Showing posts with label 2nd 30 day letter challenge. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2nd 30 day letter challenge. Show all posts

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

And he was calling US brainwashed?!?

I have yet to mention Herman Cain during this entire election season. Most of the times that I am made aware of something he has said/done, I sigh, roll my eyes, wonder how any self-respecting Black people are Republicans, but generally keep it moving. Most of the time, his assorted statements of ignorance aren't worth me getting all riled up about. 

Today is NOT one of those times. 

Let me begin by saying that I'm not fundamentally at odds with the goals of like, various iterations of the racial uplift movement. I am right alongside Tupac when he says, "We need to change the way we eat. We need to change the way we live. We need to change the way we treat each other." We as individuals and collectively as a people need to take responsibility for our actions and lead our lives in ways such that the flipside of success is not death or jail. We need to create families that work (regardless of whether they resemble the nuclear family), we need to stay in school, we need to pull our fucking pants up. (That last one is just a pet peeve of mine.) We need to understand how to generate wealth and capital rather than just income. BUT all of that is just part of what needs to be done; we also need the various government institutions we interact with on a regular basis to stop being inherently over-suspicious of us, we need due process under the law, we need school systems to not give up on us before we can not give up on them. I'm not asking for anything special, but the whole damn game needs to be changed before we can say it's fair.

Anyway. Back to Cain. This man tried to use the old tired claim that because he knows individual Black persons who have risen to the top of whatever field and blah-de-blah-blah, racism doesn't hold people back. He tried to say we don't actually want to succeed. 
“I have seen blacks in middle management move up to top management in some of the biggest corporations in America,” the candidate explained. “They weren’t held back because of racism. No, people sometimes hold themselves back because they want to use racism as excuse for them not being able to achieve what they want to achieve.” 
And you know, if that was all he'd said, I wouldn't be writing this right now. There are a lot of people who just skim the surface of race/class-based societal issues like this and see culture as a viable excuse. I pity them for their disregard for the institutionalized history of either accumulation or dispossession on the part of members of certain groups, as well as for the way they can totally ignore the distribution of social, cultural, and material assets, and I pity the larger population for being under their influence. I can't even entirely fault them for their ignorance, because in this country we aren't taught to look deeper. 

But that's not all he said. No, this might-as-well-be-named-Uncle-Tom Negro brought himself on CNN, opened his mouth, and said,

"I don't believe there is racism in this country today that holds anybody back in a big way."
*cue record scratch*

Sir. SIR. Pause. Rewind. Let me make sure I understand the words that just came out of your mouth. In the face of unequal drug sentencing mandates, 46% of Black males between the ages of 16 and 35 being unemployed, more Black men in jail than in college, reputable sociological documentation that it is easier for an ex-felon White man to get a job than a Black man with no record (see Devah Pager's Marked), the fact that Black men still earn only about 70 cents on the White man's dollar, that hate crimes are happening all over the country, that the newest wave of feminism has called women the "niggers of the world" during Slutwalks, that race is still directly linked to poverty, that studies confirm that having an ethnic name or "sounding ethnic" makes one less hireable, that even at schools like Princeton, Blacks are more likely to take time off than members of any other racial category, that the housing crisis has affected Blacks disproportionately, that there are still places in this country where the color of my skin alone makes me feel unsafe...do I need to continue? We could do this all day. 

Post-racialism is a concept I'm uncomfortable with in all but its tamest forms. Post-racism, you've got to be fucking kidding me. This is America. We were FOUNDED on racism. It didn't magically just disappear because a disproportionately low percentage of Black people have beaten the odds. It's systematic. It's ingrained. We've been working on changing things since the Abolitionist movement, and I'll be damned if fool statements like this are going to lead people to believe we can stop now.

Monday, July 18, 2011

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge: Day 30--Letter to a Place that Feels Like Home

Dear Princeton University,

I suppose the easiest way for me to say this is that nowhere (with the possible exception of P's house the summer after my sophomore year of high school) has ever felt like home to me the way you do. Professor Glaude, who I have never actually had a conversation with but feel close to thanks to AG, stresses the importance of being able to feel ownership over you, and unlike many of my peers, I have never struggled with this. I never mumble that I go to "a small private school in Jersey" when asked what college I attend; I speak your name proudly. Less two brief academic freakouts during Freshman Year, I have never felt like I don't belong with you or like I'm not enough for you. Less one incident involving a bunch of students from other institutions and a bunch of anonymous comments on the Prince's website and one precept full of jocks, I have never felt anything but accepted by you and all your various representatives, even if I'm not what they expect when we first meet. 
I love my friends from my life before/outside of Princeton, and many of them will be integral parts of my person til I am dead and buried, but sometimes I feel like you have given me people who get me in a way no one else ever has. With you, I can get closer to a person in 2 months than I did in 14 years of living in Mays Landing. No matter the season, turning onto Washington Road from Route 1 and driving through the trees that line the road makes me feel like all is right with the world. You are beautiful in both the exquisite, ornate, timeless sense, and the modern state-of-the-art setting-the-pace-for-the-rest-of-the-world sense. You've taught me so much about myself. I've tried being various people here, as I settle into who I actually am, but I rarely if ever feel like I have to try to be anyone but me. I can be unabashedly nerdy. I can also be more ethnic than I had ever been previously, and get in touch with an urban side I'd never had before. I don't feel like a walking contradiction when I'm with you. I don't feel weird.
I've been told that I glow when I'm talking about you. My first words whenever anyone asks are invariably I absolutely love [you], and it is the truest of truths. I'm not going to lie: you are undoubtedly the hardest thing I have ever done, though probably not the hardest thing I will ever do, and you are worth every minute of it, even the bleakest. You are my life. There is no way for me to convey to you how validated you made me feel. There is no way for me to tell you about the panic attacks I had for months during the spring of my Senior year in high school as I felt like an idiot for not having applied to any safety schools that wouldn't have been painful to attend, and no way for me to explain that on that fateful first day of April, 2008, I sobbed with something greater than joy sitting in the computer chair in my mom's office after reading the word Congratulations, feeling as though everything I had endured in my life had combined with a hell of a lot of luck to get me to that exact moment. I don't know how to say thank you in a way that even approaches appropriate, besides the facts that I will a) donate to you in increasingly large amounts [maybe not an incredibly noticeable increase every year, but an increase] every year from 2012 until I am dead and buried, b) be fully decked out in my orange and black at reunions every year from 2012 until I am dead and buried, and c) providing that I don't have any children, you will be the greatest recipient in my will. Any conference, event, anything you might want/need my presence for, I am yours. And even all of that isn't nearly enough, but reciprocity is impossible in this circumstance. You're in the process of giving me an entirely new world, more than anyone in my entire family could ever have dreamed.
I know that when I walk out of the Fitz-Randolph gates on June 5th, I won't be leaving you forever. Like the director of the Honors Program at Columbia told me on my visit, I am a Tiger. Now and tomorrow and for the rest of my life. I still don't know how I'll manage it without breaking down, though. I'll never be without you and your resources, I know, but I still can't imagine life without you surrounding me. With centuries' worth of alumni, though, I guess you'll always be surrounding me...

