Writing My Mind

Fatal Attraction Reaction

2011-11-29T13:08:00.001-08:00

The other night my husband and I watched Fatal Attraction the ultimate cautionary tale for cheating husbands. He posted the fact on facebook and jokingly questioned whether it was a bad idea to watch it with your spouse. It was fine. Though it is difficult not to turn all men into Dan (Michael Douglas' character) when you watch him tromp all over his perfect life.

My husband kept catching me staring holes into him even though he is the best man I know and he is as loyal as they come. He also couldn't help but squirm and tremble a little whenever Alex "the other woman" showed up on screen. She may as well have been wearing the mask from Scream.

Anne Archer as Beth (Dan's bride) is the quintessential wife; beautiful, sexy, fun, trusting. For goodness sake, I'd marry her. The young actress Ellen Hamilton Latzen who plays the daughter Ellen in the film could teach a master class on non-precocious child acting. It's impossible not to buy into their family unit and take it personally that Dan can't keep his pee pee in his pants where it belongs.

I have seen Fatal Attraction at least fifty times. It's right up there with Goodfellas as one of those movies that it's impossible to ignore if you come across it while channel surfing. In college, my friends and I wore the tape out because as theatre majors we were convinced Glenn Close's performance as Alex was the most brilliant of all time. We analyzed her every move. Her performance was so distinct and detailed that we'd rewind scenes and marvel at how her expressions changed and contemplated her subtext. We believed from an acting perspective that Glenn Close's Alex was not evil or psychotic as many men determined but fragile and vulnerable. For years, Glenn Close has defended the character as misunderstood. We agreed.

A great deal has changed since I use to watch Fatal Attraction with my theatre pals. The biggest changes have come in the names of Bill, Thomas, Nora, Audra, and Drea; my husband and kids. This time, when I watched Fatal Attraction it wasn't about Glenn Close's performance at all. I was a Mother and a wife and I was no longer taking Dan and Alex's behavior personally on an intellectual level. This time, everything that happened to Beth (Anne Archer) was happening to me.

There's a scene where Dan watches his daughter practice her lines for the school play. The look of love on his face and the tender way he hugs her when she is finished reminded me of moments Bill has had with the girls. I understood the sweet look on Beth's face as she observed the exchange. There is nothing like seeing your husband get all gooey with his babies. My heart grows three sizes just thinking about it.

Another moment that resonates is when Dan watches Beth get dressed for a dinner party. He sits on the bed and watches her in the mirror with delight as she puts on lotion. She smiles, part shy, part reveling in her husband's attention. Bill has admired me like that whether I am wearing sweatpants or an evening gown. I know exactly how Beth feels.

But in another scene Alex kidnaps Ellen and takes her to an amusement park. They ride a roller coaster while poor Beth drives around like a crazy woman trying to find them. She ends up in an accident and has to wear a giant pathetic looking cast on her arm for the rest of the movie.

I started having an anxiety attack and the anger I felt toward Alex was palpable. How dare she take my--I mean poor Beth's child and put her on a roller coaster? The very idea of someone having the audacity to take my child and put them in peril illicited murderous thoughts in my mind. I don't mean murderous in a metaphoric way either. I. Mean. Murder.

My husband seemed to sense my stress or he was eager to get to the showdown between Alex and Beth in the last scene because he fast forwarded through that section. I was grateful. I don't think I would've handled watching it all that well.

When Dan confesses to Beth about the affair she gets on the phone and tells Alex, "If you ever come near my family again, I'll kill you," and hangs up. What a a bad-ass. She speaks for all Mothers to anyone who dares to f*** with our families. I hoot-hoot hooted, applauded, and fist pumped my support.

Alex was no longer the vulnerable and fragile victim defended by Glenn Close and some obsessed theater students. She was a woman who knew a man was married and slept with him anyway. It takes two to tango. The man doesn't have to do it and neither does the woman.

Sorry Glenn, you're on your own. Still a good movie, though.

I'm Running As Fast As I Can

2011-11-24T09:55:00.000-08:00

I am a runner: which is to say I am not a runner but a "runner wanna be" who started a walk/run program last week and feels really cool. As if I'm a runner. Even though I'm not. It's fun to say, "I am a runner." It's also fun to say, "I"m gonna go for a run." or "I gotta get my run in."

I was perusing an online running magazine and one of the experts told a novice they could call themselves a runner even if they were doing more walking than running. I like that. It seems to me that the running community is an inclusive one with an "I think-therefore-I-am philosophy. I ran into my friend Janelle at Fleet Street in Old Town. She's been running for years. I told her I was just getting started. She said, "Welcome," and gave me a hug. Runners are nice. Maybe runners should run the world.

My chronic body pain does not make me the best candidate for a running program. As I explained in my post "For the Sake of Exercise" having babies has thrown my body out of whack. In the past six months I've also added two herniated discs and physical therapy in order to be able to turn my head without pain or my arms going numb. I should probably be doing yoga or pilates; something with no impact. But I don't wanna. I wanna run. So, I'm gonna try. After all, isn't life in the trying, and the patience, and the perseverance?

So far, I have made it sixteen minutes on the treadmill with no foot pain. Yesterday, I tried to go for twenty minutes and my feet started to hurt. I looked up proper running form on YouTube. I think I'll join the Run Club at the Y and get some tips.

My friend Heidi is a runner and regularly sets goals like 5ks and half marathons. Her baby weight melted off of her and it keeps her sane. When she describes running as her outlet it sounds as romantic as any novel with Fabio on the cover. I want that romance. Just me and the open road, running free.

There's an 1980's film that stars the late Jill Clayburgh called "I'm Dancing As Fast As I Can" It's based on the memoir of a woman named Barbara Gordon; a filmmaker addicted to Valium who suffered a total breakdown when she tried to quit cold turkey, was kidnapped by her live-in lover and ended up institutionalized. Okay, that doesn't relate to my running at all but I do like the title. And I like the fact that even though I'm "running" super slow, I am running as fast as I can. And that is just fine.

I Dream of Pajama Jeans

2011-11-12T06:38:00.001-08:00

I was visiting my dear friend Arlene and bless her heart she opened the door and greeted me with, "You look fantastic. What are those jeans?" I jumped up and down like a twelve year old at a Justin Bieber concert. "You wanna know?" I teased as I removed my jacket in order to reveal the jeans in their full splendor. "They're PAJAMA JEANS!" I exclaimed as I danced and accented my moves with several booty shakes and spins. "No!" Arlene countered. "Yes!" I yawped. "Yes!"

I was out to lunch with my dear friends Lori and Curtis and I could hardly restrain myself, "Wanna know a secret?" I sipped my coffee as I waited for their reply. Lori looked worried and Curtis as usual was non-plussed. "No, I'm not pregnant--I'm wearing Pajama Jeans!" Their reaction was not quite as enthusiastic as Arlene's but I still reveled with pride in my reveal.

Pajama Jeans are denim on the outside and sweatpants soft material on the inside. Pajama Jeans are featured in a fantastic commercial that usually airs late at night or during female-centered programming. When I first saw the commercial I marveled and guffawed. I thought the idea was brilliant if these pants were legit but Pajama Jeans were a punchline in no need of a joke. They are currently skewered in the mainstage show at The Second City in Chicago and the commercial itself is custom made to be mocked.

www.pajamajeans.com

When people say, "Jeans are sooo comfortable," I'm convinced they are lying in the same manner that women lie when they say their eighteen inch stilettos are "Sooooo comfortable." Jeans are constricting, and scratchy, and if they fit correctly I feel like the circulation in my thighs is being cut off. I simply cannot wear them but I like the idea of them. Jeans match everything. You can dress them up and you can dress them down. On occasion, I just want to dress like everyone else. I get sick of jersey or dress pants, and skirts with tights. By the by, for me, tights pose the same challenges that jeans do so I can hardly ever wear skirts in winter.

I wanted Pajama Jeans but I wasn't completely convinced I could get away with wearing them. If they did offer the comfort they promised how could I possibly sport them without people knowing they were Pajama Jeans then consequently pointing and laughing at me behind my back. My dignity was at stake along with my pocket book. Pajama jeans were forty dollars and only available online.

I'd been played before by ordering the Total Pillow online only to be completely disappointed. I couldn't get all my money back because it would have cost me more to ship it back or something along those lines according to the Total Pillow Rep on the phone. He said they'd let me keep it and refund some of my money instead. "So that's how you ensure you make a profit!" I admonished then hung up the phone. I would not be fooled again by taking a gamble and ordering Pajama Jeans no matter how tempting.

Then one fateful day I was at the Dominick's and in the cardboard hut section where they sell anything from therapeutic pillows, to novelty mugs I saw Pajama Jeans. One pair left. In. My. Size. My heart was a flutter and I rejoiced in the fact that I could take them home, try them on, have a good chuckle and then return them because they didn't do what they were suppose to do.

But something incredible happened when I returned home that day. My pajama jeans looked AMAZING. And they were really comfortable. Like sweatpants-after-Thanksgiving-dinner comfortable. Could it be? Had my blue jean prayers been answered?

