bewize

Someone told me tonight that I should be more specific about what I want. I laughingly replied that his statement presupposed that I had any idea of what I want to begin with.

Which of course made me think:

I want a lot of things. Right now, mostly I want to quit being my own frigging worst enemy. Sometimes, I swear I self-destruct just on the verge of getting what I want, because actually getting what I want means that I have to do something - to deserve it, to earn it, to keep it, to not fuck it up, to prove myself, etc. etc. etc.

There are days where I am so damn tired of being me. Those are the days that I wonder what any of you stick around for, and today is one of those days. I mean, I'm not a bad conversationalist. I listen. I try to help. But surely I look like a giant mess from the outside, because I sure as hell feel like one from the inside at times. And yet, you people stick around. (Are you all crazy? Or just masochistic?)

This is not a plea for people to tell me what they like about me. For better or worse, you do like me and I am very, very grateful for that fact. This is more of a vent about the things I don't like about myself very much right now.

I've got to quit fucking myself over.

Ahhh, Friday. It has that weekend sort of feeling to it already and I can’t wait until the day concludes and I can officially kick of the weekend. I have plans, even. I’m going out with a bunch of friends to celebrate Chinese New Year.

I’m pausing now in anticipation of the comment that I have most often received in response to this pronouncement – “I didn’t know you were Chinese!”

It’s said with a grin, perhaps even a smirk, and a pointed look at my very white, very Irish features. Note that I didn’t say very “American” features.

I realize that I am about to tread on treacherous ground, but that’s never stopped me before, so here I go. I’m American and I’m white. The two are not mutually exclusive, but nor are they synonyms. I’m distinctly not Chinese, though – there is no denying that, not that I would; not that I would expect anyone to deny their heritage or pretend to be something other than what they are.

The interwebs of late have been filled with thoughtful meta about race in general, race in America in particular, the difference between race and culture, appreciation for diversity and the dangers of cultural appropriation and I’ve read a lot of it with various degrees of agreement, discomfort and annoyance.

I’m white. I’m American. I’m going out to celebrate Chinese New Year.

The group of friends going with me includes other white people – Protestant, Catholic and Jewish, black people – with and without African heritage (because it turns out that people who are from the West Indies do not appreciate being called African American), Mexicans, Peruvians, Indians, Bengalis, Lebanese and a host of assorted mixed race folks who quite openly revel in their mixed-raceness.

Oh, and yes, even Chinese people.

For the past five years, we’ve all gotten together to descend on our favorite Chinese restaurant in the city, where we’ve long known the owner and his entire (extended) family. We laugh and joke and carry on. We tell stories. We drink. We eat an absolutely ridiculous amount of food, most of which is not offered on the menu, but is prepared by our chef and his mother from their retinue of favorite dishes for the occasion.

We discuss topics ranging from trash TV (bring on the next season of The Real Housewives of Atlanta) to traditional Chinese food and medicine. We tell stories of our travels, ranging from the fact that the restaurant owner sneaks Viagra with him when he goes back to China, to the fact that one of our youngest attendees spent a semester in Ireland and will be spending a semester in Argentina. We talk jobs, we talk families, we talk current events, we just basically talk a lot.

We even talk food. We compare and contrast our favorite foods (quite a few fans of Indian food!) and the differences between cultural cuisines. Several members in our group own restaurants and most of us have waited tables, so large parts of the discussion center around the differences in the types of crowds that visit steakhouses versus those that visit Chinese restaurants.

As for the holiday itself, Mr. Jou, our host, has described it a festival to celebrate family and friends. The restaurant is decked out in lanterns and we conclude our meal with shots of alcohol set alight (rather than firecrackers, which he used as a child). We toast to each other, to the future, to the end of another winter, to friendship and to good fortune. We revel long past the close of business (last year we didn’t conclude until 4 a.m.) and then we all go our separate ways and back to our lives.

I’ve done some reading about “traditional” Chinese New Year, because I was curious as to how the celebration originated. I don’t pretend that it has the same cultural significance to me that it does to someone who is Chinese, or has Chinese heritage. How could it? I’m not Chinese.

