general sense of ambivalence. Unless presented with what I believe to be an extreme on either side, I generally don't care about hip-hop. There is now, has always been, and will always be more music in the rock, R&B, and Soul genres in my media library than Hip-Hop and Rap combined, and while this surprises some people, it doesn't usually cause issues in my life. 

But there's one situation in which it does: when I go to some sort of predominantly black party on campus, which isn't nearly as often as it was, say, freshman year. And I usually attribute that fact to the fact that I was a non-drinker when I was a freshman, and now I party on The Street, but in all honesty, that's not the whole story.

As much as it pains me to admit this, to a certain degree, I feel uncomfortable at black parties. I don't know most of the music, and as a first-time listener don't really appreciate much of it either. I feel uncomfortable when a group of people I know hear the first few notes of a song, yell something to the effect of, "Yo, this is my jawn!", and proceed to line up and all do the dance that goes to this song. I don't know how to dougie. My Asian best friend can jerk better than I can. While I can drop it low and back it up, I much prefer for the focus of any attention paid to my body to be on my 38Ds and not my pear-ish middle section, because noticing that I got a donk must be accompanied by noticing that I'm also just generally heavy in the stomach/butt/thighs area. I realize I am supposed to appreciate this as "thickness" in some measure, but...I don't like to draw attention to areas of my body that I don't necessarily like. I don't like that I am expected to devote time and energy to knowing and performing these dances on demand, but I also don't like feeling like I have to slink off to the sidelines when everyone else does these dances because I can't join in.

Long story short, I often feel like I am not black enough to be at a black party, and this pisses me the fuck off. I'm always the first one to voice the opinion/raise the concern that blackness is not homogeneous, that it comes in all shapes and sizes and colors and mixtures and genders and classes and religions and sexualities and hair textures and just about any other distinction that can be made amongst humans. I'm always the one to rally against generalizations about black people--even those that aren't inherently stereotypical--and to question the use of the term "the black community" in nearly every circumstance. I'm the one who became disenchanted with our "black community" at Princeton after seeing what a truly encompassing black community is like at Yale last year. I'm the one who became a much happier and more satisfied individual after branching out. But I am actively a black person, no longer a person who happens to be black. I am a black woman--not a black person who happens to be female or a woman who happens to be black, but a black woman. I identify as black, I am politically black, most of the time I am academically and scholastically black, and my most prevalent when I grow up fantasy at this point in life is to be a Black Panther. Who are you, friends and DJ at this party, to make me feel like I'm not black enough to be here? Who the hell are you to make me feel like a cultural outsider in a so-called community I have given immeasurable amounts of time and energy to strengthening? Who gave you the right to make me wonder if K felt as out of place as I did, and tell him I'm ready to leave whenever he is, and what part of his immediate exit was caused by everything I'm talking about now?  

There was a white grad student there, and I remember wondering if he felt as out of place as I did. He looked as though he were having fun, and a little voice in the back of my head said, "Well, so do you. You're trying really hard to look like you're having fun." and that's when I knew it was time to go. Why does the Carl A. Fields Center for Equality and Multicultural Understanding throwing a formals afterparty constitute black people having a party, and why does not fitting into--or really even wanting to fit into--the cultural preferences of the overwhelming majority of a collection of black Princetonians make me feel like I'm not black? Who gives the crowd the right to define ME?

...oh wait, that's the whole basis behind life as social creatures, isn't it? 

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

I'm black. "Ally" isn't even a strong enough term for my support of gay rights. THIS ISN'T THAT RADICAL. Get over it.

“It is something resting with the parties themselves, for them to decide. If they choose to face this possible prejudice and think that their own pursuit of happiness is better subserved by entering into this marriage with all its risks than by spending the rest of their lives without each other’s company and comfort, the state should not and cannot stop them.” –Justice Carter, Perez v. Lippold (California Supreme Court case from 1948)

The powerful language found in this week’s readings for my Race and the American Legal Process class, regarding the nullification of antimiscegenation laws struck me not only for the sheer forcefulness of the Courts’ opinion, but also for the clear and profound connections these decisions seemingly should have to the current gay rights movement. I have always had an understanding that the gay rights movement has ties to the civil rights movement, and as such been thoroughly disgusted with the heteronormativity and blatant homophobia that categorize such a substantial percentage the African-American community at large, but these court cases have elevated that understanding to a new level; I honestly cannot understand how, with such potent precedent to stand on the shoulders of, LGBT rights activists have not yet secured marriage as a “fundamental…basic civil right” for same-sex couples. My first question is what exactly places the freedom to marry within the scope of basic civil rights; when was it first guaranteed that citizens of the United States have a right to marry? And after gaining a better understanding of that history, I would like to know how the heteronormativity and homophobia that led to the Defense of Marriage Act differ from the white supremacy and precept of inferiority that led to the antimiscegenation and criminalization-of-sexual-relations laws Justices Traynor, Carter, and Warren speak so forcefully against?

Call me naïve, but I am imagining a world in which the quotes from the Perez v. Lippold and Loving v. Virginia read like this:

“Since the right to marry is the right to join in marriage with the person of one’s choice, a statute that prohibits an individual from marrying a member [of his or her same sex] restricts the scope of his choice and thereby restricts his right to marry.”

“The right to marry is the right of individuals, not of [groups of people with the same sexual orientation].”

“Under our Constitution, the freedom to marry or not marry, a person of [the same sex] resides within the individual and cannot be infringed by the State.”

Are these conceived statements really so farfetched? What would it take to bring them to fruition?

