MacPherson’s: Where vegetarians go and pee a little.

I am about to blow your mind.

My MacPherson’s visit brought this into my life:

Look at that massive bag of spinach!

for $9.25. What?! Mind. Blown.

Here’s the breakdown:

Bag of spinach – $2.99

I will eat this before it spoils. All of it. Not at once though.

A bag of potatoes @ $1.17

puh-tay-toe/puh-tah-toe

Pink Lady apples – 2 @ $0.59 cents each = $1.20

A little bruising never hurt anyone

Bananas – 2 @ $1.29/lb = $1.29/lb

Go bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S!

Asparagus – @ $0.99/lb

Yummy asparagus

Whaddup broccoli? How you doin?

I also bought corn, 2 for $0.69 each. I just can’t find the picture. Harumph.

I’m super pleased with this shopping trip. I’m going to finish up my bomb homemade vegetarian chili  and then cook some awesome meals with these veggies and the dried beans from my “pantry.”  Then I’ll bake some bread for sandwiches and whatnot.

Yay for shopping trips.  I even have a few dollars left over.  I will not spend them on ice cream…. I will not spend them on ice cream…. I will not….

Side note: I’ve been brewing this Kombucha for over a month.  The starter cost me $30+, but now I don’t have buy the bottled stuff for almost 4 bucks a pop, AND I get a baby ‘bucha with each brew.  If you’re in the Seattle area I’ll give you one for free. Seriously, just contact me and it’s yours when it’s ready.

My first batch of kombucha! Don’t let the label fool you. This is an old apple cider bottle I reused because that’s what how we do in this part of the pacific northwest.

Dementia

Called my new home a few days ago. My grandad was confused and couldn’t understand who I was or what I wanted. That was hard. That is hard.

Cast iron biscuits

I made a giant biscuit is a cast iron pot over a fire. I am amazing. When it was done I literally exclaimed, “I just did that! I am awesome!” I would post more but I need to check out of this motel and I still have to take care of bidness. Till next time!

and so we persist

I went to see Allen Stone perform at the Paramount Theatre in Seattle, Washington last night. The following is what I wrote sitting on the floor near the back of the theatre with my journal pages illuminated by my cell phone.  It’s disjointed, and I almost didn’t post it.  I, however, need to stop waiting to publicize perfection and instead share the pursuit.

“Sitting in this corner feeling so small. Drinking this city in before my cup becomes dry and I toss it out.  Filling my final time with experiences so I can remember I’ve been here.  I lived here. I existed in the glorious city. I persisted in this glorious city. 

There are silhouettes that outline my gobo-ed horizon.  We are silhouettes and you are visions of beauty.  The needlepoint stilettos click past and I sit, a bit in judgment, but mostly in admiration.  You’ve created a sculpture of yourself for people like me to observe.  Not for me, but I sneak a glimpse nonetheless. You grasp his arm extending yourself and completing a broader more beautiful structure.  This horizon I dare not defile with the filtered effects of media measured in grams.  There is beauty in your hand holding. 

I’d forgotten, however, that we don’t travel for the same reasons.  I need this place as a refuge, a reminder, and you need to be entertained.  Clinging to the corner I steal glimpses of you cameras don’t get to see.  The simpler moments.  The ones you ignore fascinate me.  There is intimacy in these stolen stitches of time.  The glimpses therein are consolation to me that it is not just I who traverse this existence alone.  You are more able to hide the hammer that smashes our sentience in a crowd of two or more.  These musically mingled masses terrify the thought of me.  But my physical manifestation continues to step over that pissed puddle of fear to a different yet equally level plane of existence.

When the lights come up, the lights come out.  Poses stricken to document that this was attended and they existed.  We all persist exist in different grades bouncing from one another in different manifestations.  Yet we’ve all come to celebrate our differences in the company of one man and his complementary breath, lyrics plucking our heartstrings differently, but plucking all the same. The bass line beating against me, my heart kissing back. His carbon monoxide breathes life into our plant matter.  Dressed like peacocks to impress another or impress ourselves.  Reminding ourselves that we persist enough.  And yet, why do we need this reminder?  This place our Walden Pod, this time our Tardis. Isolating us long enough to recognize our surroundings. Transporting us back as often as we require. Our breath not enough of a reminder we find ourselves in experiences with others alone. But never alone.”

 

 

Mitt, say it ain’t so

Wait, please tell me this is a photoshop job:

how do I wear my blackness?

It’s 2:30 am. I’m jet lagged, hungry, and cranky.  I fell asleep on the couch at 9pm, awoke at 11pm, and have been up ever since. This is the 3rd day of this mess. I’ve been to Pennsylvania and back and my body doesn’t know what to do with itself.

Early mornings in unfamiliar dwellings can be scary.  I thought I heard gunshots about an hour ago and nestled in a bit closer to the wall.  As I lie there I thought about this site and its name: wearingmyblackness.  How do I wear my blackness? I wear it unwillingly. I didn’t understand that I was Black until I was 21 on safari in Kenya.  Events coalesced to create a tearful moment of discovery.  A woman in a market saw me first as Black.  In a quick “my life flashed before my eyes” moment similar occurrences from my history highlighted themselves in my recollection.  My existence is often defined in opposition to, or accordance with Blackness. 