May the rest of our life together be as glorious as these past three-and-counting years have been,

Maya 

Friday, July 15, 2011

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge: Day 29--Letter to a Mythical Creature

Dear Kendra,

[Readers, before you go scouring the interwebz on a quest to find this Kendra of which I speak, relax. She doesn't exist on the internet. She exists only in the minds of me, S, and our other friend whom neither of us really speaks to anymore, M*****. She was a character in a book S and I spent most of 8th grade coming up with the storyline for.] 

You were just a baby. The daughter of a mermaid and a sorcerer, you had powers the likes of which your world had never seen. A blank slate, you weren't inherently good or evil; you would end the battle once and for all, but whose side you were on depended on how you were raised. And so, under the cover of night, evil stole you from good's protected castle and whisked you away to a fortress dug deep inside a mountain in a long-forgotten range. A team of students was assembled to rescue you. They never made it. 
I loved you so much. You and everything you stood for. Looking back now at how obsessed we were with you, your protectors/defenders, and the forces of evil who held you captive, I have to laugh. But it was all so real then. Your entire world was the greatest figment my imagination will ever know. Your parents' parents, we were the masterminds behind both the plot to steal you and the quest to get you back. We made every minor success and major pitfall along the way. The unexpected detours that threatened to be your would-be saviors' undoing were our doing. We spent hours on the phone and in the library with this every day, planning the most minute of details. Children in our world, we were the ultimate masters in yours. If the guy who wrote Eragon could do it when he was a young teenager, why couldn't we? [Oh how I miss the days when 'Why not?' was reason enough to do something. Though I suppose there's no reason it can't still be.]
Your story never ended though. Sometime around the beginning of high school I simply lost interest. I looked at the unfinished 68 page outline [yes we were that serious] and couldn't believe how naive we were. I had this cold hard world moment where I didn't think anyone else would ever take us or our story seriously and I gave up on you. And I hated myself for it, so I tried to make up some ridiculous story about how writing the outline was boring me and I wanted to spend some time writing actual chapters, but no matter how hard I tried to dedicate myself, I couldn't give you the attention and love and respect you deserved. I just wasn't into it anymore. Maybe it stemmed from not being as close to S once I wasn't seeing him every day, maybe my life just got in the way, maybe I just grew up...I told him I didn't like what I was writing and that I needed to pick up some better writing skills before I could keep going. That I was going to develop them in the Creative Writing class I was going to take sophomore year and then I would start back up again. I took the class...but I never started up again.
I lost all interest in fantasy [at least, the magic and dragons and quests kind of fantasy] at the same time that I gave up on you. I couldn't bring myself to have anything to do with the genre. I don't know which loss of feeling came first. It was so bad that I could barely even finish the last Harry Potter book--I had to know what happened, but I wanted nothing to do with wands and wizardry anymore. I couldn't. I don't know why, but I just couldn't. I couldn't take it seriously anymore.
I'm sorry. I wish I had done better by you. And now you're gone, extant only in our memories, because my mom threw away the computer everything that related to you was stored on without asking me if there was anything I needed on it. I just came back from Princeton one break and it was gone. You were gone. So I'm sorry I couldn't do right by you. And S, I'm sorry I couldn't tell you the truth. I couldn't explain it then, and I still can't. Something in me disappeared and took you with it, Kendra. That's all I can say.

Maya 

Thursday, July 14, 2011

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge: Day 28--Letter to Someone You Did Something Crazy With

Dear M**,

I'm pretty sure most people, or at least most of the kinds of people I know and am close to, would describe what we did one evening after dinner in my dorm room last semester with only my makeup mirror on as mood lighting as pretty damn crazy. Most of the friends I've told judged me. If my parents ever saw the evidence, they'd kill me. I never actually got the reaction of the person I ostensibly did it for, but I'll bet he was rather surprised. Hell, I was rather surprised when I emailed you to say I'd do it. 
It was just a favor for a friend, in theory, and I had no obligation to volunteer, but no matter how many times I saved the email as a draft instead of sending it, I just couldn't resist. It seemed so naughty, so taboo, so downright wicked. It seemed like something past versions of me would never have done and that just made me want to do it more. This was a private act of rebellion: I waged war against timidity, a war in miniature, behind locked doors (you checked). It was an awkward cross-campus walk, as you asked whether I had any props and we discussed who'd get to see the results. You are officially the only person I've ever let browse through my underwear drawer. It felt silly, considering what we were about to do, but I turned my back to you to strip. With my back arched and my hands undoing clasps came the first click.
It was easy to take your directions and to offer suggestions. Like this? No, like that. It was easy to stop caring about trying to suck my stomach in or whether I looked good from that angle. It stopped feeling scandalous almost immediately. It stopped feeling wrong. All I needed to be was me. All I was doing was being me, being me in front of you. Talk about losing inhibitions... Subject rather than object of affection or desire, more than skin and scars and flab, I was art. Little old me! Now that's crazy...and it's a feeling I haven't let go of since.  I have the evidence in a box in my closet, and though I haven't seen all of it in all its glory, I can already tell these are some of the best of me.

So thank you for letting me get a little crazy,

Maya

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge--Day 27: Letter to Someone Who Taught You Something New


Dear KO,
The breadth of this topic means I could have written to lots of people, but it just feels most accurate to write to you because of how much you've taught me since February. I recently read somewhere on the interwebz the line, "I don't want to come out of a relationship feeling like I haven't changed much," and regardless of the misalignment between the levels of seriousness with which each of us regarded this, I've certainly changed a lot. Maybe I'll expand this to include things I learned about myself via being with you, which may not be the exact same thing as you teaching me, but oh well.
I learned that if grown-ass-woman-Maya wanted someone badly enough, I could take action steps to get from Point A to Point B with said person; I hadn't been brave enough to do that since I was little just-barely-a-teenager-Maya. You taught me what it feels like to be swept off my feet. You reintroduced me to anticipation and infatuation, 12-year-old schoolgirl style: will I see him today? Is he gonna text me? What will he say? I learned to prioritize something that was bigger than just me, even if my friends thought I was crazy. I learned to dismiss my friends' opinions/advice, which I hope I have unlearned just as quickly. 
I learned a new level of happiness, a level that evidently constantly showed on my face and got commented on all the time. You helped me see that striving for independence doesn't mean I can't ask for help in moments of need. You taught me that my ex (before you) may have been right on two counts: 1) that I just might have been a nympho waiting to happen, and 2) that the best thing two people can do in bed is to wake up together. You taught me the bliss that comes from waking up happy with the arm of a man I adore slung around my ribcage in casual protection, and that there are better reasons than schoolwork to only get three hours of sleep. There were more tangible things: you taught me how to two-step, that Campus Club sells $2 milkshakes, and that the ears are a very erogenous zone (among various other lessons in physics and anatomy that we learned together). I learned new levels of physical comfort, both with myself and with another person. I learned how to stretch the tiniest events as far as they could go, a whole new version of time management.
You taught me that I was wrong about myself in so many ways: I'd always abhorred cutesy, gagged at over-the-top romance. I always told myself I never wanted anything like that, but from the moment you gave it to me, I reveled in it. You taught me that, against everything I'd ever believed, in my heart of hearts all I want is a routine of togetherness, regularly shared meals and molding myself to fit into someone else's shape night after night. I know now that you never meant to, but you taught me how to dive into love: to weigh the options upon the shore and make the conscious decision to Get. In. The. Water! [Notebook reference]. Even if the two-way street was only a very well-put-together mirage, you taught me how it feels to be in love. With you, I learned to abandon all but my most important reservation: reservedness about my reservations; I'm working on it in your absence. I wish I had learned how to tell you when I was worried; instead, I learned to put my worries on the back burner and live half in the moment and half in a larger picture my silly little heart had concocted. I learned to be carefree in a glorious but potentially dangerous way. I learned trust and security at deeper levels than ever before, in the I wanted to put all of me in a box with a bow on it and give it to you and say This is yours now, take care of it, and I remembered again what it was to want to share myself with someone completely. 
I have since learned the true value of honesty, the sting of hypocrisy, and what exactly constitutes a lie. I have learned to be more open in my questioning. I have learned that a person's intentions have no true bearing on the effects of their actions on others, and am in the process of learning which component (the intentions or the effects) hold more weight in the course of this life we live, which I should value more. I have relearned the weight of shattered expectations, along with how to hurt, how to feel like I've been fooled, how to be furious, how to doubt, how to blame, and how to over-analyze (though I'm sure I never forgot that last one).
Most recently, I am learning to enjoy the memories of the past for what they were when they were, and to not try to tear them apart by applying later feelings. I am learning to stomp out dread with determination. I am learning to reprioritize myself. I am learning to forgive. 
It seems only appropriate to end with my our girl India:

"I'm only human
Let's shake free this gravity of resentment
And fly high, and fly high
You're only human
Let's shake free this gravity of judgment
And fly high on the wings of forgiveness

I've searched for romance
Flowers and affection
What I found is a lesson
Of what love really is
Found the game of love is
Not about how much you can take
In fact authentic love is about
How much you can give
...
And I wanna let you know how much you changed my life
I wanna let you know you taught me how to fly
And I wrote this song to tell you this
I'm better cuz you taught me how to give
"
--India.Arie, "Wings of Forgiveness" 
Maya

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge--Day 26: Letter to Your Bed

Dear Beds,

As part and parcel of the fact that my life is broken into various pieces in various places and none of them feel very permanent anymore, I have three of you, and will address you each separately.

Bed in Mays Landing, we've reached a stage where you don't really even feel mine anymore. I'm just as comfortable sleeping on a couch in the living room as I am in you--the room you're in is A's now, not mine or even ours. Despite the fact that you're covered in my pillows with my teddy bears, I feel like a guest in you. [I sometimes feel like a guest in that whole house; a crazy feeling considering it's the best candidate for the title of house I grew up in.] As far as beds go, you've led a pretty dull life: you have had exactly 1 minor two-person adventure, one night when I was 18, my family was gone, and I was feeling brave. Now you're rarely even slept in. Someday in the not-too-distant-future you may officially become a guest bed in a house that almost never has guests, unless I steal you to come live with me and be mine again when I need to have a real place of my own. We'll see. Maybe you'll get to lead an exciting life yet. 
Bed in New Brunswick, you don't actually belong to me, but rather to the girl I'm subletting from, so I can't speak to your history of adventures (though we've had some fun times on our own ;) ). Your frame is too big. You aren't spectacular in any way, but you get the job done and I'm grateful to have been temporarily given you. You are very uncluttered, and our first few nights together being all alone in you was driving me crazy. [It still is to an extent, but I'm trying to pretend it's not.] I guess our time together is about halfway over (hmm, I should change your sheets), and during this first half I have given you a lot of sadness, and for that I apologize. The rest of our relationship should be comfortably neutral.
Bed in Edwards Hall, you are the only of these three beds I have ever made impeccably; a place that required invitation, you needed to be presentable. You're one of the things I worry about when I get into dreading September mode. [I've never dreaded school starting in my entire life. This feels weird.] This will be my last Princeton move-in day; part of me wants it to never come so that my last Princeton move-out day doesn't have to come either. One of the reasons I chose to stay in the same room next year as I lived in this past year was to help me deny the fact that time is passing and effectively running out. It was a strategy to pretend that nothing had to change. But now...sooooooo many things happened in that room, and you supported adventures on the regular. Adventures and sweet whispers that I am torn between remembering fondly and cringing at the thought of. You're a crime scene I'll have to return to every day for months and months, and I'm scared that getting back into you will make me relapse. I'm terrified of places like you--things that felt like home that might now become thoroughly uncomfortable, possibly even unsettling. How can I lay in you without thinking about all the history?
 "Every day begins with an act of courage and hope: getting out of bed." --Mason Cooley

-Maya

Monday, July 11, 2011

2nd 30 day Letter Challenge--Day 25: Letter to the Last Person You Took a Picture with

Dear K,

Grrrr...I find it very unfortunate when in the course of these challenges I have to write to the same person twice. I briefly pondered who I could see in the course of the day and take a picture with so that I could write to someone else, but the only really viable options were E and T and I've written to both of them already too. So, as we took a small break from the course of E's party because we "needed new profile pictures," this letter is also to you.  Actually, even if I hadn't snapped that pic, this letter would still be to you from when we saw Erykah Badu, haha.


In the week and a half since I last wrote to you, we have partied (not unusual) and we have been shopping twice. I'm glad this has finally happened--we've been talking about shopping forever. You're a good shopping buddy: not above giving me opinions on things, willing to try on lots of hats and debate how they make us look, and evidently you're the only one of my friends who has the good sense to tell me not to buy a shirt just because it's kind of cute and ONLY SIX DOLLARS. [Yo, I still kind of want that shirt though. It was SIX DOLLARS.] Shopping with you tends to bring up questions about changing styles and like, whether the way each of us dresses fits our personalities; this could be me but is this me? It's fun and makes shopping like, more intellectual or artistic or something. It's cool.  You make me think about shopping for the future, as opposed to shopping for the now, which has led to all sorts of wonderful wonderments about how Professor Maya Reid will dress.
KO said you sound like a good guy for me to have around. I think he meant in terms of the fact that you seem to give good advice and be entirely correct about the circumstances of my life when I can't see them, much like T. I learn a lot from you. And who knows, maybe the quickness with which you went from semi-random acquaintance to one of the first people I turn to when something goes wrong is just yet another example of my tendency to care too much about everything too fast, but too bad. I like it. You're semi-stuck with me now.  :P


:D,


Maya


PS--We're supposed to watch American History X sometime. I thought about that when I woke up in the TV room on Saturday. Let's make it happen.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge--Day 24: Letter to Your Favorite Character from a Childhood Cartoon

Dear Chuckie Finster,

You were such a little nerd baby, with your chunky glasses and wild unruly ginger hair. As much as I wanted to identify with brave adventurer/explorer Tommy, I was always hiding behind my hands every time you were. You made me feel like being a little worrywart child was okay. And you hated clowns as much as I do. You were really close to your daddy, just like me, and you had asthma too. You were always getting into trouble for things that weren't your fault, just like me. I wanted to punch Angelica in the face on your behalf multiple times. I remember being kind of jealous when you got a sister. I was glad you weren't going to be lonely anymore, because I'd always thought you were kind of a lonely melancholy child like me, but somebody else got to spend all her time with you. All in all, even though you were always two as I got older and older, I always wanted to be your friend.