Arlene went online and purchased a pair for herself before I left her house. She's considering them as presents for several of her friends. Everywhere I go, I am complimented and another woman devoted to her "sooo comfortable" jeans is inspired to buy a pair and know a comfort she's never known before. Pajama Jeans may be the best kept secret around but I feel it's my duty to pass on the good news.

Pajama Jeans! Pajama Jeans! Pajama! Jeans!

Sometimes dreams really do come true.

For the Sake of Exercise

2011-05-16T12:13:00.000-07:00

I have taken Zumba, Cardio-Boxing, Aerobics, Yoga, Balance Ball, Nia, Pilates. I have walked the track, treadmill, lifted weights, power splashed, and balance balled. I have pushed myself under the direction of exercise instructors who wanted me to hurt just a little for a greater gain. And I have hurt. My body has ached for days after a workout and somehow that has meant that I did something good for myself. I was strong and deserved good things.

I have exercised to maintain or lose weight. I've used exercise as a way to stave off the consequences of overeating, a means to battle depression, and as a supplement for control. I've never exercised for pleasure. It's always been an obligation bordering on a chore. Despite that, I've always been a good exerciser. An A plus student who teachers sited as a good example of form and posture. I did every move required of me, never hid in the back, and always stayed until the end.

Then I had my babies.

Audra was 8 pounds, twelve ounces. I had to do physical therapy for a few months after she was born because my pelvis was out of line. I use to walk down the street leaning on her stroller as if it was a walker. After six months, I was able to get back to exercise and felt relatively fine.

Drea was 10 pounds, six ounces; no c-section and my body has never been the same. My muscles are tender like they've been bruised on the inside. My fingers are often numb. My shoulders are tight and in perpetual need of massage. My lower back is kinked and the bones in my feet feel like they might crack if I take the wrong step. According to my doctor, I do not have fibromyalgia and I am as healthy as a horse. Physical therapy did buptkus.

Regardless of these symptoms, I tried all the exercises I used to do because letting go of exercise somehow meant I was weak, would never lose the baby weight and gain an additional one hundred pounds. Inevitably, after a workout, I was left feeling like I'd been dropped off the top of a tall building and landed face first on the pavement. For instance, Nia is an exercise based on fluid, dance like movements. Participants work at their own pace. There is no impact. The median age in the class is usually sixty. The instructor says things like, "You're a wood nymph, a wood nymph! Flit around the room." When I took a class, I worked at a turtle's pace and barely lifted my arms over my head. When the instructor had us circle the room several times, a woman who was 70 if she was a day passed me on the left. The next day I needed a triple dose of Ibuprofen just to get by.

Consequently, I haven't exercised regularly for close to a year and a half and although I like showering first thing in the morning and getting dressed in real clothes as opposed to sweatpants that I end up staying in all day, I miss it.
I took care of the baby weight my losing twenty five pounds with Weight Watchers so I've been alleviated from the pressure to exercise in order to produce results. I've discovered that I miss moving continually though space with purpose for the benefit of my body and mind. Who'da thunk it?

I'd notice AOA on the exercise schedule at the Y for some time now. AOA stands for Active Older Adult. An "Active Older Adult" is anyone fifty five and older interested in classes described as "a combination of chair and standing exercises designed to improve muscular strength and flexibility." Take out the age minimum and they could have been describing me. I decided to try it. I hoped there'd be no reverse age discrimination and they'd welcome me with open arms and let me move my aching bones.

The class was like exercising in a big, warm, hug. The instructor and classmates called me, "Sweetie," and "Honey." At one point, one of the students; a retired music teacher, sang an old Swedish song while we did a combination in our chairs. And it wasn't too easy. The moves were actually challenging to this forty-one-year old-post-partum gal. I have found my Elysian-Fields.

These classes aren't going to burn many calories. They aren't going to train me for Iron Man. But they are going to be a place I can go and give good energy to my body, oxygen to my bloodstream, and peace to my soul. For the first time, exercise will be friend not foe. That has been a long time coming.

Mother's Day; Never Forget

2011-04-18T05:30:00.001-07:00

I remember watching my Mother in the family room ballroom dancing with my Dad while we waited for the babysitter to come.

I remember I told her that I just had to have the Mother Karen Jacket everyone was wearing at school so she stopped making dinner after a full day of work, drove me to a store where they were sold and bought one for me.

I remember Saturday mornings she would wear her hair in two long braids that made her look like a Cherokee Indian and a big kid.

I remember, "Jokes should be far from the truth."

I remember, "If someone trusts you with a secret, keep it." Consequently, I will take a person's secret to the grave unless otherwise directed.

I remember, "Give me five minutes to walk in the door before you start asking for things." I've said the exact same thing to Audra. Payback.

I remember her bringing one shoe to a purse store or a purse to a shoe store in an effort to find the perfect match for an outfit.

I remember she always looked fabulous.

I remember in fourth grade she came to my class and spoke about Haiti then made me wear an elaborate Haitian costume for "The Parade of Cultures" that took place in the gym. I was mortified. She took a lot of time getting that costume together.

I remember crawling in bed with her when I was sick or scared. Best. Sleep. Ever. Audra does it now and I cannot deny her.

I remember her handing me a crumpled brown paper bag on my birthday with an impish grin. It had the Tiffany bracelet I wanted inside.

I remember she saw every performance of my high school production of Mame. I played Mame. The box office knew her by name.

I remember.

I hope she remembers. I hope she knows. She is a good Mother.

I will never forget.

Why a Teacher Oughta Be Rich

2011-03-15T14:15:00.000-07:00

Recently, a former teacher friended me on Facebook. She taught me theatre in high school. In other words, she instilled my work ethic, discipline, and a love of the rehearsal process. She supported my ambition and drive while teaching me how to set a goal and work toward achieving it. On her lunch hour, she would help be practice for auditions. She gave me the one and only A+ of my academic career for a monologue I wrote based on a painting. Most importantly, she saw my talent, not just the color of my skin which was black amongst an almost all white student body. She was Caucasian as well.

Mrs. Barry cast me as Miss. Hannigan in Annie my sophomore year. The boy who played my brother Rooster was white. Nothing in the script was changed. No questions were asked. My junior year she cast me in The Wiz as the Wicked Witch; not Dorothy. The Wiz is the all black musical version of The Wizard of Oz. At the time I was horribly disappointed and indignant. “How could she not cast the only black girl as Dorothy?” I railed to the heavens. I wasn't right for Dorothy. That was how. The character Evilene better suited my comic timing and ability to play broader characters. I wasn't the ingenue then or now. Never will be. Them's the breaks kid.

My senior year, she cast me as Mame. I was playing a musical theatre icon immortalized respectively by Rosalind Russell and Angela Lansbury on stage and Lucille Ball in film.

The character of Mame is a high class Manhattinite with a white nephew. The story is set during The Great Depression and World War II. As Mame, I had white servants and fell in love with a white man from the South. Colorblind casting in traditional LaGrange, Illinois; 1987. Mrs. Barry was not going to let the color of my skin prevent her from casting who she felt was the best candidate for the role. She was a pioneer.

I’d experienced losing a role because I was black in grade school. Nobody told me as much, but I knew. My grade school had four black kids at the time I attended; me, my sister, a girl named Melissa and a boy named Earl. Every year, my grade school did an all-school production. Each grade performed and a group of kids served as narrators tying all the sketches and songs together. The narrator characters were siblings. The conceit was that they found various items in their attic that inspired the scenes they introduced.

I was the only student of color who auditioned for one of the siblings. I kicked some grade school-ass. That’s not ego, I swear. Only a handful of kids auditioned at all. Some were inaudible, others not quite right. I didn't get cast.

After the teacher announced the names of the kids who would play the siblings my face fell and I caught the teacher’s eyes. I caught the teacher, really. Her face was full of shame. Clearly embarrassed, it’s almost as if I could hear her say, “I know. I just can’t. I don’t know how.”

There’s this thing about prejudice or racism that can be hard to understand unless you’ve experienced it, personally. When you feel in your gut that there is a form of prejudice taking place then hands down there is some form of prejudice taking place. It’s the same as thinking you smell gas in the house. You can’t see it or touch it but it’s prevalent. It is there.

The fact that Michaellene Barry, unlike the grade school teacher, did "know how" and didn't go with the safe choice, empowered me. I am no longer an advocate of colorblind casting which asks an audience to overlook the color of a person’s skin. I advocate non-traditional casting which encourages diversity and creativity in the casting process. What matters, though, is at a crucial time in my development, I had someone who did not choose to limit me because I was not white. I had a teacher who took her time and nurtured me. Her attention single-handedly enabled me to believe that hard work mattered; that I mattered. What a priceless gift.

Long Lost Never Forgotten

2011-02-27T15:24:00.000-08:00

I ran into a woman I went to grade school with the other night. My husband and I were at a benefit and she was at our table. I hadn't seen her in almost thirty years. I didn't recognize her right away. When I first saw her, I felt she was familiar but I couldn't place her. I didn't even try to do the math. I just figured she looked like someone I knew once.

