God, or Gods

Alright, friends, since I still don’t have a whole lot to write, I offer instead the beautiful words of my dear friend Maisa Taha. Maisa wrote an essay that she recently read on a public radio station in Tucson. The audio for the July 4th program is here (click on “Listen to July 4, 2008 Edition with host Mark McLemore”). The entire program lasts about 29 minutes, and Maisa’s portion starts at about 8:22 (that podcast will likely only be available for the next week, so get thee there quickly). For another great commentary on Maisa’s essay, visit our friend Eva’s post about it at Tucson Querido.

Maisa is one of those people you feel better just for knowing. She has done some amazing research on immigration in Spain, and recently completed a 75-mile migrant walk through the Sonoran Desert to commemorate the lives of those who’ve died trying to cross the U.S.-Mexico border.

Essays like Maisa’s, and these sorts of efforts in general, make it very clear to me that my two years in Tucson weren’t wasted. If I was ambivalent about immigration rights before I moved there, my experiences in Tucson made me a staunch, if quiet, advocate. I can respect the fear that breeds anti-immigration sentiments, but having lived in the Sonoran Desert for a scant two years, and worked side-by-side with people who study border deaths, there is simply no way I can be dispassionate about the lives lost - or the desperation that drives people to risk their lives trying to reach the States.

If you have any interest at all in immigration policy, or about the consequences of recent laws governing crossings on the border, I would urge you to give the whole program a listen. If there is any part of me that still regrets having left grad school, it’s mostly when I hear stories like Maisa’s, and remember how much work there is still to be done.

One for Julie

And, here, while I have them, visual aids!

One of the many awesome things about the friends I made in Tucson is the fact that so many of them are from the Bay Area. What’s even better is how many of them love sharing their Bay Area experiences with me. That means when I e-mail my friend Julie to say, “Julie, where can I get a used kitchen table?”, I know that — more than a mere recommendation — I’ll get an experience. For example, to said question, I got the reply:

Hmmmm…You might try Urban Ore on 7th at Murray in Berkeley. That’s where I did most of my furniture thrifting in Oakland. You might need to refinish the piece, but I guarantee it’ll be interesting and nice. There’s another ‘recycling’ place across the street from Urban Ore, but I can’t remember its name. You could try there as well. Also, if you’re in the neighborhood anyway, there’s a great brunch place kitty corner from UO on Murray. One of my faves: Jimmy Beans. So, you can have breakfast, go shopping at UO and its neighbor and then go to the fancy taqueria to the west of UO for lunch! The taqueria is owned by Alice Waters’ brother.

And hell if she wasn’t right. Observe:

Table (minus the leaf I still need to attach), vintage chair, and vintage stool from Urban Ore for $75 total. Check.

Tofu scramble from Jimmy Beans: magnificent! Double check.

And every intention to go check out the taqueria the next time I’m at Urban Ore. Triple check.

Vicarious

Yikes, I’m behind in writing here, aren’t I? Sadly, this frequency of posting is probably about as good as it’s going to be for a while. I think somehow I’m better off not writing much right now. Things are just too transitional for me to be writing them down in a public forum, even if it is mostly just my friends reading it. I guess I’m a bit hesitant to post many of my thoughts yet, for fear that somehow they’ll stick and I won’t get to scrub them away and start over again when I change my mind. I feel like I started here in the Bay with a blank slate, and for the first time in a long time, I’m the only one who’s writing the story. So I guess I want to be damn sure it’s a good story before I start making premature proclamations about how splendid or awful anything is.

Does that make sense?

So, the briefest, least permanent version I can give of how I’m doing right now is “fine, just fine.” I’m settling into a routine, which is good for me. I get up before 7 every day, have a cup of coffee, and walk to work. I work eight or so hours, walk to the Y, work out, and walk the rest of the way home. If I’m feeling adventurous, I’ll take breaks during the day and run to the post office, or the downtown library, or any one of the cutesy little cafes or deli’s or diners near work. My life here feels small (in a good way) and compact, and I kinda like it so far.

On the weekends, I’ve been venturing up to Berkeley, or taking the metro into San Francisco to see bits of the city. I’m making friends, slowly, and seeing things I’ve been planning to see for months. I’ve also started checking things off the lists friends in Tucson made for me of all the things I had to experience in their stead. Plus, I’ve started adding a few of my own. I can’t even begin to encapsulate all the great experiences I’ve had so far, which is really the most legitimate reason I can think of to write here more often, before I go and forget it all. I can tell you, though, that within a fifteen minute walk from my apartment is a spot on a hillside that has such a beautiful view of the Bay, it leaves me breathless every time I crest it (and not just from the steepness of the incline). If there were ever a better place to grieve and recover, I can’t imagine it

So, there. There’s a tiny update for now. More when I have it.

