I'm Creepy

I guess I've known this for a long time. Or maybe I've been wrestling with having to adopt such a moniker. I mean, who wants to be creepy? Creepy connotes child molesters and masturbating homeless men on public transportation, the eerily quiet girl with the bad hair and church clothes. I am none of the above. I only like to teach (not touch) the children; I do not masturbate in public; and my fashion sense is marvelous! (I must admit to having bad hair for the moment, but I'm working on that.) I am, however, extremely antisocial. What's worse is my seeming inability to change it. I've been at my school for three months and only recently realized that most of my coworkers have possibly formed an unfavorable opinion of me. I was, as I may have mentioned before, a mid-season replacement; I did not start teaching at Creature High* until the second semester. My colleague (don't you just love the fastidiousness of that word?) also started at the semester. We came from the same school. However, she can often be seen in the hallways yukking it up with other teachers or administrators, while I scuttle to and fro, efficient and dependable for sure, but not the most ebullient person. I never go to visit other teachers or stop to chat in the hallways.

Yesterday, after administering the ACT/PSAE to our junior class, some unsuspecting teacher invited me to lunch. I went, and enjoyed the hell out of my Georgia peach and pecan pancakes, but I probably said a total of ten words the entire time, including "please pass the syrup" and "anymore sausage?" I started to notice sideways glances and slightly too easy smiles directed my way; you know, the kind of smiles people give the mentally handicapped and physically impaired. I thought to myself, "Hey, why are they looking at me like that?" Then, "Oh no, they think I'm creepy!" There was nothing to be done folks. I wasn't particularly interested in who I was with nor did I have any pressing questions for my companions. I also felt no need, unlike some annoying blabbermouth at the table, to share my entire life, or even a sliver of it, with complete strangers. So, I shovelled back my food and stared off into space until every one was finished. Needless to say, no one invited me to any lunches today.

Look, I grew up an only child. Despite having three brothers, I spent the majority of my childhood in the house by myself. I'm used to silence and only talking when necessary. I've never really had the chance to practice talking to make people feel more comfortable. A few years back, I had started talking to folks, just talking, to combat the constant indictments of being "cold" or "robot-like" (yes, someone once called me a robot, and they were not trying to be cute or funny). I really thought I had made progress, but alas, I have not. In fact, I think I'm worse now. Old age and a generally disagreeable demeanor plus the added stress of having adult responsibilities has given me a devil-may-care-attitude about pleasing others or making them comfortable. Their comfort is their business, not mine. So, if you see me on the street, I may not speak; and if you sidle up to me hoping to strike up an impromptu conversation, I'll listen, but I won't say much in return. I'm sorry, I'm creepy.

*What the hell

[He's] Gone c) Hall & Oates

Well, dear readers. I've been lazily avoiding my blog because I've had much better things to do. I mean, 10-week grade reporting is tomorrow, and in true English teacher style, I have a stack of papers to rip through. However, this morning, while slathering that good virgin coconut oil on my legs, I heard the unimaginable, the unthinkable, the annoyingly inevitable ... Kurt Vonnegut is dead.

Yeah, there may be a thin veneer of humor here, of wryness. The trademark atrackbrown witticisms are present, but let me tell you people, I cried. As soon as Ellee Pai Hong or Dick Johnson (I can't remember which) announced the news, I automatically started a snotty, indecently unattractive crying fit that would rival any five year old's.

For years, Monica and I have been rhapsodizing about "it," the eventual death of Kurt Vonnegut. I mean, he was getting old, and had been bucking the odds with his continued cigarette smoking and alcohol consumption for decades. "How does one make it well into their seventies without any sort of psorosising of the liver or cancering of the lung?" we wondered. Plus, he was born in the twenties, and had been at the bombing of Dresden for god sakes. Yeah, he was truly an enigma for still being with us. So we joked, and shook our heads wonderingly at his immortality while knowing all along that Kurt Vonnegut would never die because, well ... because he was Kurt Vonnegut, dammit! The author of such ridiculously side-splitting wonders as Cat's Cradle (perhaps my favorite), Breakfast of Champions (a close second), Welcome to the Monkey House (a delightful collection of brilliant, quirky little tales), and the creator of Kilgore Trout, perhaps the most cantankerous, preposterous figure of all literary time, could not die. No, just like that annoying Bob Hope or George whatever (the dude with the cigar and glasses), Kurt would outlive us all (though, of course, the first two did in fact die, but didn't it seem like they never would?). So yeah, we allayed our fears by knowing that Kurt would continue writing his special brand of crazy and making disturbingly funny speeches at colleges across the US forever.