At one point, everyone started introducing themselves. When I gave my name she spoke it with me and then said my last name with a big smile. "How? How?" I asked as I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders trying to convey that I felt like I knew her but couldn't figure out why. She told me her name was Laura then said, "St. John of the Cross." Our grade school. A rush of warm feelings came over me. I had the fondest memories of this girl; now a woman. I realized that she looked exactly the same. Her hair was still down to her back. Always tall, she was now six feet. In school, she had a light, joyful energy and she was always nice to me.

We weren't quite friends in school. She was in the grade ahead of me with my sister Lissa who passed away over twenty years ago. Spending time with someone who knew my sister and is currently the age Lissa would be had she lived put my head in a strange place. I wanted to move across the table, change seats with her husband and sit next to her; up close. Throughout dinner, I kept looking her way hoping she wouldn't catch me staring. She was a window into Lissa's past and unwritten present. Laura had four kids. Lissa could have had four kids. Laura had a Masters in Education. Lissa was in college at the time of her death. Would she have graduated and gone on to get a Masters Degree, too? Who would she have been?

Laura and I had a lovely chat and everyone at the table was delighted by the small-world-wonder of our encounter. Somehow it felt as if Lissa was there because someone who shared in her life was there. Through Laura, I felt Lissa's presence.

I miss my sister. Her birthday is today. She would have been forty-two. It's been so long since she died that there are few people who are currently in my life who even knew her. My husband has never met her. My three year old daughter doesn't yet know that she has another Aunt who is in heaven. It's hard to know when to introduce the concept to someone so young. I had an opening when we were reading together but I chickened out. The moment is coming soon. She will know about her Aunt Lissa. This I swear.

I'm grateful that synchronicity, or serendipity, or chance, grace, or God put me at the table with my long lost past. My sister. Long lost. Never forgotten.

Reach Out And Leave Me Alone

2011-02-14T13:38:00.000-08:00

On March 6th, 2010 I posted an entry entitled "Parental Theatre" "The problem is," I wrote,"that as parents we haven’t given people (outside family or paid employees) the permission to help us even though we desperately need it." This was in reference to being left alone to handle my two and a half year old's tantrum in a restaurant. Nine months pregnant and utterly defenseless, I was convinced that strangers should have stepped in and offered their assistance. I claimed that I would not have been offended. With a kumbaya-spirit, I encouraged people to reach out and help me and each other.

Fast forward to February 14, 2011. I had to run a quick errand with my now three and half year old and nine month old daughter. My oldest, dressed in her princess-best informed me she did not want to go by screaming at the top of her lungs and throwing her hat at me while I tried to finish a conversation on the phone while parked in the lot of the grocery store. Her screaming and whining continued throughout every aisle while I tried to get what I needed and did my best to ignore her.

I'm a fan of letting kids cry. Let me clarify. When my daughter is in full meltdown mode and I know she is not in jeopardy I see no reason in trying to manage her tantrum. Reacting only fuels her fire. So, I let her kick, yawp, and moan. People marveled at her lung capacity and longevity as they passed by. In between deep cleansing breaths, I teetered between losing it and laughing it was so absurd.

At our last stop, Audra had convinced herself that something actually was wrong and was full on crying, with tears, red cheeks, quivering lips; the works. I made sure she wasn't sitting on something sharp, her temperature hadn't suddenly spiked, and she hadn't swallowed anything poisonous. She was fine so I recommitted to ignoring her after I wiped her tears and said, "I'm sorry you are upset."

Then, Grocery Store Lady (a store employee) flew up to the cart. "What's wrong, sweetie? Are you having a bad day?" Audra's fingers were in her mouth. "Is something wrong with your teeth honey? Are you teething?" Audra nodded. Audra is three. She wasn't teething but she had finally gotten her audience. "Oh," the woman empathized. Audra's crying reached the stratosphere. "That can really hurt," Grocery Store Lady informed me. Thank God. I had no idea teething hurt. "Can I give you something? Will that make you feel better?" Audra nodded, again. "Is that okay, Mom?" the woman asked. Nice of her to ask me after she already asked Audra. Even though I knew it would be a quick fix, I didn't want to reward Audra for her behavior. I told the woman I didn't think it was a good idea but the disappointment on Grocery Store Lady's face made me buckle under the pressure.

The woman went behind the counter and started blowing up a pink balloon. I looked at Audra who had a most satisfied grin on her face. We stared each other down like Clint Eastwood impersonators. Her smile grew wider and I had to hold my face tight so I wouldn't show any teeth. Audra-One. Mom-Zero. Grocery Store Lady-Below Zero because she should have stepped aside and not gotten up in my bizness. I didn't need her help if it was going to get in the way of what I was trying to do. I mean, did she think I wasn't aware that Audra was crying? Did she think she was saving the day by coming to the aid of this poor child whose death Mother couldn't hear her cries? Why didn't she pick up on the I-am-ignoring-you tactic I was clearly employing?

Grocery Store Lady couldn't have known what I needed, of course. She is not a mind reader. Nor is she my co-parent. Not her job. Now I see that unsolicited help is not helpful. Help when there is some cue that the parent wants help is helpful. So, forget most of what I said in that other post (though some of it is still very wise) Instead, remember, in most areas of life, keep your eyes open, don't judge and stay out of people's carts (especially when there is a kid in it.)

In Defense of Barbie

2011-01-01T07:24:00.001-08:00

Recently, I lost myself in the Barbie Exhibit at the Indianapolis Children's Museum. As soon as I hit the entrance I was swept into to all the good feelings of my childhood. As my three year old daughter busied herself at the Barbie reception desk and spoke on the Barbie princess phone, I could hardly wait to run ahead and take in all the sights.

There were life size Barbies in gowns, Barbies in haute couture by designers like Vera Wang and Bob Mackie. She wore an elaborate get-up with a mermaid tail that would fit right in at a Miss. World Pageant. Barbie represented every decade. She apparently ran for President and was a Soccer Star. Barbie was there in every version a grown woman, er little girl desired.

My husband sat in a corner of the exhibit waiting patiently with a rueful grin as I ran around with a smile from ear to ear. He doesn't like Barbie. He'd rather not have his daughters play with her because he believes she upholds an impossible ideal that makes girls hate their own appearance.

Granted if the original 1959 Barbie were real, her measurements would have been 39-18-33. Poor thing would have cracked in two. Mattel has since adjusted the measurements but I'm certain her traits aren't anywhere near the plus size region. Ooh, Plus Size Barbie! I like it. They did have the Rosie O'Donnell Barbie for a minute. That was progress, right?

Unlike my husband, I want our daughters to play with Barbie. When he protests, I argue that I played with her and turned out just fine. (Insert his joke here.) I tell him it never bothered me that I didn't look like a doll who was 11.5 inches tall. Besides being average height, my skin is black, my hair was in pigtails, and I wore glasses. I didn't want to look like any of my dolls; not even Black Barbie. Looking like Barbie wasn't the point of playing with Barbie. The point was to use my imagination. Barbie helped develop my creativity and sparked my desire to tell stories.

I created obstacles for her to overcome; triumphs and failures. I mixed and matched her outfits, and transformed the couch in my basement into a two story home by making the cushions the upstairs and the area in front of the couch the family room and kitchen. I could play Barbie for hours without ever thinking about turning on the television. I learned about focus and follow through.

I played with Barbie until the seventh grade; past the socially acceptable age in my neck of the woods. I was part of a secret society of girls. We were sort of like Fight Club. Rule #1--You did not speak about Barbie. A few key words and nods of the head helped us recognize each other in plain sight.

I am way, way, past my Barbie playing years but I want to thank her for always being there, never judging me, doing whatever I wanted, and making me very happy. No harm done here.

Spiderman: Turn Off The Light

2010-12-25T07:08:00.000-08:00

"Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark" previews have been riddled with multiple injuries and technical snafus. Both shows were cancelled on December 22nd. Opening night was supposed to be January 11th, now it it has been postponed to February 7th. One of the performers is in the hospital after a thirty foot fall from a platform. The stuntman was attached to a cable that snapped. He was supposed to fly. Instead he plummeted--Stuntman? Wait a minute is this theatre or film?

Flying in the theater has been done before thanks to stalwarts like Peter Pan and Mary Poppins. The actors soar through the air, the audience is dazzled, the moment passes and the story proceeds. In "Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark" the characters spend all sorts of time in the air. They fly around engaging in aerial combat; executing cirque-de-soleil-type stunts. There is that word again: stunts. Is "Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark" trying to be a musical for the stage or a movie on stage?

If a stuntman for a movie is asked to take a leap from a thirty foot platform he is asked to do it a minimum number of times. When they are asked to take that same leap on stage eight times a week are the creators stretching the limits of the stage? Should there be limits to the stage? Is that a bad thing?

The show's creator Julie Taymor boasts about the complex flying and visual effects. The budget for the show is estimated to be $65 million. That sounds like movie money to me. By having the performers in Spiderman fly over and over executing death defying acts is Taymor blurring the line between what can or should happen on stage and what can happen in film? Do the producers of theater feel compelled to compete with films like Avatar and Yogi Bear 3D? Stage and film are different mediums for a reason.

When Julie Taymor thrilled the theater world with her stage interpretation of Disney's film "The Lion King" she found ingenious ways to theatricalize the cinematic. She let the audience fill in the blanks and see that actors were portraying the wild animals by melding the human form with masks and puppetry.