In fact, I've come to realize that my imaginary friend when I was 7 was based largely on you. His name was Melvin. He had orange hair and wore a purple shirt and dark green pants. He was older than me, maybe 12 or so, and he wasn't a wild adventurer either, but he looked out for me just like you looked out for Tommy and the twins.
Further confessions: I was even a little jealous of Samantha in All Grown Up! You hadn't changed at all and being my age-ish finally, I still thought you were absolutely adorable...but now in the if you were a real person I just might eat you up kind of way.

;),

Maya

Saturday, July 9, 2011

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge: Day 23--Letter to a Part of Your Body

Dear Fro,


It's hard for me to find an appropriate word for how very pleased I am that you have come to be representative of me as an individual. It's always so funny when someone who didn't know me way back when catches a glimpse of my ID or browses through my older profile pictures and realizes that I once used to straighten my hair every single day. Sometimes multiple times a day. It was like a religious calling. 

We've been through a lot together, hair: relaxers from small childhood through middle school, which I thank you immeasurably for being stronger than and never totally losing your thick kinky curls, no matter how hard my mother and I and once even a real hairdresser tried--we always had to use heat too on a regular basis; then the less-damaging but still unfair to you daily process of heat damage from flat-irons, with a twice-a-week-ish addition of a hot comb; and I didn't even learn that I had also been damaging you with unnatural chemicals included in the products I'd been using until after I decided to go and STAY natural. 

I want to formally apologize that it took me so long to accept you as you are. I had never really kept you how you're meant to be for long enough to get to know you; you were an unfortunate byproduct of swimming or unexpected rain, and non-black people were always fascinated by you. I was always annoyed at the prospect of having to spend hours under heat and some pain to fix you: from the bottom of my very soul, I am sorry for ever thinking you needed to be fixed. I talked yesterday about my mother's strictness regarding personal appearance--she relaxed you as early as she could, and I had never known my hair as anything but straight. Even when I learned how bad relaxers were and wanted to stop, I continued straightening you because I didn't know how to do anything else--it was the way it had always been, so I let it continue. It wasn't until I came to Princeton and you were accidentally introduced to my friends here one day after a wash that I realized I was allowed to love you. You didn't have to be hidden away, you didn't have to be changed. 

And we've been through even more since then: while your gorgeous texture means going natural wasn't as much of a struggle for me as it is for some women, I still had no idea what to do with you. I still didn't know what products to use or how to deal with the knots and the tangles. You didn't always look the same from day to day in the beginning. I went into the decision to stay natural with a brave face, but I can tell you now that I was a little afraid of you. But now we've been together for a year and a half, and I don't plan on ever letting you go. I know you so much better now. I know what you like and what you don't like, though I'm always still experimenting to find you new treats. I detangle you regularly with no problems. I have learned to style you in more ways than just your natural fro without losing any of your volume or curl pattern. I have bought you accessories and shiny toys that get constant compliments. I can't keep my hands out of you, and I welcome the touch of anyone close to me. 

You are a wild thing with a gentle nature, and damn anyone who wants me to tame you. You are free spirit and spontaneity and a manifestation of difference. You represent the strange mixture of all the things that I am. You are hundreds of tiny revolutions. You are beautiful and I don't give a fuck what science says, you are strong. You are soft and spongy and luscious and thick and kinky and twisted and MINE. The first thing my dad said when I sent him a picture of you was that I looked more like myself than I ever had; it's the same idea that my friends are getting at when they try to understand how straight hair was ever me. It wasn't. You are me and I'm sorry India, but I am you. You're it for me, you know. I pledge my honor that I will love and respect and care for you for the rest of our natural life.

I cherish you,

Maya


^I have a t-shirt with her on it

Friday, July 8, 2011

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge: Day 22--Letter to a Feeling You Wish You Didn't Feel

Dear
Also reblogged from my friend L


I'm not suffering from you right now, but you come in and out of my life so regularly that as soon as I saw L's post, I knew today's letter had to be to you, because you are never a welcome presence in my life. It comforts me only slightly that I understand exactly where you come from:

Back when Amy Chau's memoir was released, lots of my Asian and non-Asian friends started joking around about whether their parents were Tigers (and not in the legacy-student sense of the word). These students, who for the most part play instruments, got amazing grades throughout their primary and secondary educations, and now go to one of the top universities in the world found it easy to joke about the effectiveness or benefits of Tiger-Motherhood, regardless of whether their own parents had been Tigers. My own mother was only a Tiger certain ways--appearances were everything, and one's hair had to be straight, neatly arranged, and one's clothes had to be ironed if one were going to go anywhere with her--most notoriously in terms of her standards for my academic success; I had to beg and plead for extra-curricular development, rather than be forced to practice my instrument for hours on end. All that open communication and "talking" rather than authoritative discipline that Annette Laureau talks about with wealthy parents' style of raising their children...yeah you can tell we were poor, because her word was law and the only appropriate response was "Yes ma'am Mom".  Praise was not common in my house--in my ex-stepfather's words: "Why should I reward you for acting like you're supposed to?"

Straight A's were mandatory in my household for me according to my mother's rules from the very beginning. I didn't really even have to work at this until sixth grade math; Mrs. Franks hated us and constantly reminded us that we were idiots in comparison to the accelerated math class from the year before (don'tcha just love people who shouldn't be around children in their formative years and choose to become teachers?). I came home with my first ever B, and my mother was furious. I tried to explain that the class was hard, and I couldn't be perfect, and my then-stepfather beat me mercilessly. Buckle end of the belt. My failure (because anything less than perfection was failure) was unacceptable and would not be tolerated in this house. I would be perfect, or I would be punished. End of story.

When my mother and the abusive asshole finally separated for the last time, when I was in the 7th grade, I thought the worst of it was over. I was taller than my mom by that age, and though I had no doubt she could still beat me, I doubted that she would. And I was right: psychological torture was her weapon of choice.

Example A) My school district sent home interim report cards about halfway through each marking period, designed to let you and your parents know how you were doing in your classes so that improvements could be made if necessary before final grades came out. In the second marking period of the year when I was in 7th grade, my interim report card came home showing that I had a B in Art, with As in all my other classes. The comments said that I had incomplete work, which was not untrue--we had been working on an Indian-henna-practices-inspired scratch art piece, and in the vein of true Indian henna, my work was ornate and complex. It took considerably more time than my classmates' flowers and simple patterns, and I wasn't done yet, but wasn't going to compromise my project to finish on time; you can't rush art. [The piece later went on to be featured in the County Art Fair #I'mjustsayin] This explanation didn't come close to being acceptable to my mother though; she grounded me, said I was not going to perform in the band's Winter Concert which I had a 12-measure solo in, and took away my TV, computer privileges, books, and library card. I had to go in to school the next day and explain this to my band director, while I was sobbing and so ashamed that I couldn't look him in the eye. He told me he'd suspected things were bad at home, but never anything like this. He took it upon himself to speak with my art teacher, who reluctantly allowed me to take home the tools I needed to finish my project and then wrote a note to my mother saying that my grade was an A, which my mother reluctantly accepted and let me be in the concert.