Yet, somehow, this was not to be. Somehow, someone failed to report that he had suffered a head injury at home and had been hospitalized for some time now. (Though that someone still had time to report on the father of Anna Nicole's baby. Give me a fucking break.) Somehow, Kurt proved to be human.

I guess I shouldn't be a sniffling pansy and should just suck it up. I mean, I've never even met the guy (and I totally had a chance to, but just like the time I passed on a Nina Simone concert, my stupidity saw fit to dissuade me from doing so), and he lived for 84 freaking years. That's a pretty long time. But it doesn't matter, I'm still sad and kind of scared. Kurt stands for so many things. I'm not talking about all his political causes, though I was usually in total agreement with him. No, I'm talking about those personal things that he stands for. I'm reminded of the days when Monica and I were best friends, and she introduced me to the Vonnegut. (Hell, sometimes, I even refer to her as Kurt Monnicut.) I'm reminded of the good ole days with Jason in A.P English when we'd laugh and act like asses and eat peanut M&Ms, for Jason too loved the Vonnegut. I'm reminded of those rare moments freshmen year of undergrad when I didn't quite hate being at the most boring and black peopleless school on earth, and my roommate Anisa borrowed my special edition of Cat's Cradle. And most recently, I'm reminded of my first week as a real adult as I taught "Harrison Bergeron" to a bunch of high school freshmen and smiled inside (yes, assholes, I'm allowed to smile on the inside) as a bunch of snot-nosed know-nothings actually displayed some good taste and ate it up. Yep, Kurt's been here for a long time. It's hard to imagine that he'll be here no more.


Rest in peace there Kurt

Doe, a Deer ...

Up.
Early in the morning, dressed in black...

Well, not really. More like drinking green tea.

It's Sunday and the impending Monday dread is settling in the pit of my stomach. I still hate the shortness of weekends. Anyway...

Friday was payday (woooo!) and true to form I spent a chunk of change at a chosen spot (check the technique, losers). This time, Dusty Groove got my money. Rather than talking about my craptacular life, I figured I'd share a little piece of me, something you, dear readers, can take and tuck away in the cockles of your emotional warehouses. Walk with me readers, tour my most recent music purchases and, in doing so, take a tour of through the deepest part of me.

(Let me catch my breath. Okay.)



Most people know that I'll hit you in the face for talking crazy about Extra P. "Queens represent/Buy the album when I drop it." Yeah, I waited and when it did finally drop, a decade or so later, I got two copies, but I digress. Included here, on Breakin Atoms, are some of the best songs ever. I knew that it was the beginning of the end when a dude I was seeing said that he thought "Looking at the Front Door" was just okay. "Watch Roger Do His Thing," pure d. 90s in its earnest tone and drum pattern. Why don't more people praise William's lyrical prowess? Sure, he's no G. Rap or Rakim, but he's no Lil Dap either. One of the best albums of the 90s. If you don't think so, I don't respect you ... at all.



What a disappointment. I'm used to the Island Records Lewis Taylor, the white, slightly more creepy version of Marvin Gaye with sonically enhanced vocals and lush, layered instrumentals. This brit pop/acoustic approach does not do it for me. There is one winner, however; the acoustic version of "Lucky," which originally appears on his '96 self-titled, is a winner. Other than that, tread lightly.



I'm old. See this post for confirmation. I listen to blues artists unapologetically and I like wine coolers. So, my love for Johnnie Taylor is no surprise. I'm sure everyone knows "Last Two Dollars" and "Disco Lady," but the man had a career that spanned decades. This compilation of two of his most ridiculous albums proves why. With song titles like "Your Love Is Rated X" and "Not Just Another Booty Song," you're either a fan or you're not. If you are, pick this one up. The trademark questionable lyrics and husky voice are in full effect.



Eric muthafreakin' Roberson. I do not understand why this guy isn't a star. His songs are quite nice to the shit, he's consistent, he releases an album about every year...I just don't get it. People everywhere should be groovin to good ole Eric. Anyway, this is a live CD and DVD collection of a DC show that he apparently performed almost verbatim here in Chicago. The track list is the same, the interludes are about the same and the "ad libs" are, that's right, the same. Doesn't matter, Eric's a talented dude and deserves all the success he finds. Fans, buy this disc if you'd like live versions of some of his songs. My only gripe is that he chooses to perform some of his more cheesy hits; however, my favorites ("Couldn't Hear Me," "Right Back To You")do appear here as well.