None of the press about "Spiderman: Turn off the Dark" has had anything to do with the acting, music or lyrics. The word on the street is that all of those things are quite weak.

What about the story? Julie Taymor calls it a rock and roll circus drama. Then Bono (yeah that Bono) who wrote the music and lyrics says, "We've moved out of the rock and roll idiom in places...including big show tunes and dance songs. U'2's The Edge: a co-creator is unsure of what description to use for the production. Bono has also deemed it "pop- up, pop-art opera" which he then admits is pretentious. Taymor has also told brokers that it isn't a musical. Is this show so good it defies description? Or is it so bad that it defies logic?

Meanwhile, performers are risking their lives doing things they probably shouldn't be doing. Christopher Tierney the young man who fell thirty feet underwent back surgery on Wednesday and his family is celebrating that he can walk again.

There is something insidious about pushing the limits this far most likely for profit rather than improvement of the content. The collateral damage is mounting. Maybe "Spiderman: Turn off the Dark" should turn out its light and be the most expensive Broadway show ever to be produced that never opens.

The Wave

2010-12-05T06:06:00.001-08:00

Ah, the wave. Not your garden-variety-crowd undulation that happens at sporting events. I'm talking about the conciliatory wave that driver's give one another when one has yielded to the other. I love that wave. I consider it one of the final vestiges of humanity. I depend on it. When I get it, my faith in mankind is refreshed. When I don't get it, I am offended.

The least a person could do after you have made their day a little easier in traffic is throw up their hand and acknowledge the kind gesture. Do the people who don't wave feel entitled? Are they some kind of royalty who assume that people should defer to their presence? Just who is it that they think they are?

Recently, a guy on Facebook took the time to post the law in Illinois that states a driver doesn't have to stop when an ambulance passes with sirens blazing they only need to slow down. How stupid people are for stopping instead of slowing down, he argued. If only these simpletons knew the letter of the law these idiots would not get in his way when he: Mr. Smarty Pants, simply slowed his roll in deference to peril. Clearly, wherever he needs to be in these moments is far more important than where any ambulance might need to be. Really, buddy?

Despite my new knowledge of this factoid I will always come to a full stop when an ambulance needs to get through. If there is an ambulance there is an emergency. Something bigger than myself. I can stop. Just because we don't have to doesn't mean we shouldn't.

If it's a firetruck rushing to get a cat out of a tree or a policeman turning on his lights just to get through, I'm going to stop. I'm going to wave when people are kind enough to let me go and I'm going to continue to let people go ahead of me. Cause that's how I roll, T-style.

To quote Jon Stewart in his final speech at The Rally to Restore Sanity in Washington, D.C. "And yet these millions of cars must somehow find a way to squeeze one by one into a mile long 30 foot wide tunnel carved underneath a mighty river... You go. Then I’ll go. You go. Then I’ll go. You go then I’ll go... Well, that’s okay—you go and then I’ll go."

Err on the side of decency and kindness. "You go then I'll go." There's a mantra I'd like to have sweep the nation.

Is the "B" Word the New "N" Word?

2010-11-22T13:04:00.000-08:00

In one week I heard Joy Behar of "The View" call GOP Nevada Senate candidate Sharron Angle a bitch and Sharon Osbourne of "The Talk" call Marie Claire columnist Maura Kelly the same word. For what reasons? That shouldn't matter.

If any of the Joy or Sharon were men their self expression would have been met with protests and most likely firings. Instead, Behar and Osbourne were met with enthusiastic applause by mostly female audiences. I smell a double standard. If a woman calls another woman a bitch is it somehow acceptable? In their defense, would Joy or Sharon use the same rationale that some black people use when justifying their use of the "n' word? The whole "we"-can-say-it-but-"you"-can't mentality doesn't work for me. When they tv hosts spit the word out I cringed in the same way I would if a man had said it. I don't know why the audience applauded.

I don't think girls or women should call one another bitches. I think it makes it easier for boys and men to call girls and women bitches. We don't need to make it easy for them.

And if a woman is critical of another woman's behavior than I think they should get articulate and use words that actually dissect the behavior, pinpoint their issue with it and offer a thoughtful counterpoint. There is no dialogue after someone smacks a label on another person. Nothing can be gained except the temporary satisfaction that comes from getting a feeling off your chest.

Women, don't let other women call other women bitches. It's a bully tactic. We have to be better than that.

Take Palin's Show and Shove It

2010-11-22T11:04:00.000-08:00

I have a confession to make. I watched the debut of that Sarah Palin show on TLC. To be honest I watched it as one might watch a car accident. With Sarah Palin I find it hard to avert my eyes. The first episode introduced beautiful Alaska (which I had never thought twice about) and a somewhat human side of a person I had fairly or unfairly reduced to robot status.

By her own design, Sarah Palin has turned herself into a caricature of herself and this show helped undo that for about an hour. Granted whenever she addressed the camera directly, she was the same old persona that was born the night of her first debate with Joe Biden. (Remember,"Can I call ya Joe?" only as a set up for "There ya go, Joe.") But when the cameras caught her at home focused on the computer rather than her teenage daughter's male friend sneaking upstairs, or her genuine panic when she attempted to scale the side of a mountain, she came across as a woman I could actually tolerate. For example, if she was one of the Mothers of my daughter's preschool classmates I could manage some small talk while we waited for them to be dismissed without having to bite the sides of my cheeks in order to force myself not to roll my eyes. Maybe. I watched for that hour and thought, "Huh, Sarah Palin. Huh."

Cut to the second airing of Sarah Palin's show on TLC. This episode followed Sarah and Bristol Palin as they joined some commercial fisherman angling for Halibut. I appreciate Sarah Palin's love for the outdoors and her willingness to try anything. I appreciate it in the same way that I appreciate any outdoorsy-types because it is so unlike me. I proudly consider myself an Indoorsman. I love the indoors and I don't apologize. But I don't appreciate watching Sarah and Bristol clubbing the caught halibut between the eyes in order to ensure that the skin isn't bruised (which would diminish their value) as they flopped around on the bottom of the boat. I don't appreicate the footage in the "coming up" preview that showed the fisherman cutting the halibut's throat and chopping it's head off. It was gross and pornographic in it's graphic nature.

Yes, I eat fish. Yes, I am aware that a fish have to die in order for me to eat it. What bothers me the most is the detachment and glee Sarah Palin displayed. It bothers me even more because Sarah Palin has the right to edit anything out of the program she wishes. She is fully in charge of the message so it makes me question why she wants to send a message like that.

I suspect Sarah Palin is not interested in me. I suspect she is interested in people just like her. "Sarah Palin's Alaska" on TLC is no recruitment video. She doesn't seem to care who she disgusts; literally or figuratively. Her take-my-life-or-shove-it attitude is what made me roll my eyes in the first place.

Sarah Palin, huh? Huh.

Moving Target

2010-03-15T11:06:00.000-07:00

I have a dress from Target that I purchased this summer. There is no shame in my confession. Target has become the go-to store when I need something, cheap, fashionable and most importantly, comfortable. This dress is from the Mossimo line which has become a staple in my wardrobe. Whenever I need anything: a skirt, a top, a casual frock and have looked around (even at more expensive fancy schmancy stores) I often end up finding exactly what I want from that designer. Yes, designer. That’s what I said. Target has name designers that contribute to their selections. Due to the volume of women who need reasonably priced alternatives it would be foolish not to get in bed with the mega-chain.

This dress is creme with lavender, black and beige markings that look as if someone drew on the material with thick chalk. It has a v-neck and short sleeves that hang loose and unfitted around my arms. There is no waist which makes it perfect when the idea of anything hugging my middle is as desirable as wearing a fur in summer. (Not that I’d wear fur in any season. I’m opposed to fur. Go Peta!)Basically, the dress is completely shapeless but when it falls on your body it skims your curves in the right places and looks quite pretty. It is a welcome relief when I don’t feel like wearing anything but my pajamas outdoors. “Attention designers! Ready –to wear- pajama-inspired-clothes will sell like Girl Scout Cookies. You won’t be able to keep your stuff on the racks.”

The other thing about this dress that makes me love it so is that I’ve been able to wear it during my pregnancy. The fact that it is not maternity clothes makes me feel like I’m Gisele Bundchen who recently stated she was able to wear all her regular clothes during her pregnancy and barely gained any weight. This was paired with a post pregnancy picture of her looking runway-read while carrying her three month old son. I was so happy for her when I saw that. I really was.

I am eight months pregnant and I am wrestling with something that could make or break the next fifty-six days. I am huge. There is no other word to describe it. I weigh approximately the same as I did at the end of my last pregnancy but overall I‘ve gained less weight. Does that make sense? Unlike Gisele, I never made it back to my starting weight after my daughter was born but strangely, like Gisele, I was able to get back into all the clothes I wore pre-pregnancy and felt relatively good about myself so all was well. Even though I’ve gained less weight I’m the same size I was in my previous ninth month but I’m only in my eighth month which means I’m slowing down much sooner, uncomfortable much earlier and-ready-to-pop-big for much longer. This needs a diagram.