But I’m also not blind, nor oblivious. There are very large immigrant populations from all over the world in the city that I call home. I can travel down one highway and see Little Korea, Little China, Little Viet Nam, Little Mexico and Little India all within a few miles. I see these cultures and I grow curious. I want to visit the shops and eat in the restaurants. I wear jewelry and clothes that I buy from these shops, despite the fact that they are certainly not part of my heritage.

I don’t speak the language. I don’t understand the depth of the history. I don’t always know exactly where the home-town of the shopkeeper is. And yet, I don’t consider my participation to be cultural appropriation, either.

The United States used to be described as a melting pot. I am aware that that term has come under intense – and justified – scrutiny of late. No one wants to be forced to leave behind their cultural identity and take on someone else’s. Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, but assimilation is the worst sort of insult.

I struggle sometimes to know where the line is – and when I read posts from people on the internet expressing their frustration at (usually and almost always specifically stated ‘white’) interlopers, I get uncomfortable, because I don’t want to be accused of “appropriation.”

Still, this is the city where I live – this is my city. These are my neighbors. These are my friends. Being involved with them doesn’t feel like appropriation. It feels like community.

Is it worse to attend Chinese New Year celebrations as a white person, or stay home with disinterest? What if you’re Japanese? Or Indian? Or Mexican? Or Peruvian? Or black? Or racially Chinese, but culturally southern? Or bi-racial?

I’m going to make mistakes, because I’m human. I’m going to be oblivious to social cues, because I’m sometimes oblivious. I’m going to hurt the feelings of someone from a different race than mine, because I only know how to be white. I’m trying, and whether that counts for something or not, it’s the truth.

I don’t know where the line is between cultural appreciation and cultural assimilation, or when I can legitimately say that something that is traditionally a part of someone else’s culture has become an important and anticipated part of my own life. I may throw the question out tonight at dinner between the spring rolls and the baby octopus and see what answers I get.

There are a lot of things I don’t know and I’m probably “doing it wrong,” but I do know one thing - I’ll be damned if I miss out on this year’s Chinese New Year celebration.




This entry was written for Topic 12: Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery at therealljidol. I assume voting will take place later this week. Everyone should check out all the good entries!

So, I ran across this post recently talking about "food shame" as it relates to cultural experiences, particularly those relating to non-white people in Western countries. There are links to several really good posts, all discussing the instinctive knee-jerk shame that comes when someone says "yuck" to something you like to eat.

In an attempt to address this, glass_icarus is organizing a Food Carnival and has put out a prompt dealing with holidays. So, this is to my fellow southern USers, what foods do you consider particularly southern that you eat on the holidays? Because there is NO WAY I'm missing out on this event and I want to be able to contribute.

It's strange, because when it comes right down to it, I can think of a lot of "southern" foods, but I'm not actually sure which foods are only southern. Many tasty goodness type of edibles have made their way beyond the Old South.

So, ladies and gentlemen on my flists, hit me up with your favorites. You may be treated to an event wherein I make some of them and invite people over to eat. (AND BRACE YOURSELVES, BECAUSE I'M NOT THE BEST COOK! HAHAHAHA!)

Have you ever heard of a man named Sullivan Ballou?

I hadn’t until this week, when through a series of random occurrences, I went looking for a song by Audra Mae called Sullivan’s Letter. I found first the text of his letter to his wife Sally. Sullivan was a major in the United States Army, who spent the night before his unit marched to the first Battle of Bull Run, where he and 93 of his men perished, writing a letter to his wife Sally and saying goodbye.

Now, 150 years later, the man named Sullivan Ballou has entered popular culture, not through the fact that he was an orphan who put himself through several prestigious schools, nor for the fact that he was a politician, nor even for the fact that he was a respected attorney and military judge. His two children have faded into the mists of time and most people probably do not know or care about him at all. But his words, oh, his words. They seized me by the heart and shook me to my unromantic core.

Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.

When was the last time I wrote to the people I loved and really spilled my heart on the page like that?

The answer is simple – I never have.

I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death -- and I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my country, and thee.

Life is short, shorter than we even can imagine. I would not guess that many of us reach the end of our journey with gratitude, and for too many of us, we reach the end with a sense of surprise.

Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me to you with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break.

How many of us wish that we had such words to cradle us in our grief? Yet, how many of us make ourselves vulnerable enough to speak them?