And Eric again. This is his latest studio album and I'm not disappointed. I expected some good shit and I got it. True to form, the first four songs are bangers (his first four songs are always that shit) and the rest plays quite nicely; as a matter of act, I only dislike two songs ("ILuvU2Much" w/ Algebra and the bonus track). Out of fourteen tracks, that's pretty impressive, especially since I consider liking half of an album a triumph (M-Chill says I have the toughest ear in the City).



Yo, this chick's weird. There are no choruses or verses here, just words. The tracks are spacey, bloopy, free jazz-styled hip hop tracks, and she's obsessed with salt having a negative charge. Georgia Anne Muldrow is weird. That said, there are moments here. When she's not being super preachy or howling over tracks that sound like space farts, she's at least interesting, at most kinda engaging. Apparently, she produced, performed, wrote and recorded all 21 tracks, which is impressive. She should actually look into producing for other artists; some of these tracks bump.



Let me admit something, and please don't attack me for it. I have always thought of Marvin Gaye as a crappy singer. Furthermore, I never really gave him credit for having talent as my favorite album of his was pretty much Leon Ware's work (I Want You). I'm sorry, Marvin lovers; I was simply too busy admiring the likes of Donny Hathaway and Stevie Wonder to pay Marvin much attention. To me, he was just a falsettoed ladies' man with some sexy songs, which is a shame since I own or have heard many of his albums that negate this theory, including Trouble Man and What's Going On. So, I finally buy and listen to Here, My Dear. Really. All I can say is, "Oops." He really uses his voice on this album. Pain, laughter, wryness, bitterness--it's all here. It's like a double album precursor to Erykah Badu's "Green Eyes." And who knew that Marvin was so clever, smart, funny and vindictive? Just hand me a late pass on this one cuz I was seriously sleeping. I think it has to do with the personal pain index. I tend not to really appreciate artists until they're forced to emote publicly and on record. His divorce allowed him to do that, so we are now cool. RIP Marvin. Sorry I slept.



I love crazy rappers with senses of humor. Ghost is a crazy rapper with a sense of humor. I love Ghost. See how that wonderful chain of logic works? So, Dusty Groove didn't have More Fish, but they did have this, so I bought it. Unfortunately, I have most of these songs already. Fortunately, they appear on this disk with much better sound quality. Not much to say here. Most of these songs are great ("The Watch," "The Sun"), some suck. If you aren't a bad person who scavenges the Internet to illegally download "lost" Ghostface tracks, I'd recommmend that you get this collection.

Dun Dun Duhhhhhh

So......yeah.

It's about 7:33 in the morning, I'm up, and I thought to myself, "Self, maybe you should write an entry for your blog." So, here I am.

I've been up since about 5:00 and after catching Madame Sousatzka (wonderful movie starring Shirley MacLaine) and crying at its finale (once again), Roshomon is on and I've just had my morning vitamins.

Where to begin.

I think I'm getting to that place where I'm starting to enjoy my job. The first five weeks have been filled with the requisite doubt and frustration and temptation to quit. My eighth period class is a black hole of chaos, and my stupidity in thinking I could teach full time while taking two classes is showing. Despite this, all this, I sat down Friday after my last student had left, after I had entered the five week progress report grades and thought, "Self, these kids are freakin' crazy, but I think we like them." (Brace yourself reader(s), there will be a alot of third person in this post.)

On to the next topic. Did anyone catch that Beats something something documentary about hip hop on PBS? Some dude, former football player and former man's man, decided, after some amount of self reflection, to do a documentary highlighting the issues of misogyny and homophobia in hip hop. It was only an hour long, but it was good. Mind you, there was nothing groundbreaking about his discoveries (at least not to me. you're reading the blog of a girl who wrote rhymes about killing people with her vagina ... seriously), but it's always wonderful to see a person questioning the hegemony they've been force fed. It's especially impressive to see a man take misogyny seriously. I won't go on too long about this. We've heard all the arguments before. I will say that you (yes you) should check your local PBS listings to check for the next airing. I would love a copy to show to my kids. It could possibly spark a lively debate.

What else, what else? Oh, I attended my first union meeting. Incredibly boring and pedantic stuff. Boo! We're probably going to strike in the fall. What an auspicious sign of things to come in my teaching career.