Did I mention I’m big? My side profile is something to behold. I could rival Hitchcock’s shadow. I think my breasts weigh three pounds each and my butt is bootylicious to say the least. Here’s the thing. Here is what I am wrestling with. None of this has to be bad a thing. I’m pregnant. Why not enjoy this last hurrah and love my largesse?

That question brings me back to the Mossimo dress because what started out as a super-cute non-maternity-option in the beginning and middle of my ten months (yes, we’re pregnant for ten months but we’ve been lied to and told it’s nine) is now on the verge of looking like a super- cute- tarp. Some might suggest I stop wearing it due to this transition. I suggest that I keep wearing it and let go of this illusion that at this point anything I wear could make me look skinny. It shouldn’t matter that the dress covers my butt and stomach like a spray tan. I’m frickin’ comfortable. Comfort is all that matters.

I bought a couple more maternity tarps recently and I feel quite sexy in them. I wear them with black boots and I’m convinced I look good. When I first purchased them, I stopped by my sister’s place to try them on and get her approval. (I do this whenever I’m uncertain of an item pregnant or not) She always tells me the truth. She looked me over from the front view and said, “Cute.” When I showed her my side profile she said, “Well, what are you gonna do?” Not exactly the response you want to hear from someone evaluating how you look but in the end it pushed me to answer the question. “What was I gonna do?” Nothing, I decided. Nothing other than wear those dresses and anything else that doesn’t constrain me.

I’m going to look in the mirror and accept myself. Did you just read that? I’m going to look in the mirror and accept myself. My goal is that this mantra carries on when I am not pregnant no matter how long it takes me to lose the weight or whether I ever do. Maybe, I won’t have a built in excuse like pregnancy to be big but if I follow this new code of acceptance I won’t feel I need to make excuses. We all do the best we can, don’t we? If we’re not doing the best we can there’s a reason holding us back that is probably begging us to give ourselves a break.

None of this is easy and I certainly have my moments of doubt. The other day I wore a Monica-Lewinsky-inspired, blue, short sleeved, knee length dress with a belt. I walked through a hallway where I teach and some college students were waiting outside a classroom. Every single one of them looked at my stomach as I passed by. I don’t know what they were thinking but it was hard not to feel self conscious in that moment.

I’m a moving target. Where else are they supposed to look? Why do I assume they were thinking something bad? Conditioning, that’s why. We women are taught to cover and hide anything that doesn’t fall in line even when we are blessed with child. You would have thought Gabourey Sidibe (the Academy Award nominee for her searing performance in Precious) had murdered someone in Howard Stern’s family the way he spoke of her weight on air."There's the most enormous, fat black chick I've ever seen. She is enormous," he described as if her weight relinquished her from any rights. His sidekick and enemy to women Robin Quivers agreed. Whether the actress is obese or not the hatred Stern expressed was undeserved and gives fuel to the fear of fat women feel on a daily basis.

Each time I reach for clothes I have to do a quick check of my confidence meter. Can I pull this off today? Will I not be moved? Today the answer was no. I wanted to wear this new dark tan ruffley number but I forgot my mantra and put on black pants and a shirt. The shirt isn’t fooling anybody but I feel a little less out there. Maybe I’ll change my outfit later after I look in the mirror and accept myself then conquer my world with pride.

Parental Theatre

2010-03-06T06:56:00.000-08:00

Parental Theatre

I realized something March 4th at the Panera Breads on Church Street in Evanston at approximately 12:30p. If you were there at that time then I ask you to take a good long look at yourself. I was with my dear two and a half year old Audra in yet another attempt to convince myself that it’s possible to take her to lunch right before her naptime.

Whenever I lunch with Audra I’m aware that our time is limited. Whatever she is eating is the only thing that keeps her still for an extended period of time. I’m like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz when she’s locked in the Wicked Witch’s castle and she stares hopelessly at the sand in the hour glass knowing as soon as it is empty her fate is sealed. While I eat my food I keep one eye on whatever she is eating with a lower grade version of Dorothy’s desperation. If she finishes before I do I’ll either 1) be forced to eat much faster than I’d like or 2) be forced to get a to-go box for the rest of my meal.

Unless I am with someone who is able to keep Audra interested while I eat there is just no point in trying to fight the pending battle. Audra likes to move and wiggle, wander and climb. On an average day she risks her life at least four times. In a restaurant the potential for danger is high so once she is out of her seat it is pretty much time to go. Plus, I don’t want her behavior to interrupt other patrons. I’m not one of those parents convinced that everyone wants to be around my child. I try to anticipate the point where she is no longer a cute distraction to other adults and leave them with their peace.

That being said, I’d appreciate a little consideration on the part of the adults I am trying to protect. In public I am currently a sight to behold. I am approximately nineteen months pregnant and although I like to think that the signature scarves I wear around my neck camouflage my stomach I am quite huge. There is no mistaking that I am a big ole pregnant lady already blessed with a very active child. One might think I would be spared from nasty sideway glances as Audra starts to get agitated. One might look with empathy and give a woman a break or some aid. Apparently, not.

Here is what I realized. People like to watch the theatre of parenting when they are not parents or if they are parents on leave from their own charges. It so easy to sit in the balcony, look down and judge that fat lady wrestling with a little girl who is practicing her right to civil disobedience by going limp and falling to the floor like a sixties protester while whining or screaming or both. Somehow the notion of helping said fat lady doesn’t occur to any of these folks as they drink their drinks and slurp their soups.

When in the throes of battle, it is intrinsic to a two-and-half-soon-to- be-big-sister’s knowledge base to make it impossible for her Mother to lift her. When she dissolves to the ground in a fit, my bending over to lift her would likely result in a face plant where I’d sprawl across her, crushing her with my girth while smooshing my unborn child. Nobody needs to see that, do they?

I admit I might be taken aback if a stranger walked up to us in one of those moments and tried to help. Their approach would determine how I would respond (I’m not asking for unsolicited advice here) but I’ve never had the chance to gage what I’d do because nobody every offers as much as a sympathetic glance. At least nobody at the Panera Breads on Church Street in Evanston on March 4, 2010 at approximately 12:30p lifted a bagel in my direction.

Here’s a question:

“People of The Evanston Panera on Church Street! Why didn’t anyone offer to help me get her to her feet? I know there were Mother’s disguised in business clothes who at least once in their lives were in the exact same predicament as me. Why did you look around and over us sneaking glances but never look directly into the eye of our storm!? I know! Because even though a child throwing a tantrum in a restaurant interrupts your plans for lunch, there is another part of you who secretly enjoys the entertainment value of watching somebody else’s torture. In this case a defenseless pregnant Mother. It’s the same reason we get stalled in traffic by a gaper’s block and shows like 48 hours and Dateline are so popular! Why else would those “To Catch a Predator” exposes have been so highly rate? We love an ugly scene as long as it isn’t ours! Shame on you! Shame! Shame!” Boy it was good to get that off my chest!

Now I realize people aren’t all bad. We wouldn’t have the type of money raised for Haiti or a strong volunteer force in this country or any other feel good stories about stranger’s lending a hand that are featured at the end of the local news if people weren’t inherently good. The problem is that as parents we haven’t given people (outside family or paid employees) the permission to help us even though we desperately need it.

Giving permission would involve telling the truth about how difficult parenting can be and how almost nobody gets it right on a regular basis. I know there were people in that Panera whose inner dialogue included, “My God, can’t she control her own child?” If they’d asked me directly my answer would have been, ”No, I can’t control my own child! Isn’t that obvious? You have way more of a chance of getting her to do what I want her to do. Try! Go ahead and see!”

Giving permission would mean that I wouldn’t play a part in the Parental Theatre by performing the role of the “Patient Mother” who speaks in low calm tones and gets down to her daughter’s level (when I can manage) in order to gently hold her face and look her right in the eyes. In life, I do try to be that Mother but in certain instances it is nearly impossible to keep all those components together. Instead of indicating to anyone around me that I’m about to lose it, I project a serene demeanor and a sweet smile for anyone who catches my eye. Maybe they think I’ve got it under control due to my bravura performance. Well, I don’t.

One of the things that works the best when it comes to getting Audra to step in line is when I warn her with, “Aunt Gina wouldn’t like that ,” or “Ann and Del won’t allow your Princess slippers in class so you need to leave them at home.” Any time I warn her with another authority figure’s opinion of her there is an immediate change in her behavior. Do you think she’d give a hooey if I say I don’t want her to wear them? Heck no!

There are child experts who would say, “Good job, Mom. She ignores you because she feels safe and secure with you and knows you won’t abandon her, blah, blah, blah.” Great! In the meantime, I. Need. Help. The saying, “It takes a village,” is the right idea but the word village indicates people we know. I advocate that it takes a community: sometimes a community of people we don’t know.

So, if you see a black very pregnant woman with a light skinned, curly haired two and half year old girl having at it at PANERA in Evanston or a book store or grocery store I promise I won’t be offended. I’ll be grateful. Ask how you can help and I will tell you. “Get her to her feet, please.” “Find a way to make her laugh.” “Take her for a few hours and I’ll call you later.” What!?

Now, I feel exposed and hope others feel the same lest this is all proof that I am a bad Mother and everyone else can control their children and I’ll be hearing from child welfare soon. Truth begets vulnerability. I am exposed but maybe next time a pregnant Sister will get a hand.