Example B: 8th grade. My school had become so overcrowded that some genius (read: idiot) administrator decided to implement a one-way-hallway policy designed to facilitate faster commutes from one classroom to another between bells. Students caught going the wrong way in a one-way hallway were subject to detention. One day, I left my sneakers in the locker room after gym. I realized this as I was halfway down the one-way hallway on my way to Health class, and tried to turn around and go back, but a teacher yelled at me. I told him what had happened and he said to go to class and ask my Health teacher for a pass to go to the gym. I went to class and the Health teacher said I had to wait to the end of the period, and then he would write me a pass explaining why I would be late to my next class. Needless to say, by the end of that period, my sneakers were nowhere to be found. I went home and explained what had happened to my mother, and said I needed new sneakers--I'd only owned one pair. She told me I should have been more responsible, and that she wasn't going to buy me new sneakers. So, every day for the rest of the marking period, I was unprepared for gym class. I tried to participate when I could, but usually my teacher made me sit on the bleachers because I didn't have the right shoes. And come the end of the marking period, I got a C in gym, with the comments stating that I was unprepared. My mother screams at me for hours, grounds me for the entire next marking period (about 10 weeks), again stripping my room of everything but a bed and a dresser and taking away my computer and library privileges. I wasn't allowed to celebrate my 14th birthday--no cake, no party, no gifts. But at least she bought me a goddamn pair of sneakers.

Example C) Freshman year of high school, Geometry. Barely squeaked by with a 91, the lowest grade in the A-range. She told me it was unacceptable. Confused, I said, "But mom, it's an A. Look at the scale!" She said it wasn't a high enough A.

Example D) My senior year of high school, once I was already accepted to Princeton and had decided the rest of my high school career was meaningless, I wasn't doing too well in AP Calc II. I may have had a C at the interim-reporting time. My friends lamented having gotten their interims, and I was legitimately afraid to go home because I didn't know what my mother would do to me. I'd never had that kind of grade in an academic class before. I rummaged around the house until I found a spare mailbox key, prayed to a God I didn't believe in, and thanked my lucky stars when I found that she hadn't checked the mail the day before because my interim was still in the box. I very sneakily removed it, left everything else undisturbed, and destroyed all evidence of its existence. She never asked about it. I'll never tell.

One of the reasons Remember the Titans is one of my favorite movies (besides Denzel) is that the team overcomes every possible obstacle to actually achieve the supposed-to-be-impossible requirement of perfection. They gave me hope that even in the darkest moments, even when I was damned if I did and damned if I didn't, even when I wanted to run away or give in to her threats to send me to live with my father, I could take it. WILL. YOU. EVER. QUIT????? NO. WE WANT SOME MORE. WE WANT SOME MORE. WE WANT SOME MORE!!!!!! It was probably somewhere around this time of my life that I silently declared war against my mother. The time for trying to reason with her had long since passed, so I put my game face on and said Bring it, bitch. Every impossible standard she threw at me, I worked my ass off to reach. It damn near killed me, but I did it. I shattered everyone's expectations...even her own, I think. I hated her for it, every day for so many years of my life I hated her for it...but look where it got me. I can't say it didn't work.

And now, as I keep saying, I am a grown-ass woman. My mother no longer has that kind of control over me--I made sure of this as I worked to change the tone of our relationship once I went to college. She tried to give me shit about having a B in Spanish my first semester, and I made it clear that I wasn't having it. I guess having an above-average GPA at the (then-) number one institution in the country was enough for her, because the battles ceased. 

At least, the ones with her did. The problem with being exposed to something so regularly for such a prolonged period of time, however, is that you unconsciously begin to internalize it. I have different standards than those she demanded that I meet, but I still hold myself to them as rigorously as she made me. I am still disappointed by B+s. I still over-involve myself and then drive myself damn-near-crazy trying to give my all to every single commitment I have. I still can't do anything halfway. I still can't leave my room/house for the day without checking the mirror. I don't like to call myself a control freak, but I panic when something happens in my life that I have no power over. Every time I stumble or misstep walking down this crazy path called life, I become an emotional wreck. My tiniest mistakes are blown into epic proportions in my head, and instead of looking at an obstacle and instantly thinking up ways to turn it into a stepping stone, I sit and cry and feel like my entire world has come crashing down around me. Every time something goes wrong, even something that I had no control over, you completely overtake me and leave me a crumbled tear-stained mess on a floor or in my bed. I always fall back on you, instantly looking for ways to blame myself, always wondering what's wrong with me that caused this to happen. A mistake temporarily ends me. It's so easy for me to ignore all my accomplishments and feel like a total and complete failure when something goes wrong, because though I'm now sure she didn't mean to, she made me feel like a collection of mistakes, rather than a human being who is allowed to err. I don't know how to limit myself, which is as much of a curse as it is a blessing. I cannot wage war against myself as I waged war against my mother, because my goal is to love me in every way that I can. That means getting her, and the way she presumably DOESN'T EVEN FEEL ANYMORE (and probably never felt), out of my head. 

These are self-affirmations:

I am allowed to make mistakes. I cannot learn without them. The world will not end if I have to backtrack a little bit. Not every misstep is a failure. The sun will rise even if I don't have a small success to offer it. The pinnacle of perfection is simply being myself. That is the only end-goal I need.

Take your ass on home, atelophobia. You are not welcome here.

Respectfully not yours,

Maya       

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge: Day 21--Letter to Something/Someone You've Outgrown

Dear Unwillingness-to-talk-to-my-father-about-anything-remotely-personal,

I'm surprised by how excited I am that I've gotten past you. This didn't happen through the normal outgrowth process of making a conscious decision to change something I don't like about my life, working diligently, getting frustrated that I'm not seeing progress, calming myself down and saying I think I can, I think I can until it was done. I don't know if I even realized I wanted to until by world was so thoroughly turned upside down that it just...happened. He called me that night, approximately 12 hours after it had all gone down, as I was leaving K's courtyard, and after initial consoling I-just-wish-bad-things-never-had-to-happen-to-you-because-you're-such-a-good-person and other protective Daddy-type things, he asked me if I wanted to talk about it. And I hesitated, but then said okay, and was taken a little aback by my own answer. I could tell he was started too. But then we...talked.
My dad and I have an...interesting relationship. We haven't lived under the same roof since I was an infant, and until I was 9 years old we saw each other once a week (sometimes twice if I was lucky). When my family moved from Mays Landing to Pleasantville for a year, he even moved to Pleasantville too, so as to not be too far from me. He was my reprieve from a far-too-troubled-for-any-9-year-old-to-have-to-deal-with life at home, my Superman, and my very best friend. And then he up and moved to Detroit after the Sands casino closed, and I felt so very alone in the world. For the first few years, I tried really hard to make it work. We talked on the phone every couple days, and I was really diligent about trying to fill him in on every little detail of my life. And then we had what I guess can be called our first falling out the week of my thirteenth birthday; he was supposed to fly back to New Jersey to visit me, the first time he'd have been home since he moved, but then his stupid girlfriend broke her stupid ankle and he stayed to take care of her. I resented him for it, and hated her. And I made the decision then to start weaning him from the intimate details of my life...I had a phone-Daddy, not a real live father who deserved that kind of information. Then my mother had the brilliant idea of sending me to spend 8 weeks with my father the summer before my freshman year of high school. He suddenly tried to start being my parent, rather than my buddy, and let's just say rebellious teenager Maya wasn't having it. We got into a huge fight and didn't speak for the last week and a half of my stay with him...or for about 4 months later. Afterwards, I became polite and cordial and called him approximately once a week out of a sense of duty. We finally talked about all of this sometime during my sophomore year of college, and he asked how he could fix things. I was...skeptical that things could be fixed.
But then they magically just, were. I didn't tell him everything, but I opened up to him more than I have in the past decade. I spoke to him freely about my life and who said what when and why it mattered. I explained to him why I felt so wronged--he had trouble understanding why it was such a big deal...men, lol. He listened to me when I was angry and he listened to me when I was sad and he was just there for me, saying encouraging things. He even offered to fly me down to visit him in Florida for a few days if I needed to get away from Princeton and "the memories". I felt like a little girl with a Daddy again...or maybe finally like a grown woman with a father she can rely on. Either way, it was a wonderful feeling. Especially when my mom wouldn't talk about it. He said on his mind all day while he was at work was me, and how I was holding up at work, and how I was going to get through this. He was so concerned about me. He loves me so much; I don't know how I ever forgot that. 
So good riddance, unwillingness. I'm glad you're gone. I can't believe I let you stay in my life for as long as I did. My dad deserves better than you. He deserves me. 