But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night -- amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours - always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.

Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.

I do not know is Sarah ever felt Sullivan’s breath on her cheek, or if she could feel his presence watching over her and their two sons, but I can imagine the strength she took from his words. I can imagine the crinkled paper of the letter after she had unfolded it from its hidden place in her home and read the words for the thousandth time.

It makes the casual and indifferent farewells of daily life pale in comparison. I try and make sure that the people I love know that I love them, but I rarely let them know what they mean to me.

When I left home this morning, my roommate interrupted my stressful thoughts about the thousand and one things that I had to do today to say, “I’m glad you’re my friend.”

It may not be a letter that will memorialize her though time, but it made my day a great deal better. So, I will make myself a promise, a vow of sorts, to be better about telling people that they are not an afterthought. I will tell them that I love them. I will tell them that I care.

And if tomorrow proves to be the day that I depart for the Great Unknown, I will try the ones that I love with the certainty that somewhere, if possible, I am still loving them.


This entry was written for Topic 5: Afterthought at therealljidol. I assume voting will take place later this week. Everyone should check out all the good entries!

There are a lot of interesting discussions going around the Internets right now about narrative and character choices and what, if anything, it reveals about the author. Many of them have made me think (always a good, if dangerous, thing) and now I have questions for you, oh Internets.

Is it possible to write a narrative that contains characters who are *ist (racist, sexist, misogynist, homophic, transphobic, fat-phobic), and wherein the fic structure isn't designed to provide either cosmic retribution of an after-school special teaching moment, and not have the fic be inherently *ist itself?

If the fic is *ist, to what extent is the author perpetuating the *ism on the world?

To use an example from my own work (which is the only way I can think to explain what I mean, without putting anyone else on the carpet), I wrote a Merchant of Venice fic (yes, Shakespearean even!), wherein Antonio and Bassanio basically have sex in front of a mirror. The fic contains this conversation:

"Dear Bassanio, do you have no trust for me? My heart, my home, my life… all yours for the taking."

Bassanio's voice hitched. "What we do is a violation of God's law."

"Aye."

"We damn our souls."

"Aye," Antonio breathed.

At no point afterward did I have the characters address the homophobic nature of that conversation. At no point did I ever bring religion into the story again. At no point did I include any hint that I - as the author - have a knee-jerk reaction when Christians (which is the faith embraced by these two characters) start preaching about how homosexual acts are sins.

So, tell me Internets, was that homophobic? Does the fic perpetuate homophobia? Does it therefore exist as proof of perhaps my own unexamined homophobia?

Or does the fact that I told this story, about two white men fucking each other, to the exclusion of exploration of the themes of the play involving anti-semitism, classism, sexism, and racism - of which the source material is rank - mean that I somehow embraced those *isms in my own story, and therefore perpetuated them by virtue of ignoring them?

To what degree am I, as the author, guilty of the sins of the characters?

(I am aware that this question may seem extremely combative and I honestly do not mean it that way. I am simply asking for opinions. I do not promise to agree with any of you, however! But, the thought-process is provoking introspection and I would like to engage in a dialogue. I will do my best to keep my ego out of it, I promise.)

I'm exhausted. WTF?

Today was all right. I had a meeting, got paid, did some work, had another meeting, got a contract on a new med mal case, scheduled two new client meetings for tomorrow and still managed to get home early(ish).

Cramps suck, though. Sorry if that's TMI.

We had Texas Roadhouse for dinner, but I didn't feel great, M is sick, V is coughing and P wanted to go to work, so we didn't exactly linger, and I've been home since doing yet more work. I did have a rib though, and I've got left over ribs to eat at some point this week.

My mom told me to take some money and buy myself a new outfit. I said I wanted to pay off debt more, but she told me to shut up and listen to my mother. *lol* With an order like that, I think maybe I'll take her advice. I could use some new clothes, actually. I don't think I've bought myself new clothes (other than running clothes) since early summer, and then it was 2 dresses from Target.

Anyone want to go shopping?

I've got plans for tomorrow evening that I am looking forward to, although I can already feel the week slipping away from me. I need to remember to pack clothes to change into after work. Maybe I can sneak in a run first, too? We'll see, but running in Decatur would be awesome. All the Christmas decorations are up.