To Haiti, with Love

2010-01-18T09:07:00.000-08:00

I love Haitian people. That probably sounds like a racist generality along the lines of "I love black people," or "Some of my best friends are...fill in your blank." Let me clarify. I am Haitian. Second generation. One Hundred percent. My parents have inhabited America for forty-five years but they are Haitian to their core. Not one ounce of them reads American. Their accents are strong, their French and Creole are in tact, and their perspective is other. They. Are. Haitian. And I love Haitian people. But it isn't just my immediate family that I love. When I hear a stranger on the street release the song of a Haitian voice whether it be in accented English or French I introduce myself and tell them I am Haitian, too. I adopt them as an Auntie or Uncle, cousin, friend. We speak in French. Theirs is beautiful. Mine not so much. I try to excuse my American accent and compromised speech by explaining that I understand French better than I speak it because English was already in my household when I learned the language due to my older sister attending school. I forge ahead in the conversation because I love them and the sounds coming from their mouths. Haitian-French doesn't sound like Parisian-French. Parisian-French is light, clipped and whispers like a secret. Haitian-French is a loud, rich, lilting, musical, expressive echo of place and time that transports and connects me to anything good about my childhood. If invited, I would gladly follow my new Haitian relative home in hopes of meeting more Haitians. Maybe I would stay for a home cooked meal of chicken, red beans and rice, with plantains, pate and soup. I love Haitians.

I am an actress. Throughout my career, I have attempted to master the Haitian accent. I'd like to say I have played many Haitian roles or as an artist it was simply an accent I wanted for my toolbox. In actuality, I wanted to learn the accent in order to perfect the imitation of my Mother's voice for when I told stories about her. It's a great touch to throw in the accent whenever I say, "Then, my Mother said..." She's a real hit at parties. I recorded my parents in a series of interviews on various topics. On one tape, my Mother describes the Haitian accent as passionate, and rhythmic. Nothing is said with a soft touch. The simple is complex and everything; even "it" has meaning. I like that. The attack of the language makes one stand up and pay attention. I have never met a native Haitian without presence. My parents are two of the most commanding presences I've ever witnessed.

In addition to my emotional attachment to Haitian people, I happen to think they are one of the most physically beautiful people in the world. My grandmother's face was the essence of Haitian features. Her jaw line was square, cheekbones high, nose: broad. She was not tall. Her body carried nine children so her breasts were ample and her figure full but not fat. Her skin was Crayola-Crayon-Brown, unblemished and wrinkle free. Gray hair pulled back in a bun couldn't age her. Almond shaped eyes projected a fierce self-pride and the key to an inner knowledge that left me drawn to her. My Father's Mother, Christiane Andre Richard was the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.

Haitian pride and spirit is easily caught in the most casual of photographs. When posing in pictures, my parents, aunts and uncles don't smile. Instead, their chins jut out with a slight lift. Their shoulders are back and they look directly into the camera emanating pride. That is a happy pose in their minds. When I was a kid I often posed the same way. There is a picture of our family at my sister Lissa's eighth grade graduation. We all take that stance. Despite our ages, (I am twelve, Lissa is thirteen and Gina is seventeen) we look like sixty year old women holding the secret to life. My Father is tall with the same color brown skin as his Mother and he looks like the Haitian Sidney Poiter in a tailored blue suit. My Mother is simply gorgeous in a peach suit fashioned to a T with stunning accesories and styled hair. We are stunning. We are Haitians. Occasionally in pictures, my two and half year old daughter strikes the pose. My husband, step-kids, me, even our dog will be smiling ear to ear and she stares down the lens with shoulders thrown back like she is daring it to try and make her less proud. "It's the Haitian in her," my husband will say. It's in our blood.

I was part of a Haitian prayer circle that consisted of my parents, sister Gina, and three Haitians who came to our house after my sister Lissa died at age twenty two. This was eighteen years ago, now. The woman leading the prayer directed us into a circle to hold hands. This was not typical fare for my sister and me. Despite our sadness we had to avoid looking at each other in order not to laugh. The woman launched into a repetitive chant in French. She sang at the top of her lungs and released all the pain she felt and we felt but had yet to express. In an almost trance like state she pounded through the prayer, raised her head up and back, threw it down, rocked and swayed. I was horrified. I was desperate to laugh as a way to keep myself from being swept into her wave. It was one of the most intense experiences of my life.

Now I can't guarantee that her style of grieving was based solely on the fact that she was Haitian but it was certainly representative of the power of Haitian people. She unleashed it all, refusing to let the pain infect her or pin her down. Consequently, I was nailed to the ground by it. That woman could have stopped a train with her prayer. That is the Haitian spirit. As you listen to the news, don't just focus on the sorrow. Seek out the melody of a Haitian's voice. Look at their face and eyes. Love their beauty. Whether mourning, fighting, dying, laughing, dancing, celebrating, living, their spirits can stop this quake. See them. Love them.
Then, help them.

.

Tania Come Lately

2009-03-09T19:29:00.000-07:00

I haven't written lately because I'm too busy being a Mommy. I haven't written lately because I don't have anything to say. I haven't written lately because my workouts have been going very well. I haven't written lately because my body has been aching and it hurts to sit down. I haven't written lately because I am happily married. I haven't written lately because Audra is really cute. I haven't written lately because I have yet to write the Great American Novel. I haven't written lately because Michelle Obama is only 45. I haven't written lately because I like reality television and it's easier to channel surf than think. I haven't written lately because I have a sun deficiency. I haven't written lately because I had to do my taxes. I haven't written lately becaues I'm scared. I haven't written lately because I'm a scaredy cat. I haven't written lately because I'm scared. I haven't written lately because I'm a scaredy cat. I haven't written lately because I forgot my password. I haven't written latley because I'm on Facebook. I haven't written lately because The Bachelor just ended and American Idol has begun. I haven't written lately because Audra wakes up early. I haven't written lately because I've taught myself to cook. I haven't written lately because I'm learning some new monologues. I haven't written lately because I finished reading a book. I haven't written lately because I finished my taxes. I haven't written lately because i've had some auditions. I haven't written lately because I have some constipation. I haven't written lately because I eat a before bedtime snack. I haven't written lately because I need to transfer a balance on my credit card. I haven't written lately because sometimes I feel fat. I haven't written lately because I don't know how to advertise my blog. I haven't written lately because--Oh, I have written lately. Well, that was easy as that.

Future So Bright

2008-12-29T15:11:00.000-08:00

I don't think I can watch the inauguration. I imagine I'll get too overwhelmed. The effect will be similar to the consequence of looking directly at the sun. I will have to look away lest I burn my eyes. It is simply too much to absorb. An abundance of bright must be as harmful as an abundance of dark, right? I will have to record the inauguration and fast forward through parts or I'll watch it in bits and pieces via media reports and youtube and facebook postings. Out of sequence it won't pack the same punch and then at least I'll be able to stay in control of myself, manage my emotions and maintain my dignity. I want to watch it with everyone else. I do. I want to be a part of this collective experience and take the first new step into this new world. It will be something, right? Of course the only thing worse than my not being able to handle my emotions if my great expectations are met would be my not being able to handle my emotions if my great expectations are not met. I admit I may be putting a bit too much on this particular day and it's meaning and the symbolism but there is a reason. I have a confession to make. I think Barack Obama's historic acceptance speech in Grant Park was kind of a downer. First of all he looked exhausted (understandably), depressed (remember, his grandmother just died) and profoundly world weary. (Duh.) In his speech he reminded the masses over and over again that things wouldn't happen overnight and the country is currently in the crapper. He continually put the responsibility of change on us citizens and he even prophesied that the needs of the country would likely not be met in one term. He was utterly and achingly truthful and real. His feet were firmly planted on the ground which kept me from drifting up to clouds despite the fact that so many others listening seemed to be headed there. A few days after the election I began to float upward on the endless possibilities his presidency could offer. As I wrote in a previous post ("Oh, the Audacity"--posted 11/10)"...from now until January 20th and for some time after I'll track Michelle's fashion trends, collect Obama collectibles, anxiously await the name of their dog and the school the girls will attend, and anticipate Barack's appearances, speeches and actions like a good old fashioned stargazer. I am going to revel in the new "Camelot" and "for the first time in my adult life" I will let myself experience the "audacity of hope"." But January 20th is fast approaching and I grow more cautious with each passing day. I want to be obliviously happy and hopeful and unrealistic and ignorant on the day but I'm afraid Obama's earnest realism won't allow it. I want to hear a speech for the ages that carries me through the good and bad times ahead. I know Obama is capable but I'm afraid his pesky propensity for the truth will get in the way. This country loves to build people up then knock them down. How long will it be until sentiments of "Obama the Great" are replaced with sentiments of "Obama the Terrible"? The first one hundred days will be more scrutinized than any other presidency in history I'm sure and it will be like a roller coaster ride with more twists and turns than the newest ride at Great America. Ah well. I have twenty more days to live in denial or start mentally preparing for the future which as we all know will rush toward us relentlessly whether we want it to or not. There is one guarantee, though. January 20th will certainly be something to remember. The moment will burn bright despite the result. Maybe I'll wear shades.