Maya

PS: I complained to some friends last week about how the ability of a person to come into your life, turn it upside down, and then leave and turn it upside down again without everything falling back into its original place was one of life's biggest injustices. But now I see that there is some beauty in this. Sometimes you have to be forced into changing the things that deserve changing the most. 

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge: Day 20--Letter to your Cell Phone

Dear Cell Phone,

Sometimes it shocks me to remember that I was alive during a time when your predecessors didn't exist yet...or at least not for the general public. I remember wanting to contact my mom when I was a little kid, but she had left the house and there was NO TELLING WHEN I WOULD BE ABLE TO REACH HER. I was a very easily-worried child, and I remember that I would start like, having small panic attacks because she said she'd be home by 9 and it was 9:17 and WHAT IF SHE WAS LAYING IN A DITCH ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD SOMEWHERE?!?!
And then devices like you were born. I earned my first one, not by beating out R for the number one spot in our high school class like my mother wanted me to, but by scaring my whole family to death by getting trapped in an elevator in Maryland alone while trying to meet my sister. But anyway, this letter is supposed to be to you specifically, not just your ancestors and extended family members. 
You are a blue Panetch Impact. Our relationship started in mid-March, as I finally stepped into the 21st century and upgraded to a phone with a keyboard and some touchscreen features. My old one didn't flip, slide, or even have a camera. (I do have to admit, though, it held more than 10x as many text messages as you can. I miss that.) Generally, though it took me a little while to get used to you, I really like you and I'm glad we started this. You do what I ask of you with no complaints and sometimes even surprise me by taking really good pictures. Your calendar lets me be as detailed as my life demands. No data plan = I haven't really explored all your features (sorry...mom still pays for you, you know), but I still feel sleek and modern and cool with you. I'm not embarrassed when it's time to exchange numbers and I pull you out of my pocket.
My friends used to chastise me because I was prone to leaving my phone places for hours and not checking it, but that changed towards the end of my relationship with my ex-phone, because I didn't want to miss any of a certain someone's text messages. Though that's over, I think I'm holding onto the idea of never having you out of arm's reach, which is probably a good thing. At least without the capability to use the internet on you, I will not become one of those smart-phone-addicts. You're smart enough for me. ;) Although I am wondering if you'll hold more texts if I get you a MicroSD card...hmm...

Anyway, I hope we'll be together a good long while (but I got insurance on you just in case),

Maya   

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge: Day 19--Letter to Someone You Worry About

Dear T,

You've had some very cryptic blog posts recently, and they make me feel like there are things going on in your life that I either don't know about at all or don't know nearly enough about. I don't want you to think for a second that just because I'm drowning in my own drama right now, I don't have time for you or your problems, be they serious or not. You're still my bestie and it would probably do me some serious good to be able to prioritize anything other than my own pity-party right now. [Trying to prioritize my work is only half-working. I'll never really be a workaholic, I'm too much of a life-and-love-aholic, and I find it hard to be upset about that though it would be convenient right now...] If I know what's going on with you well enough to worry effectively, then maybe I'll wake up with anything but you-know-who on my brain every morning. [That's getting old and downright rude.] If nothing's going on and you're just being cryptic for the hell of it, that's fine too and I won't be worried...I guess right now the not knowing is what I'm worried about. I'm worried that I've become too tunnel-visioned and self-centered (and previously relationship-centered) to know what's happening in your life, which is obviously the opposite of cool.

Talk to me, betch. Let's remedy this issue. Preferably over daiquiris [I figured out what was wrong with my blender...operator error...]. 

<3,

Maya

Monday, July 4, 2011

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge--Day 18: Letter to a Disney Character

Dear Princesses/Heroines,

I have had bones to pick with you before about all the impossible notions of love you gave me and how angry I was at you because I would never find anything like that in the real world and you ruined the concept for me. You ran around all happy and free once you'd found your respective princes and made me feel like that level of carefreeness was unattainable. And then I found something that was a temporary real-life equivalent. Temporary being the key word there. And I've realized I have a whole new bone to pick with you: none of you ever taught me how to say that this attempt at finding love has failed and it is time to move on with my life.

Let me show you what I mean:

  • Ariel, I will start with you because you know you're my favorite. Your love interest was of a different species than you. I don't even want to think about how you were possibly sexually compatible. He also lived in a world you couldn't visit by being yourself, nor could you ever bring him down to dinner with your parents. Your father hated him. You had to sell your voice to a witch to get a doomed chance to be with him. He couldn't tell you were you without your voice--did you ever question what had he really fallen for? You watched him fall under a spell and almost marry someone else. 
  • Belle, you're up next in the bestiality theme. Your prince was actually a monster, and you fell for him anyway--though that might be better known as Stockholm Syndrome. You saw his true colors or some shit, Idk. He was really just a big fluffy ol' teddy bear. Whatever. He also held you prisoner and was entirely dependent upon you without showing any affection for a very long time, and I'm concerned by your lack of concern about any of this.
  • Sleeping Beauty, just...does the practically necrophilia not bother you at all?
  • Cinderella, you knew him for approximately an hour. Couldn't he have just been a great guy you met, someone to keep in mind for your next lifetime? How could you know he was worth leaving your [albeit terrible] family for? 
  • Nala, he abandoned you and everyone and everything you have ever known because a somewhat scary uncle yelled at him. He was selfish and cared only about himself for years. He didn't even want to help until a crazy monkey called on his dead father's spirit to shake some sense into him. And yet you still expected him to save you and married him and had a kid? Idk how those trust issues were ever ironed out.
  • Mulan, besides sheer sexiness and the ability to be a leader, the only thing your man has going for you is that he left you in the snow on the side of a mountain to die rather than killing you himself...after you saved his life in an act of pure recklessness that I cannot condone. Then, when you manage not only to save yourself, but to SAVE THE ENTIRE REPUBLIC OF CHINA, he tries to apologize for your actions to the emperor rather than let you accept your praise. And then when he shows up at your parents' house it's like none of that ever happened?
  • Jasmine, okay, so he saved you from having your hand chopped off in the marketplace and you guys had a moment in his hovel. Don't forget that he then thought you were too shallow to ever accept him for who he was so pretended to be a pompous asshole prince to win you like real love was supposed to be a game. He then inadvertently gives power to your father's evil vizier and nearly gets your entire city destroyed. Sure in an act of wit and deception he fixes it all in the end, but...who did he think you were and how did you let him get away with it?
  • Meg, your job was to find a way to kill him and instead you almost killed yourself for him. Some wires got crossed somewhere. And let's not forget that you sold your soul to Hades himself to get your first love out of some trouble and then he ran off with some bimbo.
  • Pocahontas, he came here ignorant as fuck and hell-bent on destroying your land and livelihood. So of course, the obvious thing to do is try to teach him what he doesn't know and then throw yourself onto the chopping block to stop your father from killing him.
 I think you get my point, ladies. I'm not so sure I should be jealous of these stories anymore. In fact, I think I'm a little worried about emotional abuse and post-traumatic stress disorder. It has been hard for me to admit, as I get older, that you all may not be a girl's best role model, especially once she has become a woman with grown-woman's shit to deal with. I want to know why none of you ever gave up. I feel like I'm supposed to think it's because you're strong women who know what they want, but I'm beginning to think you might have been scared. Or, to paraphrase Jessica Rabbit, you're just written that way. 
 I want to tell you something you may have never heard before, ladies...you deserve less damaging stories than that. It's not always meant to be. And I'm sorry it's too late for you to take this advice, but I can learn from it too, so here goes: don't be afraid to let a love go and try again with someone new and interesting when he comes along. Be free. Be a bad-ass independent woman. Find someone who can show you new worlds and make you feel like a Queen and give you heartfelt gifts and maybe even take a crazy risk or two for you, yes, but also find someone you can be real with and who is real with you. Someone who doesn't need changing or require that you give up some great part of yourself. Find a story that is comfortable and easy and won't make anyone cringe along the way. You're the only person you need to give a third chance (seconds are more flexible). Find someone who respects you and your background and gives you some freedom. And remember that only a man that gives you the best of himself deserves the best of you.

