It's hard to believe that it's been eight weeks. Sometimes it feels longer, other times shorter. I arrived thinking that I could conquer the west faster than the east. That conquering is what I should be doing at all.
I suppose that was the first mistake. Life is full of intentions becoming realities; dreams being fulfilled. But trying to force shit down the drain only leads to busted pipes.
So, yeah, my pipes did bust. There was SHIT everywhere, folks! On Rafael, on my Mom, on my Dad, on the photo of the crippled puppy, Anna Ranna and Froggy (the two pool toy lovers). It was smelly and awful, but better than clogged pipes. Know what I'm saying?
Sometimes I don't either.
Rafael found a job, but the job required hard, physical labor from 3:15 am to 7:30 am, after which he attended an 8 am class. He changed in the bathroom at school. He fell asleep in class. He cried and then he slept and then he got over it and changed his schedule to something better. And now he's happily schooling away, working a job that's physically demanding but shows him dignity and respect. Go team Rafael!
Sarah is interviewing for her top-choice job on Monday working with Team in Training, the totally awesome organization that helps people run marathons and raise money for blood cancers. She is less stressed because her family has some money coming in via Rafael's job, and is pleased as punch to be LEFT THE FUCK ALONE about fixing everyone's problems. Go team Slegg!
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Series of conversations:
Sarah: When was the last time YOU got up at 3:15 am to go do hard, physical labor?
Mom: I've done it.
Sarah: When you were in school?
Mom: Yes.
Sarah: When you were in school in a country that didn't speak your native language?
Mom: (silence)
Mom: Who wants to get up at 5 am for water aerobics in the pool tomorrow morning?! (Ongoing family joke)
Rafael: How about I meet you to carry boxes at 3:15 am?
Mom told me that when I was a newborn, I cried every hour during the night. After the fifteenth night of no sleep, she was rocking me in her arms, and fell asleep. Luckily she was standing over the couch, so that when she dropped me, I didn't have far to fall. She was horrified.
Mom: Want to ask again if I've ever had to work at 3:15 am?
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Something I love:
"Another meeting. Again walking into a room filled with white women, a splattering of women of color around the room. The issue on the table, Racism. ...
How can we - this time - not use our bodies to be thrown over a river of tormented history to bridge the gap? ... 'A bridge gets walked over.' Yes, over and over again.
I watch the white women shrink before my eyes, losing their fluidity of argument, of confidence, pause awkwardly at the word, "race", the word, "color." The pauses keeping the voices breathless, the bodies taut, erect - unable to breathe deeply, to laugh, to moan in despair, to cry in regret. I cannot continue to use my body to be walked over to make a connection. Feeling every joint in my body tense this morning, used."
-- Cherrie Morgaga, from "This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color."
I'm still developing my thoughts on this, so bear with me. The thesis looks something like: White people are only comfortable with the liberation of people of color as long as they had something to do with it. I feel this stronger and stronger each day. I see this in myself first, which is how I know it exists. I see this in history - in the MLK lovers vs. Malcolm X lovers. In the reverence of Toni Morrison vs. Alice Walker, or Barack Obama vs. Reverend Sharpton. It's really sickening. It's really distressing. And what's more, is that people of color who try and say something about it are labeled "too radical" or "divisive."
That's not really what the above quote is about, at least not as I see it. The above is more about how people of color are constantly asked to mediate in discussions around race. What I love about the quote is the physicality that Morgaga brings ... the analogy of her back being a bridge, the weight of people trampling on top of her. It reminds me of my friend Phoenix's awareness of how things feel in her body. How it literally feels to have someone say certain things to you, how spaces feel, how memories feel.
It all makes me so angry. Angry at myself for the memories of times when I was in one of those rooms, walking on the backs of people of color. Or any time that someone has tried to walk all over me.
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