I helped Santa out this year and bought M a red wagon (Radio Flyer, of course!), which arrived today. It's very cool and all reminiscent of my own childhood. V was all emotional that I did it, but of course I did it. I would get that kid the moon if he asked me to.

He finally learned to say "Rach" and it's adorable. Half the time, he still calls me "mamamama" though. V is mommy or mombie (rhymes with zombie). I think he's finally realizing that all women aren't a derivation of "mom".

I ate a tiny snickers bar. It was tasty.

Did I mention that cramps suck?

Thanks to everyone who voted for me in LJ Idol. I'm pleased to have made it to a second week. The new topic is Deconstruction. Any suggestions?

And on that note, I'm going to bed. Where the heating pad currently lives.

Congratulations! You've acquired access to your very own Bewize. Allow me to share a few things that I think will make the experience more fun and less stressful for all parties. Anyone who has had access to a Bewize in the past, feel free to make suggestions in the comments.

1. The first thing to know about a Bewize is that they tend to be very private. You'll find mostly locked journal entries, because Bewizes tend to have jobs that require some amounts of privacy (like, for example, lawyering). That said, Bewizes are generally happy to add friends, as long as friends don't come across as creepy, stalkery types who like to cause trouble. Bewize needs no help causing trouble.

2. Bewizes work a great deal. In fact, Bewizes are work-a-holics. Currently, reports suggest that Bewizes have upwards of 2 jobs at any given time (lawyering, contract lawyering, freelance writing, a variety of random jobs will all be likely). Bewizes are also entrepreneurs and as anyone with their own business knows, it's never a 9-5 deal. Bewizes take on work at the expense of nearly everything else.

3. Because of Bewizes' work habits, Bewizes occasionally suffer health problems. Most recently, Bewizes are reported as being susceptible to the "chest plague" and/or asthma. Luckily, most health problems can be controlled with medication.

4. Bewizes have obsessive personalities and tend to ramble about whatever it is that has caught their attention. Current trends suggest that diet and exercise are high on the list, as well as the usual like friends, family and work.

5. Bewizes are great at existing in drama. This is a good thing, because Bewizes have nearly magical powers at attracting it, even though most of it isn't their fault. No really, it usually is not their fault. Bewizes have been known to randomly meet and befriend famous people and randomly get sued. Both are equally likely to happen.

6. Bewizes are social creatures and enjoy going out with friends. Bewizes are unlikely to be in serious relationships, though on occasion they may dabble. Bewizes may live with a variety of roommates, including toddler godsons. Bewizes may be hard to track down for this reason.

7. Bewizes have a love/hate relationship with technology. A Bewize will never be far from her phone, but she will likely not answer it. Bewizes can be obsessive about the internet.

8. Bewizes can be depended on to take 90% of things in stride. Upset Bewizes are less likely than pissed off Bewizes. Pissed off Bewizes should be approached with extreme caution. Pissed off Bewizes should never be taunted to "be honest about what she really thinks." In fact, pissed off Bewizes should never be taunted. Really, neither should a calm Bewize.

9. Bewizes are opinionated. No really, a Bewize will likely have an opinion about everything. If she chooses not to share it, it's because she likely thinks it will cause drama (see above about Bewize needing no help to find drama). If pushed, a Bewize will nearly always tell you what it thinks.

10. Bewizes are known to switch emotions fairly quickly, and even an angry Bewize can be calmed down. Bewizes are tremendously loyal, but if you push a Bewize too far, you're probably never going to get one back.

In short, Bewizes are an adventure. :)

Good luck with yours!

This entry was written for Topic 0: Introductions at therealljidol. Given that I've written several of these in the past, I figured I'd go for a tongue in cheek introduction, but I think that the "rules" here are a fairly accurate description of myself. If you disagree, see rule 8, but feel free to let me know! Reality checks are good for people.

I make no secret of the fact that I love Eminem. I like his style, I appreciate his musical stylings, but the aspect of his art (and I do call it art) that has earned my admiration the most is his ability to write lyrics that really get into your head and speak to you.

I read one review that says that "we can always count on Eminem for brutal honesty."

Yes.