I still love you though, and I hope you're happy in whatever-after you ended up in.

Maya    

Reblogged from Sociological Images

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge: Day 17--Letter to a Politician: Freddie D and my thoughts this 4th of July

Dear American Politicians,

This letter contains excerpts from Frederick Douglass's 1852 speech, "What to the Slave is the Fourth of July?" 
1. "This, for the purpose of this celebration, is the 4th of July. It is the birthday of your National Independence, and of your political freedom. This, to you, is what the Passover was to the emancipated people of God. It carries your minds back to the day, and to the act of your great deliverance; and to the signs, and to the wonders, associated with that act, and that day. This celebration also marks the beginning of another year of your national life; and reminds you that the Republic of America is now 76 years old. I am glad, fellow-citizens, that your nation is so young. Seventy-six years, though a good old age for a man, is but a mere speck in the life of a nation. Three score years and ten is the allotted time for individual men; but nations number their years by thousands. According to this fact, you are, even now, only in the beginning of your national career, still lingering in the period of childhood. I repeat, I am glad this is so. There is hope in the thought, and hope is much needed, under the dark clouds which lower above the horizon. The eye of the reformer is met with angry flashes, portending disastrous times; but his heart may well beat lighter at the thought that America is young, and that she is still in the impressible stage of her existence. May he not hope that high lessons of wisdom, of justice and of truth, will yet give direction to her destiny? Were the nation older, the patriot’s heart might be sadder, and the reformer’s brow heavier. Its future might be shrouded in gloom, and the hope of its prophets go out in sorrow. There is consolation in the thought that America is young. Great streams are not easily turned from channels, worn deep in the course of ages. They may sometimes rise in quiet and stately majesty, and inundate the land, refreshing and fertilizing the earth with their mysterious properties. They may also rise in wrath and fury, and bear away, on their angry waves, the accumulated wealth of years of toil and hardship. They, however, gradually flow back to the same old channel, and flow on as serenely as ever. But, while the river may not be turned aside, it may dry up, and leave nothing behind but the withered branch, and the unsightly rock, to howl in the abyss-sweeping wind, the sad tale of departed glory. As with rivers so with nations."
 So today I ask, is America still young? 235 years is much longer than 76, but cannot hold a candle to thousands, as Freddie D suggests so eloquently. So do we still have time to work things out and became a nation whose values are not, in any way, hypocritical? Do we still have time to develop the backbone to stand for things we believe in rather than fall to popular opinion? Do we still have time for popular opinion to become informed? Do we still have time to care, to see the bigger picture, to remember the meaning of the word democracy? Or has our window for greatness closed? If all the masses do to observe today is barbecue and drink and watch some fireworks, who will remember the gritty history and the gritty details of the present? Sometimes I feel like we as a nation are hungover after having gotten drunk on our own ideals, and now we're too out of it to do anything but lay in bed with a cold compress and watch it all play out. We need to wake the fuck up and do something. That's the meaning of independence. In that vein:

2. "We have to do with the past only as we can make it useful to the present and to the future. To all inspiring motives, to noble deeds which can be gained from the past, we are welcome. But now is the time, the important time. Your fathers have lived, died, and have done their work, and have done much of it well. You live and must die, and you must do your work. You have no right to enjoy a child’s share in the labor of your fathers, unless your children are to be blest by your labors. You have no right to wear out and waste the hard-earned fame of your fathers to cover your indolence."
 Next I say that having never really experienced any other part of the world, I am patriotic almost to a fault. Though I hope to do some traveling eventually at some point, the US of A is the end-all be-all for me, and I'm okay with that. There's nothing I'd rather be than American. There is nothing I would rather be than a black American, but that means that, like Freddie D all those years ago, I would like to call attention to the things America overlooks as we celebrate ourselves today. He calls attention to the peculiar institution of American slavery:
3. "I shall see, this day, and its popular characteristics, from the slave’s point of view. Standing, there, identified with the American bondman, making his wrongs mine, I do not hesitate to declare, with all my soul, that the character and conduct of this nation never looked blacker to me than on this 4th of July! Whether we turn to the declarations of the past, or to the professions of the present, the conduct of the nation seems equally hideous and revolting. America is false to the past, false to the present, and solemnly binds herself to be false to the future. Standing with God and the crushed and bleeding slave on this occasion, I will, in the name of humanity which is outraged, in the name of liberty which is fettered, in the name of the constitution and the Bible, which are disregarded and trampled upon, dare to call in question and to denounce, with all the emphasis I can command, everything that serves to perpetuate slavery-the great sin and shame of America! "I will not equivocate; I will not excuse;" I will use the severest language I can command; and yet not one word shall escape me that any man, whose judgment is not blinded by prejudice, or who is not at heart a slaveholder, shall not confess to be right and just. But I fancy I hear some one of my audience say, it is just in this circumstance that you and your brother abolitionists fail to make a favorable impression on the public mind. Would you argue more, and denounce less, would you persuade more, and rebuke less, your cause would be much more likely to succeed. But, I submit, where all is plain there is nothing to be argued. What point in the anti-slavery creed would you have me argue? On what branch of the subject do the people of this country need light?"
I would like to call attention to its lasting effects, as well as to the lasting effects of the fourth value this country was raised on: 'life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness[, and patriarchy].' I want to ask you, America, whether you are celebrating poverty and the disproportionate percentages of women, children, and people of color [and their women and children most of all] who fall below the poverty line in this country. I want to call attention to the wage gap between men and women. I want to call attention to the fact that, according to multiple very-well run audit studies by one of my professors, Devah Pager, it is easier for a white man with a criminal record than a black man with no criminal background to get a JOB in this country, and that was BEFORE the recession hit. I want you to remember the founders' cries of "No taxation without representation!" and ask yourself who exactly our legislators represent. Is the nation's best interest those of its richest or its poorest? America, are you celebrating our failing public schools? Our inability to truly separate church and state and recognize love in all its forms? The tightening and tightening of border control and anti-immigration sentiment in a land that once proclaimed 
"Give me your tired, your poor/Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free" --Emma Lazarus, "The New Colossus", mounted inside the Statue of Liberty
America, have we EVER truly been the land of the free? Certainly not when my man Freddie was talking to you, certainly not now while we have the highest incarceration rates in the entire world. Certainly not now when getting caught with a bag of weed can lose not only your liberty, by sending you to prison, but also silences your voice (as many states ban ex-felons from the ability to vote), and makes it impossible to break the cycle of poverty and self-destruction (as you cannot receive federal financial aid or welfare).
"What, to the American slave, is your 4th of July? I answer: a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelly to which he is the constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciations of tyrants, brass fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade, and solemnity, are, to him, mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy—a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices, more shocking and bloody, than are the people of these United States, at this very hour.
Go where you may, search where you will, roam through all the monarchies and despotisms of the old world, travel through South America, search out every abuse, and when you have found the last, lay your facts by the side of the everyday practices of this nation, and you will say with me, that, for revolting barbarity and shameless hypocrisy, America reigns without a rival."
So I ask you, how much has changed? I don't want to feel like I've abandoned my people--American women, American children, American people of color--by wearing my red, white, and blue today.