Oh no, I'm going to talk about sexuality. Go cower in fear somewhere.

Two fellow 'Dranglers today told me surprisedly/disappointedly that they had images of me as a sweet, innocent little girl...

I am sweet, and I take that as a compliment. But, in the words of Brittney Spears, I'm not that innocent. I'm certainly neither little or a girl, I am a full-figured sometimes-referred-to-as-Amazonian woman, thank you very much. And I don't really like that I'm interpreted as such by the world at large. Oh no. There was a slight scandal last night (I may or may not have soberly publicly licked whipped cream from in between my breasts), and an even slighter scandal during dinner today, but be prepared for me to turn your understandings of me upside down, people who would be surprised to know that one of my big reasons for wanting a single was so that my vibrator and I could have sexytime more regularly...

Side note: why are people so touchy about sexuality? Like, why is talking openly about porn habits, or admitting that I can lick my own nipples, so scandalous? We all do it. Goddamn Puritanical American society. *throws hands into air disgustedly*

Monday, December 6, 2010

Now Why'd You Have to Go and Do That?

I'm sure you have absolutely no understanding of how much your words can affect me. That's to be expected, I suppose. I am, after all, the ex-English-Major-linguistics-loving-poet. But still, I have to ask, do you know what you did today?

You were on the phone with a friend from your other, non-Princeton life, apologizing for having fallen asleep while talking with him last night. I was listening to your every word, like always, and laughing with you, like always. Your friend heard me laughing in the background (I'm loud and easily identifiable, lol) and asked who I was, and why was I in your room? You snapped back that it was none of his business who was in your room, and then laughed and explained we weren't in your room. He evidently didn't let up, though, because then you said "Well, maybe she's the reason I fell asleep on you last night..."

Why'd you have to go and insinuate that? If you only knew how hard I've been working to separate thoughts of you from thoughts like that. Because I love the person you are, and I love being around you, and I love the way you laugh, and I love the person I am when I'm with you, and I think you're incredibly handsome, and truth be told I would love to snuggle with you, but I am NOT sexually attracted to you. At least, 99% of the time I'm not. But when you go and plant images like this into my overactive imagination...you can't fault me for imagining what it would be like to wake up with my body wrapped around yours.

But I have something to tell you. Something you should know. I think I kind of like someone else. There is an avenue opening up on the road map of my life that I would like to explore. I don't love him in the ways I love you, but I like him, and I love the way he makes me feel sexy and feminine and like a woman. And unless I bitch out like a little pussy, the next time he kisses me on the cheek, I'm going to return his kiss, but on the lips. Knowing how it feels to grind on his hips is only a few steps away form knowing how it feels to ride those hips, and I don't want confusion about how I feel about you to keep me from feeling what I'm feeling for him.

So stop it, okay? 

<3, 

Maya 

Friday, December 3, 2010

I got a facial today

My first facial ever. I don't pamper myself like this often, but it was FREE! And y'all know free is just my price, lol! So I got a free facial today, thank you Princeton University, and they were using these award-winning all-natural created-by-a-botanist-at-Harvard (read: probably expensive as fuck) cremes and washes and masks and moisturizers and my face has never felt so appreciated! The best way I can think of to describe it is that my skin felt the way your teeth feel when you leave the dentist's office after getting them cleaned. People I ran into for the rest of the night actually said I was glowing, and my skin still feels so soft and smooth to the touch! It was such a fantastic free experience (note: much like my overall Princeton career.) 


Point: Pamper yourself sometime. You're worth it. Give yourself the care and attention you deserve.

This message has been sponsored by xkcd (jk)

...I actually just kind of stole it. Words from the wise:

You shouldn't ever feel like shit for feeling like shit.

also

Alcohol is poison. I drink to save you from it. 

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Yo, this actually happened to me last week!

http://thefreshxpress.com/2010/11/no-country-for-smart-girls-do-we-dumb-down-for-date/

 I was playing Scrabble with my mom and her new guy. Dude had been runnin his mouth for weeks talkin bout how his name is Paul but you can just call him Scrabble King *gags* and how we need to brush up on our game before we play him. So I mean, anyone who knows me knows ...I had to set the record straight. So he drew the closest letter to A (a friggin H) and got to go first and he made COAT on a double word score for a whopping 12 points. My mom made something for 13 points, and on my turn I make JOG with the J on a triple letter square for 27 points. Dude gives me this hella salty look like just because he thinks he's the shit means I can't show him up. I say, just as cool as you please, "I think I've made it clear that I don't like trash talkers." So the game goes on and in the end I blow him away, but he gets my mom by 10 points or something. Mommy makes him bow to me and call me Scrabble Queen *additional gagging* and he mumbles for the rest of the night about how he guesses it's okay for the Princeton mind to beat him, but at least Mommy didn't. And the next day, she was going off about how she's so mad we didn't both destroy him.

Now maybe I'm just unfamiliar with the flirting/dating ways of legitimate adults, but this does not seem like FRIENDLY competition to me. And dude needs a reality check if he thinks he can regularly take us.

Sigh, I was really hoping he'd be a legitimate opponent. But seriously, it's a game.

Dear ******, or Men Everywhere,

I love the way you hold me when you hug me, and appreciate that you hug me all the time. I appreciate the compliments you give me: I'll be calling myself a boss bitch for days, lol. But at this point, I have to let you know that I no longer appreciate this drunken cheek-kissing thing we have been doing recently. It was cute for a while, but now when it happens or even seems like it's going to happen, I want to scream (read: whisper sexily into your ear) If you're going to kiss me, do it right.

Love,

Maya