A post, just because

It’s Friday, and I’m whipped. I still don’t have anything interesting to say, except that I just read this post on Shapely Prose, and I laughed so loudly I’m afraid I disturbed my neighbors. Do yourselves a favor and read at least as far as the bit about the Care Bears.

And maybe, just maybe, if I have the energy next week, I’ll tell you about some of the dates I’ve been on recently, including one with a guy who couldn’t even say the word “gay”. He told me instead that someone he knew “didn’t swing that way.” Jesus H, people. I moved all the way to San Francisco, and I’m still managing to attract close-minded wackadoos. My date this weekend should offer a little respite, I think. The person in question seems chill and well-traveled. Plus, he suggested meeting up in North Beach to see Beach Blanket Babylon, which is apparently a San Fran institution. I’m already impressed. More soon, hopefully.

Picture ellipse here

People! How are you? I’m swell. And God does it just feel like I’ve been gone forever. I have so much to say, but so little time or energy to say it. The briefest version of an update goes like this: work is awesome, my place is almost unpacked, I’m one father shorter than I was three weeks ago, but all in all, things could be worse.

My head is seriously fried, and I’m afraid memorizing facts has sapped my creative energies. But I’ll be back. Soon! Only ’soon’ is relative, isn’t it? I could mean days soon, or I could mean months soon. Or I could just end up writing another post in a week explaining why I’m still not writing. Let’s just say I’m cocooning. It’s snuggly but constricting in here.

In the meantime, here’s the song I currently can’t stop playing on repeat: Kings of Leon, “Day Old Blues”

One week gone

Well, I couldn’t stay away for long, now could I? Even when I have nothing funny or interesting to say, I come back here and start typing until something makes sense again.

I start my new job tomorrow, and that is about the most motivational thing I have going for me right now. As nervous as I am about everything I’ll have to learn, I’m also aching to be productive again. I’ve kept myself fairly busy this week with unpacking and settling in. I’ve also done a lot of driving around Oakland and walking around my neighborhood, and even ventured as far away as Berkeley a few times. But mostly, I’ve been grounded pretty close to home.

I have list upon list of things my friends told me I had to see, and my own promises to myself to get across the bay and into San Francisco before I started work. But mostly I’ve just wanted to sit around and not think for a while. That meant that I spent most of the last week: watching DVD’s, crying, dozing, eating an entire bag of Trader Joe’s peanut-butter filled pretzel bites, taking baths, and listening to “Carry Me, Ohio” so many times I’ve memorized it. In the meantime, I moved all my stuff in, met some nice neighbors who helped me lift a few heavy things, and finally got an Internet connection.

At one point in the move, it looked like my red couch wasn’t going to fit through my tiny 1920’s doorway. As a result, I spent an entire day feeling like someone had just kicked my dog to death. It seems that losing your city, your home, and your father in one week will have a tendency to make you irrationally attached to an over-stuffed couch. In the end, I ran into one of the aforementioned neighbors in the hallway, and he and a friend angled and wedged the couch all the way into my living room. I was so ecstatically happy at their success that I couldn’t stop laughing. Then I offered to buy him a six pack. And, I can’t be sure, but I think I may have offered him a blowjob too.

Now that things are all settling into place, I’m actually feeling a lot calmer. The crying jags have stopped, and my morning run would suggest that I’ve got most of my energy back. Beyond that, I can’t say that I feel that much differently than I did a week ago. If anything, I feel closer to my father now that I ever have. I’ve been talking to him out loud, calling him names, apologizing, wishing him well. I got over the unfairness of his timing a few days ago, and have been getting daily report-backs from my brother. Then I read his obituary online, and choked up a little at its mention of me.

There are a lot of things I’ll never understand about my father, and things I wanted to know that I’ll never get to ask him. But I know, above all else, that he loved me.

I’m also beginning to recognize the parts of myself that were like him, and how much I didn’t want to acknowledge that. Mostly how proud we both were, and how it led to us not speaking for the last eight years of his life. I told my stepmother on the phone that I had regrets about that, but I’m not sure if I said it for her benefit or my own. In truth, I can’t hold onto any regrets about my decision to discontinue contact with him. I did what I felt was right at the time, and he did the same. It was what it was. And now he is gone, and I have to go on living my new life.