Finally, let me rail against one of my university professors. I won't be extra bogus by typing her name, but I will say that she is wholly ridiculous and inefficient. See, she teaches my SEED/EDUC 480 class, the class one takes to reflect (I now hate this word by the way) on one's teaching, presumably in order to improve. To be fair, I'm clearly going into this situation with a bad attitude. After teaching five periods of rowdy adolescents, one wants to go home to watch mindless sitcoms and eat creamy, delicious foods. Instead, one must trek downtown, pay exorbitant prices for parking (for one is now too good for public transportation), and sit in class while suffering the indignity of being read to, kindergarten style (semi-circle around teacher, legs crossed steeze), from a frickin' children's book every week. That's right, she reads children's stories to us; she's even kind enough to hold the book up to every face in the room after each page so that we can all see the pretty pictures. Worse, she makes some shoddy, tenuous connection to teaching pedagogies after her weekly crusades of demoralization. Example: Last Wednesday, she read a story about some little boy who finds pieces of clay pottery in his town/pueblo/whatever (let me tell ya, SUPER boring). Then, she proceeds to illustrate how this story is much like the deductive reasoning process involved in making sense of data. Huh? Why not just start with the salient stuff? I'm not quite done. Then we use puzzle pieces to further drive her ingenious observations of data collection home. Dude, by the time I leave that three hours of class, I'm ready to whoop (not whip, but whoop) somebody's ass for that shit. I know you face the task of having to fill three hours of instructional time, but dammit you've been teaching for twenty years. Do better! So yeah, can't wait for this to be over.

That's all I've got. See ya when I see ya.

Dude, I'm Tired

So, it's been a month since my last post. I'm clearly spent. I mean down-to-my-last-penny spent.

Teaching is hard. Those who claim the first year of teaching is hell are both accurate and geniuses. I have nothing, absolutely nothing, to give to my blog right now.

Ummm...my eating habits are still healthy, whole wheat products and oatmeal; long live fiber-induced regularity!

Stay posted for posts with actual content.

Oh wait, I'm not done. I've been a CPS teacher for three weeks and I already have venom to spew at both the Board and payroll. Here we go...SCREW YOU ALL!!! That's right, I'm telling you bureaucratic ass clowns to take a flying freak at the mooooooon!!! So, first they (meaning Human Resources) attempt to claim that I imagined the part where I came to their office to fill out stacks of paperwork. Then, payroll attempts to pay me one-third of my salary and expects me to find the rest. Huh? What part of the game is this? You mean after being thrust into a sea of 110 or so teenagers who haven't had order or instruction for 20 weeks and attempting to restore order to the universe, I can't get paid. And on top of that, you don't want to spell my name correctly despite my calling to correct at least three different people in three different departments? really? REALLY? Wow.

compensatory blackness

i was a happy, well-behaved, well (enough)-adjusted little black girl (with a helluva country accent). this was never an issue. i've read the bluest eye; i appreciate and understand the attacks on little black girls as they try to understand and accept themselves. i've read about and talked with other black women, those who once longed for lighter skin and longer or looser hair. the thing is, that that has never been me. i've never had an issue with my skin color or the texture of my hair (well...perhaps it could be thicker). i've never longed for lighter eyes or longer hair. i've never wondered what it would be like to be white.

my comfort in my black skin i'd have to attribute to my father. my daddy is dark-skinned. his brothers are dark-skinned. the majority of his sisters are dark-skinned, with the "lightest" being my color. my father and uncles and aunts did not try to dilute their blackness; they didn't strategically mate in hopes of having children with looser hair or lighter skin. unlike so many who only give public, verbal commendation to the "black is beautiful" motto, my father's family proved that they believed it by choosing partners who were reflections of themselves.

when i was a kid, my father and uncles always bought the black doll for me. my mom bought me a dukes of hazzard nightgown with bo, luke or both on it, and my father went ape shit saying, "my daughter won't prance around with some white man on her chest." he was against my getting a perm (not my decision, more the decision of my mom and my cosmetologist cousin who lived with us at the time). there was never any reason to believe being a little black girl with nappy hair was something to be ashamed of. (perhaps if i were darker i would have felt more pressure to conform. i can recall two of my cousins being repeatedly told that they were "so pretty to be dark-skinned" when the fact is they were just pretty, period. how would i have felt if i weren't middle-skinded [ha!] and neither here nor there in the crazed color spectrum? i'll never know.)

unfortunately, not everyone has had my experience. there are so many women who recount their stories of wishing to be something other than what they are. and then there are those who are what these women longed to be, but they don't feel black enough. often many of these women become victims of what i call compensatory blackness. compensatory blackness is a staunch afrocentrism that ranges from the reasonable to the cartoonishly rabid. i liken it to those promiscuous and generally dissolute individuals who wild out in their youth then find jesus and cling to him like static electrons. often, those who rejected their blackness as adolescents or those who don't feel as if they are black enough demonstrate a dogged determination to prove to themselves and anyone watching that they are indeed black--blacker than blacker than black as a matter of fact. so, out go the suburban friends of childhood and in come the militant black friends; out go the free spirited drum circles, in come the coffee shop poetry slams; out go the wispy perms, in come the locs; out goes "love has no color," in comes "the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice."