So, it's no surprise that I'm stunned into a respectful silence about the song "Love the Way You Lie."

Today, for the first time, I decided to go and see if there was a video.

There is.



I came into this video not knowing anything about it. When it reached the 45 second mark, I started squinting and thinking, "Is that...? Wait, is that...?" And indeed, it is. Apparently, the makers spared no expense in this video and it stares Megan Fox and Dominic Monaghan.

I am not really interested in debating the artistic talents of these two actors, but there is no arguing that both are big names. And watching them carry the story of this song took my breath away - in all the right ways.

( Discussion of Domestic Violence )

Today is Day 2 of the "run 2.2 miles every day for a week plan." This plan is seemingly out of nowhere and comes about just because I want to make my life more difficult. But, I figure I'll see what's happened at the end of the week. (I don't imagine it will be bad.)

Tonight, it rained. I ran after the rain and the temperature was definitely colder. That plus the humidity made my asthma kick off. And yet I still had an easier run than yesterday. I really think it's partially just reminding myself that yes, indeed, I *can* run 2.2 miles and it isn't even that hard. But some days, I just don't want to do it.

That's why I'm making it a rule for the next week. If I can run that far every day, then I 'm probably ready to find a longer route and kick it up a notch. But I think I'm going to need to acquire a few winter running shirts.

************

I'm afraid of my work phone. Which is my cell phone. Which is bad. But I can't stand it when I end up with 14 voice mails in a day where I'm answering my phone. It scares me. And half of them are people wanting to know why X isn't done.

I'll tell you.

BECAUSE MY DAMN PHONE WON'T STOP RINGING!!!

************

I have a med mal case regarding a girl who had to have two liver transplants thanks to a doctor's incompetence. I calculated the bills from her second surgery today and had a stroke.

My life isn't so bad. And I doubt that I will ever hit my maximum lifetime coverage in insurance in the span of three months.

************

Irrationally perhaps, but sometimes when my f-list page is full of "you should think X instead of Y about [insert political issue of choice]", I just want to tell people to quit telling me how to think!

*bangs head*

At the end of the day, very few people know anyone else on their flists well enough to judge their lives. S'all I'm saying.

ETA: I figured I'd better specify that this is aimed mostly at the folks telling me that because I support women's colleges, I somehow support a classist system that prevents the lower classes from obtaining a feminist education.

*************

I'm dying my hair. I think this is the wrong color.

That is bound to be interesting.

**************

S called my phone when I was out running. V answered. He said he had something he wanted me to do in the morning (why call me at night????), but he didn't answer when I called back. I dread to think what it will be...

**************

Remember when Mattie dislocated his elbow? The insurance company has denied coverage. *rolls eyes*

We'll see about that, won't we? But that's BS. It was a weekend. He was in pain. Where the hell else should we have taken him?!

*************

There is a client who owes me $5,000. This would go a long (long, long, long) way to making my world easier right now. I'm going to spend part of tomorrow trying to get my money from him. (No, seriously. A long, long, long, long way.)

I ran about 2.5 miles on Friday and then just didn't feel it the rest of the weekend. I ran about a mile yesterday and today, thanks to the rain, I skipped it all together to do Jillian Micheal's 30 Day Shred.

( That Woman is a Total Bitch. And I Mean That In the Nicest Possible Way. )

Anyway! Time for some quick totals, for my own benefit.

Week One Total: 11.5 miles; 20 minute belly dancing

Week Two:

Sunday, September 19: Ran 2 miles
Monday, September 20: Ran 2 mile
Tuesday, September 21: Ran 3.5 miles
Wednesday, September 22: 1 hour belly dancing class; 20 minutes of actual exercise
Thursday, September 23: Ran 2 miles
Friday, September 24: Ran 2.5 miles
Saturday, September 25: Ran 1 miles


Week Two Total: 14 miles; 50 minute belly dancing

I'm on day 15 of 90 and still going strong. I'll be honest, I thought about quitting, but knowing that I'd have to 'fess up has kept me moving. I really want to make this work. I really want to finish this - not for the weight loss, though I do want that, and not for the self-congrats, though I do want that, too. I want to do this because I want to know that I can. I want to finish because I started.

I want to do this because I want to do this for myself.