So, tonight I’m going to shine my work shoes, pack a lunch, and lay out my work clothes for the morning. Tomorrow, I’ll start anew. And before long, I hope to have more interesting stories to tell than tales of eating junk food and offering fellatio to virtual strangers.

Savasana

Two weeks ago, I started a list here of a few things I hoped to accomplish before I died. What I didn’t count on was the fact that other people might.

I included on that list the goal, “make peace with my father.”

My brother called at 11 o’clock last night to tell me that, hours before, our father had suffered a massive heart attack and died almost instantly. He was fifty-nine years old.

There are things in your life that you think you’ll always have time to do later. Sometimes, you’re wrong.

After I got off the phone with my brother, I lay still for a while just listening to the sound of my own breath coming in, going out. My own heart, it seems, is still working.

I’m not sure that I’m thinking entirely clearly right now, but I think it’s safe to say that I may not be writing here very regularly for a while. I have a few other things to do right now.

For the girls

To tide you over till I’m settled and have more to say, feast your senses upon this: Yogurt!

The video speaks for itself. I’ll say no more.

Farewell, lovely Tucson

Inspired by yet another Mighty Girl theme, and in honor of my last few days in Tucson, I decided to start a list of all the Tucson experiences I’ve had that I’ll cherish when I leave. I had a hard time cutting myself off. That is, until I got bored and antsy, and then it was real easy. I may add on to this later, but I’m posting it now, since I surmise that it’s going to be a pretty hectic few days.

In no particular order…

- Everything about Tucson Yoga, home of the $6 yoga class and the nicest yoga teachers I’ve ever met. Also, site of my first successful upward bow pose since forever.

- Movies at The Loft, including one very rocking Purple Rain sing-a-long, and the ability to order a slice of their garlicky margherita pizza and a glass of Shiraz in a plastic cup.

- Seeing Leslie Hall at Hotel Congress, my first night out with what would thereafter be known as Team Med Anth. Falling in love that same night with the soaring old hotel lounge, where I sat and drank multiple whiskey sours and laughed louder than was probably prudent.

- Rolling out of bed a little hungover on any given Sunday and walking to Cup Cafe for strong coffee and vegan French toast.

- Everything about Yoshimatsu, the favorite source of cheap Asian food of nearly every grad student I know.

- Listening to bluegrass at The Hut, a tiki bar discovered just three weeks ago and about a year and a half too late.

- Buying fresh fig and walnut bread from Beyond Bread. Smothering it with Earth Balance and eating it for breakfast.

- The beauty of monsoon season, minus the flash-flooding. And especially the smell of creosote in the air after a good hard rain

- The $3 Sunday night feast at Govinda’s, the local Hare Krishna temple.

- On more than one occasion, walking up to the top of “A” mountain with my friend Julie, plopping down at the stone picnic table at the top (near the gazebo) and crying my guts out about grad school. Julie called it hiking; I called it therapy. Finding ourselves there in the middle of caterpillar mating season and knowing for sure that we were city girls by the unbridled glee brought forth by the sight of dozens of them in the road. I don’t know what it was about that place, but something magical happened up there, with the view of the city below us and the wind whipping our hair into knots. Ascending, I felt like a miserable wretch, but coming down, I always felt like a decent human being again. I surmise that Julie had something to do with it.

- A glass of Shiraz and the vodka pasta at B Line, even if they never put enough sauce for the quantity of pasta on the plate. Getting a macaroon to go.

- Casa Video, which may just be the the last place on earth you can rent a VHS tape

- People-watching with Alyson at Caffé Lucé. Pretending to work on our lab assignments, while actually talking about our mothers.

- The familiarity of the walk from my apartment to school. Knowing that I could make it to my department in 15 minutes flat from my doorstep. Twenty, if I hit red lights or hordes of high school students.

- Crowding around a platter of delicious Ethiopian food at Zemam’s. BYOB. Puzzling with friends over what the green versus the orange versus the brownish piles are supposed to be. Not caring, scooping up a bite with injera, and having it always be delicious. Knowing full well that the service will be crazy slow but friendly, and always being the last occupied table at closing time.

- Being able to walk or bike nearly everywhere I needed to be. For example, thinking to myself an hour ago that I wanted a red bean paste bun, walking the fifteen or so minutes to 17th Street Market, walking home, and eating it.