Audra Running

2008-12-19T18:35:00.000-08:00

Audra is running. She is my sixteen month old daughter. On a snowy day my husband is home from work and after finishing errands we have stopped at a coffee shop I've driven by hundreds of times but never been to. We sip coffee in the corner of the cafe and Audra runs from our table to the end of the counter where we ordered. I'm not clear on whether this is a "kid friendly" place or not. There are no highchairs. It's an old school cafe with a chalkboard that informs what they have to offer, cheap coffee and characters like a bearded man who is coloring with crayons and a barista and her friend (apparently a former employee who just broke up with her boyfriend Skylar)who are talking so loud they force everyone to be a part of their conversation. I call Audra's name and she runs back to us with a smile then hugs my crossed legs. I hug her back and she runs away again. This time she gets past the counter and adds a table to her distance from us. My husband calls her name and she runs back to hug my knees and adds his knees to her affection. So far noone has complained and she has earned a few smiles from other patrons on her journey. The third time she travels past the counter, the table and almost into another part of the shop where we would lose sight of her. I get up and retrieve her. When she is back she hugs our knees once more. This time as I watch her leave us I realize we are metaphor. This is the parent-child relationship. With each hug she gains a security that enables her to travel further. My husband and I let her go but reign her back just in time. How many ways will we manifest this in the eighteen years that we raise her? How many times will we do it right and do it wrong? Someday we will have to let her travel out of our sight, won't we? I won't be able to pick her up and bring her back to us when she gets to the part of the cafe we cannot see. Hopefully we'll have given enough to sustain her by then and hopefully she'll occasionally run back.

Audra Spinning

2008-12-19T08:28:00.000-08:00

Audra is spinning. She is my sixteen month old daughter. My husband, stepkids Thomas and Nora and I are watching her in our family room. We have just eaten pancakes. It is Saturday morning and Audra is spinning. There is music playing. The tune has a driving beat that is thrilling to her because she carries a grin that suggests there is no place she'd rather be. Audra is also falling. After to two three spins she topples over and lands on her bottom. As soon as she can she is back on her feet and the spinning begins, again. An addition to the spin and fall routine occurs when Audra spins, falls, stands and then attempts to walk a few steps. She teeters to one side with her arms outstretched. She tries another step and her body repeats the action on the opposite side. She falls, stands up and spins again. She is delighted. My husband and I look at eachother with a marvel that non verbally expresses, "Oh my God, we made her. Oh my God, we made her and Oh my God, can you believe we made her?" Every time her butt hits the ground Bill smiles, I laugh and Thomas and Nora giggle as if they had no idea the punchline was coming. Yes, Audra is spinning and her entire being is set to accomplish that task. When she falls she is not disappointed. Falling is part of the act. It holds the same value as the standing up and turning north, south, east and west. On it, she places no judgement. Thomas and Nora's protective instincts cause them to sit on the floor and create a barricade with their arms. The intention is to prevent her from hitting the ground but soon they realize she has no desire to be kept from falling. Their arms become a ring showcasing her movements and in a beautiful moemnt of grace they don't force their will upon her. Audra is still spinning and smiling and now she has added squealing to her repetoire. I've gone from laughing to holding my breath and fighting back tears. Usually one sees art-like beauty when they visit a gallery. The day is planned and they've paid their way. I had no plan to witness aching beauty on a Saturday in my living room. She is poetry, metaphor. She is an example in motion of what what we would hope to be. Determined. Joyous. Inspirational. Free.

Oh, The Audacity!

2008-11-10T09:19:00.000-08:00

I'm falling in love. It's not an affair. I love my husband. That's been established. But, still and well, I am falling in love. It's with two people, well, actually four. I'm in love with the Obamas. Barack, Michelle, Malia, Sasha and add to that whoever their soon to be dog will be. I don't even like my own dog that much (just kidding Falstaff) but I will love this one. And since they are choosing a hypoallergenic dog for Malia my love will have no side effects. I want to join the Obamas wherever they go, climb in a suitcase and move into the White House with 'em. Doesn't it feel like we're all going to get to move in with them on January 21st? I have a strong feeling I'm going to meet them someday. Granted it may not be at the Inauguration or at any of the Balls like I've envisioned but I'm convinced that I will shake Obama's hand and hang out with Michelle and discuss Pinto dresses and the pros and cons of straightening ones hair. Perhaps Malia and Sasha will regard me as an Auntie and maybe my daughter will play with them on the White House lawn.

During the election I felt disconnected from the Obamas. Once Hilary was out, Obama had my vote but I couldn't put my finger on him. I wasn't completely sold. On my best day I couldn't rival Michelle's accomplishments. Her superwoman credentials just made me feel bad. But something has happened and now their unattainable qualities have given way to something for me to aspire to when I grow up even though Michelle is only five years older than me. It's nice to have someone to look up to when you're an adult. The older you get the less excited about other people you become. Yeah, yeah, yeah, they have a lot to prove and they may let us all down more than we can fathom by the end of his term but from now until January 20th and for some time after I'll track Michelle's fashion trends, collect Obama collectibles, anxiously await the name of their dog and the school the girls will attend, and anticipate Barack's appearances, speeches and actions like a good old fashioned stargazer. I am going to revel in the new "Camelot" and "for the first time in my adult life" I will let myself experience the "audacity of hope".

The Beauty of the Bride

2008-10-20T09:42:00.001-07:00

I love the show "Say Yes to the Dress" on TLC (Fridays at 9p). It's amazing what reality television can dramatize. Who knew it was possible to make a half hour program about the vendors at a bridal boutique and soon-to-be-brides choosing a durn dress? Who cares about such things? I do, for one. I love wedding dresses and weddings and pictures of brides on their wedding day. When the day has gone well and the bride's hopes for her wedding have come to be, there is an elusive joy in her eyes and a smile that is like no other. She has no idea what the future holds and as far as she is concerned, on that magical day, she expects nothing less than perfection for her life. Does that happen? Rarely. Could anyone convince her otherwise? No. The pictures bear witness to a combination of joy, hope and the wonderful unknown. The pictures capture emotions that cannot be replicated because even as soon as the evening of her wedding the unknown doesn't exist anymore. From the church, to the reception hall, to the hotel, from moment to moment she acquires something new about her husband that sends a message loud and clear that the wedding itself is not going to be the marriage and forever is a very long time. I have looked at my wedding pictures and there is that elusive look in my eyes and a smile that is unrecognizeable because I had never been so happy and because I had no idea what was in store. But this truth isn't a bad thing. I wouldn't trade what I know now for what I didn't know then. When I look at my bride-self in my beautiful champagne colored dress I marvel at her but I don't envy her. I embrace what I have learned about my marriage, my husband, myself and marriage has made me a better person and best of all, a Mom. I imagine if my husband and I had another ceremony on Nov 12th, our third anniversary, the smile that would emerge would be just as worthy of my awe. Because I have lived. My husband and I have treated the word marriage like a verb and we have tried our best. Now my smile would suggest pride, anticipation for more of our shared life come what may, and knowledge as well as life's great constant, the unknown.

The Secret Life of Stereotypes

2008-10-18T08:56:00.000-07:00

Sassy; A word defined in the dictionary as "saucy" A word in our culture that may as well have a picture of a black woman next to it. Ya know, cause black women are "sassy". We're also wise. We also really like to help white people. In Hollywood film versions of us that pretty much is all we like to do. Case in point, in "The Secret Lives of Bees" starring our reigning-sassy-black-actress Queen Latifah, the Academy Award winning Jennifer Hudson (who won her statue for her "sassy" performance in Dreamgirls), Sophie Okenedo and Alicia Keys, these women get to be SASSY four times over. AND!!!! They get to save a white girl! (Dakota Fanning for God's sake) And of course these aren't modern women we're talking about. Heaven forbid. The story is set in 1964 because modern black women aren't half as interesting as those who don't exist anymore. And finally, to add insult to injury the G-D story is set in the South. Do black people in Hollywood movies live anywhere else but the South?!!! Oh yeah, Los Angeles. By the way, Sophie Okenedo plays the part of a woman-child. A WOMAN-CHILD! When I saw this character described in the Chicago Sun-Times I was incensed. Why do people who write black characters love to write about the WOMAN-CHILD? Or the MAN-CHILD? What the hell does this actually mean? Are they afraid to give them an actual conditon for fear that they couldn't create the most generalized, cloying, crowd pleasing character possible if they were confined by the actual specifics that would cause a person to be emotionally stunted? Boy, those pesky details would be a downer. Patooey!

I will not see "The Secret Life of Bees". I hope no one sees it, ever. I am not concerned that lack of attendance will send a message to Hollywood that black movies don't sell because if I never see another movie with black characters that keeps us locked in the same ole antiquated roles played since "Gone with the Wind" it will be too darn soon. Instead of seeing "The Secret Life of Bees" have a conversation with a black woman and find out what's going on in her life right now in 2008. See how see feels about Barack Obama. Don't assume she loves him because he's black. Or if she does love him give her an opportunity to articulate the reasons beyond the color of his skin. Listen to how she may not have a southern accent and does not actually work in a domestic position. Or if she does work in a domestic position ask her about it. I'm going to let you in on the secret to busting stereotypes. Let's stop "buying" into them. Money talks. Let's walk away from the cineplex with our money in our pockets and black women's dignity restored.

