Moving Target

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

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

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.













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Tania Come Lately

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

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

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

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.