- Coffee at Raging Sage. The amazing scones. The amazing deserts. The fact that I got hit on more there than any other place in Tucson. And by grown men instead of boys, for once. Having one of my students work there and getting my coffee for free on the days she was working. I tried more varieties of coffee there than anywhere else in Tucson…soy au lait, cubano, breve, Chocolate Mint Confection from hell.

- My studio. The crazy kids I live here with. And even my asshole neighbor with her stomping and her door slamming and her stupid heels.

- Tucson Roller Derby. Period.

- Learning about violence in Latin America, the history of U.S. involvement in it, and my complete ignorance on both themes from the most intense professor I’ve ever known. Even if, in the last few weeks, I did take to drinking a glass of red wine before I left for class to take the edge off. That shit was crazy intense, but God, do I view the world differently.

- Watching the Black Cherry Burlesque at the Surly Wench. The Surly Wench, in general.

- FINALLY learning which direction is north, south, east, west, etc. Everyone here seems to give directions by use of actual directionals (i.e. go east on University to get to campus). I grew up in the South, where you get directions like, “turn left at the Big Chicken, go through four lights and then turn left at the Kroger…”. It took me nearly a year to orient myself in this city, until I finally memorized that north on Campbell was toward the Trader Joe’s, and east on Speedway was toward Casa Video, and then everything after that made sense.

- Getting a tan without even having to think about it. Despite the fact that I spent most of the time worried that I’m prematurely aging here and - short of wearing a layer of zinc oxide and carrying an umbrella -not being able to do much more about it.

- The fact that people think of Speedway, one of the big Tucson thoroughfares, as having “traffic.” People, please. I learned how to drive in Atlanta. You haven’t seen anything.

- Once getting myself so pissed off and worked up about something that I drove straight to Sabino Canyon and ran the hardest, fastest 3 miles that I’d pulled out in a while. Getting to the end of the trail, feeling pretty proud of myself, and walking back down, spent and salty with dried sweat and desert dust.

- Having been an hour from the Mexican border, and taking almost a year and a half to make it there. Having that trip be totally worth the wait.

- Long runs at the Rillito River wash, watching the dry river bed become a raging torrent.

- Watching the sun set over the Catalinas

I’m sure there’s more, but that’ll have to do for now. A bit more packing to do…

For the record

Okay, I am about to simultaneously complain about something petty and out myself as a musical Philistine. Brace yourselves, readers.

I’m sitting here packing up and listening to a mix of John Mayer songs. And, yes, I said John Mayer. Don’t you judge me. It’s poppy and melodic and occasionally serves as good background music. I like it. I can’t help myself. But then sometimes, well, sometimes I wish he would just shut up when he’s not singing, because he can be so very annoying when he speaks.

But some of his music is just catchy. And some of it is sweet. And some of just makes no sense at all to me, but yet I am inexplicably drawn to dumb songs like “Why Georgia.” It mentions Atlanta, okay, and I-85. And I drove on that interstate everyday! And that is apparently enough to connect me to John Mayer forever!

However. There’s this one song, “Daughters,” which upon first listen is kinda sweet, and on second listen is just hypocritical as shit. Like, at first you’re all, oh, he’s in love with a girl. And she has Daddy issues. And he’s looking out for her and is proclaiming that ALL FATHERS should be good to their daughters.

But then you actually listen. Okay, well maybe you don’t, but I did.

In his own words, the reason he’s imploring fathers to be good to be their daughters? Because “girls will be lovers who turn into mothers…” Um, yeah, that right there is a little effed. So, basically, women should be treated well because it benefits them in their role as potential lovers (um, which actually benefits YOU) and as mothers (because that’s really what every woman is all about, right?)

And then. Then! This series of verses:

“Boys, you can break
You find out how much they can take
Boys will be strong
And boys soldier on
But boys would be gone without warmth from
A woman’s good, good heart”

Um, DUDE. You’re reinforcing the very same gender stereotypes that you’re denouncing there. I want you to think about that for a minute. We can basically harsh all over the boys “to find how much they can take.” And then you expect them to be good fathers? Really? That makes sense to you, does it?

Oh, John John John. Somebody give this boy a lesson in human rights 101. We don’t make the world better for women by continuing to insist that boys be tough and strong and will only be softened by the bosom of a sweet sweet lady. John, NO! No no no. That is not how things work, my friend. I know I’m expecting a lot to ask that you write a feminist love song. But at least have a shred of a clue when you’re making big sweeping statements about one whole gender and how it treats one whole other gender. Don’t make me denounce you after I’ve gone and admitting publicly that I listen to your music, which seriously opens me up to a lot of derision. That is all I ask. CONSIDER IT.