Maya

Sunday, July 3, 2011

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge--Day 16: Letter to the Last Person who Complimented You

Dear Greeter Lady at the Zimmerli Art Museum,

Way back in a time that seems like eons ago but was really probably less than a month and a half ago, while I was at home trying to come up with summer goals because my then-boyfriend had asked me about mine, I made note of the fact that your museum was free on the first Sunday of the month. I evidently even had the foresight to make an event on my Google Calendar for the hours the museum is open on the first Sunday of July and of August. And thus, today when I was recovering from a relapse in okay-status, I decided to put on a push-up bra and a low-cut dress and do my makeup and my hair and take myself on a date to visit the museum. I hadn't yet embraced doing things by myself in New Brunswick like I did in Chicago last year, and as I have to get used to being on my own again generally, now seemed like high time.
I walked the 8 minutes from my house to the museum and came inside. I knew today was a free day, but I wasn't sure if I was allowed to just stroll on in, and you weren't at the desk when I got there. But I was only confused for a moment or two, because then you walked out of the little back room, cheery as ever, and welcomed me to the museum. You told me I looked "so pretty" and asked me to please check my [make-rainy-days-fun! sunflower] umbrella because they weren't allowed in the galleries. Then you put a sticker on my hand and said today was a free day, and told me to enjoy. I realize you're a customer service employee and it is actually your job to be nice to me [been there, done that], but I want you to know you made me smile today. I wanted to treat myself to something and take care of myself, and you noticed, and that just...felt nice. 

So thank you for your sunny disposition on a grey and drizzly day. You made my mood less grey and drizzly.


Maya

I thought I looked cute too. :)

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge--Day 15: Letter to the Last Person who Surprised You

Anyone who's been paying attention knows this letter is going to be to Erykah Badu.

Miss Badu [I don't feel worthy of addressing you as Erykah],

If Baduzium is a state of being similar to nirvana, I think I encountered it last night. I didn't care that I was tired or that my feet hurt or that I wanted a drink but they cost more than WHOLE BOTTLES OF ALCOHOL I have purchased...I would have stood there listening to you in awe for hours. All night if you'd wanted to keep singing for me. You made me feel like a living girl. If I can get my soul to radiate half as brightly or a strongly as yours, my life will be phenomenal. I was expecting to have a good time...I wasn't expecting to feel enlightened. I was expecting fun, I wasn't expecting joy or an overwhelmingly intense peace. To put it simply, I wasn't expecting you. 

You kept thanking the audience, but I want to thank you. And you have my word I will see you again. 

Maya


PS I give a small badly-recorded piece of my experience with you to the world to enjoy:

Friday, July 1, 2011

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge: Day 14--Letter to Your Favorite City





Dear Chicago,

I have to be honest, I was worried about meeting you. Before I left I wondered who I had become, how I could agree to spend so much time with you before I even knew you. I'd had bad experiences with cities before and didn't think I could grow to be that kind of girl. I'll admit it, I used to discriminate against cities; I talked shit about y'all all the time.
And then I met you...and for the first two weeks or so, I hated you. I was scared and I was lonely and I thought all my stereotypes about places like you were coming true. Then I stopped being a little bitch and decided to get out of my comfort zone of home and work, even if that meant exploring by myself, which was a RADICAL concept at the time. 
And a few weeks later, you had totally and completely enchanted me. Suddenly I was using Google Maps to take a series of trains and buses like you were my turf, exploring your countless festivals and street fairs and museums on free days. I went to your parks and swam in your lake--which, btw, totally revolutionized everything I thought of lakes as being--and made a bucket list I didn't come close to finishing. You gave me friendships like I'd never had before, showed me what happens when you play along with random somewhat sketchy guys you meet in public places, taught me to be entirely comfortable with public transportation (who knew you could like standing on the subway? It reminds me of what I imagine surfing would feel like...), gave me my first club experience, got me to experience art, and taught me to be less afraid of the dark. KO told me once about his "DC-face," a serious look he had to put on to ride the train to work in that city, and I guess you inspired something similar in me, Chicago: you taught me to look uncertainty in the face bravely. You taught me to make short-term plans and act on them. You taught me how not to look lost and how to understand North, South, East, and West finally. You taught me to be okay doing things by myself, which is invaluable. You also gave me the second experience of my life in which I was surrounded entirely by strangers and had to make friends. You introduced me to artisan jewelers, Arts Districts, FARMERS MARKETS, and taught me to make earrings and bracelets and to belly dance and to salsa and opened me to the fact that naturals had a real-world community off the internet. You gave me free concerts and strange pizza and Greek, Indian, and African foods for the first time. Oh and brie! You gave me a rich mentor who had a part-time apartment bigger than my house in NJ, along with my first country club experience and a VIP pass to visit the Natural History museum after-hours. You made me stop giving a shit about rain. You introduced me to BLACK schools with black teachers and staff, a concept that blew my mind. You got me to talk to high school kids without feeling totally awkward. You gave me my first real-world work experiences. For the first time in my life, I felt totally independent, and I will always treasure you for that.  You made me feel GROWN.
I can't wait to see you again, Chicago. I was so jealous when KO got to visit you. Perks of living in corn-country, I suppose. We will meet again. Maybe for grad school if I can build up a tolerance for snow...

Affectionately,

Maya

PS: Don't tell New Brunswick, but it just can't compare to you. 
PPS: Oh, how I wish I had been 21 when we were together...