John McCain Has Issues

2008-10-12T18:46:00.000-07:00

There are all sorts of theories surrounding McCain's recent downslide. Granted all of the reasons make sense. In the second to last debate he really did look like he was walking around aimlessly. I'm sure the people from his campaign wished they could run out on stage and staple his feet to the ground. His big-bold-superhero move to save the world through economics crashed. Oops! And when it comes right down to it, he just hasn't seemed like he's all that pleasant to be around. Never mind "having a beer" with the guy, I wouldn't even want to be in the same bar with him lest the irascible politician felt tempted to crack a joke. Despite these things, I think there is more at play when it comes to McCain most likely losing in November. I believe he's done it to himself because he has unresolved issues with rage due to unresolved issues with his father and unresolved issues with what happened those five years he was a p.o.w. I think he is prone toward self sabotage and that he only allows himself a certain degree of success before he finds or forces a way to fail. Being a senator is an accomplishment that merits praise but being voted the President of the United States? Does John McCain think he deserves that? Apparently not. How else would one explain choosing Sarah Palin as his Vice President? How was anybody able to convince him to gamble like that so late in the game? They were able, because McCain was already starting to look for an out. Why would McCain rush to Washington on a promise to change the trajectory of our economic situation and then not close the deal? Self fulfilling prophecy. That's why. Why would McCain bring up a solution to the housing problem that was more Democratic in it's ideals, consequently alienting his party even further? Why hasn't he hammered Obama to his face, toe-to-toe on any of his relationships in question or any of his views that threaten the Republican ideals in a substantial manner. Because, he doesn't want to win and if he did that, he might win. He's gotten too close and now he must recede. Granted his flubs give me hope that the change Obama promises is indeed this country's future but I am fascinated by McCain's struggle with his destiny. I was just as intrigued albeit much more disappointed when we all watched Gore crash and burn in his run for the Presidency. Do you remember that horrible moment in the first debate when he rushed his opponent like a bully while he was answering the moderator's question and Bush appropriately responded with an expression that suggested, shock, confusion and disdain? In that moment the hope of Gore becoming Clinton's successor drained out of me and I knew our fate as a country was sealed. It is something to watch someone stand in their own way. No Democrat could've written a better script for McCain's decline. After the third debate his programmed-old school-joe-the-plummer-nonsense annoyed me to the point of disgust then I heard his "stand-up routine" at the "Alfred E Smith" dinner and through humor I was able to at least designate him as a human being instead of a robot. Unfortunately, his human status reminds us that humans make mistakes. I'd call his entire campaign an "oops" that could be a template of what not to do in future campaigns. His loss is hopefully Obama's gain. His loss is a lesson to all of us in the perils of being human.

Motherhood: A Cliche

2008-02-01T15:04:00.000-08:00

I have recently become a cliché. I mean a mother. I had a baby recently. Six months ago to be exact. Now I’m going to write about it. Yes, I’m another parent in the world who has had a baby and has got to share the story with everyone. Testify. Perhaps enlighten them with my revelatory wisdom. My daughter’s name is Audra. Audra Odeide (O-day-eed) Her middle name Odeide is after my maternal grandmother whom I never met. I figured it meant flower or something. Turns out it means “used things” So my daughter’s name is Audra “used things” Gaul. At least it sounds pretty. Her face is as round as an apple. Her cheeks are as sweet as pie. I’ve never been more in love. Who knew?

I could not decide whether to have a baby to save my life. I went back and forth, back and forth for months. I’d see a baby and melt but just as quickly come up with the practical reason why I should not get pregnant. I have a flat stomach. I already have two step-kids. I’ll never sleep again. My career will end up in the toilet. Or worse, What if I open the floodgates and let the desire wash over me and then I can’t get pregnant? What the hell would I do then? Believe me, there is no rage like the rage, no hurt like the hurt of a woman who wants a child and cannot have one. I was happy. Did I want to gamble that happiness for a child that would change everything forever and ever Amen? I couldn’t decide. I didn’t decide. I threw my hands up and conceded that no decision was a decision. I opened myself up to God’s will. I prepared my body by getting off the vitamins that kept my skin clear, getting off the birth control pill for three months before we started trying and downing prenatal pills provided by my gynecologist Mother on my six month wedding anniversary. “It’s been six months, now. Time to start trying!” she said. I was pregnant the second month we tried. Decision made!

I believe being Audra’s Mommy was fated. I think it means she is meant to do great things and I was simply a vessel to bring her to this earth. Is that overblown? Perhaps. Hell, stranger things have happened. Being a Mother is the most sensible thing I’ve ever done. It is a task that I’ve taken on quite easily. The biggest revelation I’ve had as a new mom is that it is not a revelation. She is an addition to my experience that feels as normal and as natural as my life before she was born but my life is just better and more purposeful and more fun. Sometimes I feel guilty about it. When people ask me how it is going I say, “Great, wonderful, bliss!” Then I feel as if I have to add a gory detail so I don’t sound like a “Polyanna” or a liar.

I have surprised some of my friends with this smooth transition. It can be said that I have a tendency toward the dramatic. A simple cold is a “rare tropical disease” Why react at five when you can react at ten? As thrilled as they were that I was having a baby we all worried how much it would rock my world. With my history of depression I was a prime candidate for post partum. The first week I brought Audra home we all waited for the other shoe to drop. We anticipated the day my sister and husband would have to drag me out of bed and hold me under a cold shower while shouting “It’s not about you anymore! For God’s sake, Audra needs to eat.” That day never came. I was in a blissful adrenaline filled phase that whisked me to Target and lunches and had me contemplating working out despite the fact that I could barely walk due to my swollen ankles and rotated hip. The adrenaline rush did eventually fade. I grew more and more tired, I was forced to start physical therapy for my hip and working out was something I use to do that I grew to relish not having to do right away. The feeling that never drained was the intoxication of being a Mom.

I am humbled by my good fortune. This isn’t to say there haven’t been challenges. Audra had a bout with gas that made her so fussy and uncomfortable I was constantly on edge. She has refused to take a bottle from anyone so I can’t be away from her for more than two hours which causes great concern for when I go back to teach and I need to be gone for seven hours once a week. Sometimes I am haunted by guilt as I tap away on the computer and she sits in her Boppy seat stimulation-free losing her genius at my hands. I feel responsible for her entertainment as if I’m a court jester and she is the Queen. Yet, all of this is manageable because I’m just so honored to be her Mom especially in light of all the women who want to be Moms and cannot. All of it is manageable when I remember that she is just a baby and she didn’t choose to be here. And oh yeah, did I mention those cheeks?

Lately I’ve noticed that the joy of motherhood is not popular as of late. The difficulty, stress, and burden on one’s identity are aspects of the role that are far more highlighted in modern culture. These qualities are dwelled upon, upheld and dissected to such an extent that they have almost replaced the less negative traits that do in fact still exist. Nowadays “Happy Mom” is reviled like the skinny super model or worse the Hollywood starlet that loses all her baby weight by the time she leaves the hospital. Now, when a woman says she loves being a Mom she is doubted. She is judged as a woman who is perpetuating the myth that motherhood is natural and (dare I say) predominantly enjoyable.

Speaking of supermodels, Tyra Banks recently had a show with a panel of women confessing that they were struggling with their roles as new moms. A panelist described the process of breastfeeding as, “Having the death sucked out of her.” Another mom was so angry when the parenting expert tossed a pacifier aside and stated she wasn’t a fan of them that the mother barely could mask her contempt. One woman described in graphic detail how she fantasized about throwing her baby against the wall. She went on to describe how she imagined hearing the infant’s head crack open as he slid to the ground into a pool of his own blood. The audience listened in horror yet there was a tangible satisfaction and relief. It was as if the members of the audience felt they had license to do no better than the women on stage. This isn’t to say that Tyra’s guests had failed at anything. Their experience was legitimately difficult and they were in fact brave for speaking their truth. The problem arose when Tyra negated and practically mocked mothers who had not encountered the same challenges in defense of her guests. In a high pitched voice she whined, “We hear motherhood like, “Oh my baby it smells so good even the poop smells great it’s just so perfect, perfect, perfect…”

I'm going to say it..."I love the smell of Audra’s poop!" I have snuck whiffs of her diaper when no one is watching. The scent is specific unto her which makes it special. Must my devotion merit public mockery? Because the sound of her breath while she sleeps makes me swoon like a school girl with a crush, do I deserve to be mimicked and discounted? Because I am sizzled and fried by her pork-chop-thighs does that mean I must be roasted by my peers as well? I am in love and I want to shout it from the top of my townhouse and not be disliked, criticized or rebuked.

Women who embrace motherhood without irony must speak out! We are losing status and although we are not better than anyone else we at least deserve to be respected. Let’s regain our place by not being ashamed of how we feel. When asked about our experience let’s be humble but honest. Share the unabashed joy that you feel without hesitation and spread the word that it is okay to be happy and it’s alright to love being a Mom.