i'm not judging (really, i'm not). i'm just making an observation and writing about it. hell, i'm not above admitting that i had an extended nihilistic period of writing angry poetry, sulking in corners, kicking it with other angry, sulky poets, and aggressively decrying all things conformist. it's a part of adolescence; we all go through extreme stages trying to figure out what makes us happy. i applaud the effort as a matter of fact. the fact that people make the effort to confront their issues shows that they're thinking and understand that growth isn't an autonomous process. i'm just gonna need all those in their compensatory blackness stages to contain their enthusiasm, at least around me. i dont need your rhetoric, and i really don't need to read your current treatise on blackness. i am black, have always been black, and will remain black; i don't need the latest disassociated academic to explain to me how to go about maximizing my blackness. that doesn't mean that i don't continue to learn about my/our history. it does mean that you need to respect that our lives do not share the same trajectory, and perhaps i've already mulled over the distinction between black and Black.

cannonize me

I have really gotta get back to my former reading habits. Lately, I haven't read much outside of the stuff I've been teaching, and we all know about required high school reading--canonical, but not necessarily relevant or panoptic. So yeah, I think I'll actually finish my Octavia Butler (RIP) anthology.

I'd be interested in finding out who read what in high school and college in the way of black authors. I have this theory, but it can't be validated until I gather evidence. Myself, I recall Richard Wright, Toni Morrison, and Jamaica Kincaid--the last being a hint of cultural partiality on part of my afrophile undergrad professor. It seems to me that predominately white universities and perhaps black ones (I wouldn't know, I didn't go to an HBCU) tend to cling to those books that describe the black experience in glaringly dramatic ways. Bigger, Sethe, Lucy--all tragic figures that were representative of blackness predominately by virtue of the tragic circumstances of their lives. Now I'm sure that there is more to the black authors-worthy of-academic-study equation, but people tend to cling to very extreme depictions of black life as the most authentic, and feel as if they can finally humanize us because they've found a bit of sympathy for our downtrodden characters. (Bigger Thomas is no more the prototypical black man than Peter Keating is the prototypical white man.) I think this phenomenon is more hurtful than helpful in that whites can point to these extreme portrayals and say, "Now THAT is racism. Clearly black people do not go through these things anymore and therefore do not experience racism anymore."

The thing is, though, that these representations have never been comprehensive. One of my favorite books by Morrison, Paradise, while still dealing with racism, is much more subtle in the handling of the subject and uses it as a parenthetical remark on the lives of the book's characters. Also, because I am absolutely obsessed with gender roles, this books appeals to me for its focus on the tension between men and women when the traditional order is broken. (When are we gonna start dealing with that bullshit, huh?) I think Paradise is every bit as good as Beloved and every bit as worthy of literary consideration; and though I know I'd get a lot of argument from many, because Beloved is almost universally considered the best thing Morrison's ever written, I stand by my assessment. But it is not about Paradise or even Morrison specifically, it's about including more comprehensive representations of black life in the mainstream.

It seems as if black people always have to be struggling for there to be an emotive response from the mainstream culture. If we're not stuck in "hood movies," we're being saved from that same hood by a benevolent white with a heart of gold (hello Hilary Swank). The truth is that we laugh too, and sometimes the struggle isn't as acute as having to kill some muthaphuckas (though we should and more often), but often the struggle is how to react to an underhandedly racist comment without appearing "bitter" or when and how to express ourselves without "offending" more entitled and oblivious people with delicate sensibilities. Black people experience little dilemmas and large ones, and they are all important. There are a zillion authors who know this and deal with the many shades of us delicately and with an intimate knowledge and gift that should be supported. Check the slideshow above. All of those people knew and know that we're nasty and mean and above repute and angelic and conflicted and funny and boring and gay and straight and transgendered too. It's about time we stop allowing the media to vilify or romanticize us; we are just human after all.

Good Reads:

The Farming of Bones (or anything, really) by Edwidge Danticat

Eva's Man by Gayl Jones

Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler

Another Country (again, almost anything) by James Baldwin

The Salt Eaters by Toni Cade Bambara

If any of you would like to tell me about your school-related literary experiences, I'd be grateful. Also, if you've read any good books lately, let me know. I'm always looking for a new book.