I refuse to speak in blanket statements.  That leads to hot boxing with the nastiness of racial farts and I’m not down with that.  I am, however, willing to entertain the notion that there are commonalities among cultural groups. Those cultural groups are often defined in association with skin color. Sometimes they’re not. 

Where you’re Black in America someone needs to teach you how to survive.  Lessons from a person of color’s family tend to differ from those handed down from a White family.  [In this context a person of color is someone who presents as belonging to a racial group that is not White --more about that in another entry] When examined further, each ethnic and/or racial group educate their youth on survival and various social mores differently.

When I was small my mother would not allow me to walk into a store with my hands in my pockets.  It was a habit then and is still a habit now. I’d walk into a grocery store and put my hands in my pockets.  Kinda like a tick, but not.  Then, my mother would slap my hands from my pockets and they’d fall to my sides.  I’d spend the entire trip in a physical and mental battle with myself.  My hands would float toward my pockets. My mind (or my mother) would slap them back.  Her rationale; you don’t want anyone to think that you’re stealing. Now that I’m older and more educated my hands still do this weird dance outside my pockets.  It’s 20 years later and that lesson stays with me. I’ve grown up thinking I must always be afraid that someone will think I’m stealing.  Even though my hands do an awkward jig as I enter stores I make intentional choices to combat how I was socialized.  Sometimes, I shove them in my pockets on purpose. I seek to defy. Other times, I wrestle with an item in my bag to invite accusation.  There are also times, when I don’t think about it.  I can’t remember a single one, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t happen. 

If we weren’t poor we wouldn’t be shopping in places where being accused of shoplifting was common.  If we weren’t Black, the cameras and store clerks would be just and eensy bit less likely to follow us around.

That’s what I mean when I say “wearingmyblackness.” I seek to document and examine the instances when my socialization as a Black American confronts a world created and dominated by those who aren’t.  It’s not just about being Black. It’s about what happens when you acknowledge it.  

 

 

Neither

Mother,

I remember love, yet I don’t remember you.

In my memories of good feelings you are absent

I remember protecting you from him and him from you and myself from neither

And yet now you have he, he has she and I have neither

National Service Learning Conference pt. 1

I am tired.  I’ve been in Minneapolis since Tuesday morning discussing all things service learning.  I’m also applying for a $30,000 grant to start an expeditionary school of sorts.  It was a good week.  I sat at Common Roots for four hours talking with friends about race.  It felt great.  I’m going to digest this day and return later.

Dreary eyed, but yours,

WMB

The Hunger Games

I am a fan of The Hunger Games series. My friend bought me the trilogy for Christmas last year and I finished it very quickly. As with many fans I had a picture of Katniss, the lead, in my head and was disappointed when I found out that Jennifer Lawrence was cast. Disappointed, but it wasn’t the end of the world.

Sitting through the movie I understood a bit more why she was chosen and not someone else– anyone else. She’s Hollywood’s version of awesome.

I went to the theatre yesterday to kick back and take it all in. After I bought my ticket I was asked to do a market research survey. Since I love movies and had time, I agreed. A young woman took my information and typed it into the touch screen. She breezed past the demographic information and I asked her what she filled out for my ethnicity. She didn’t pause and said African American. I told her that was incorrect and asked her to change it. She apologized and moved me to another computer to begin again.

There are other less intelligent fans who problematized other casting choices. Being racist and stupid is a dangerous cocktail.

Here is an article that explains the depths of their crazy.

People hated that Rue, Thrush, and Cinna were Black. When I first saw Rue, I cried. She has the sweetest face and my knowledge of her future weighed heavy. I also cried because of the idiots who complained that she was cast as a young Black girl. Some complained to like her less, or find her less cute. If that doesn’t symbolize America’s relationship with Black America I honestly don’t know what does.

This, and experiences like this, are why I started this blog. The world sees me as something I’m not. I have to balance my desire to be myself, and my desire to make the world right. It’s often a daunting beam to teeter and I don’t always do the best job.

So this is what depression feels like

Yesterday was what I refer to as a “bad day.”  Seattle was gorgeous.

The sun bared its chest and the wind licked its hairs.  I, however, still laid in bed for too many hours shutting out the world.  The night before I went to see a coworker perform stand-up and had about a half a drink too many.  After a few hours my weariness grew neck and neck with my desire to be at home.  I finished my 3rd drink — too quickly I’ll add– and went to the bus stop.  I’ll admit: I was acutely aware of how dangerous it was to be drunk and alone in an unfamiliar neighborhood riding an unfamiliar bus line.  It was scary, but so is life and I endured anyway.  After all, cabs don’t scour the South End looking for fares.  It’s just not that kind of neighborhood…

The bus came I got on, went to the back — which, by the way, is also not the safest place to be at 2am.  A few stops later two gentlemen joined me.  I put on my accent like a coat. Different degrees in different degrees. They recognized its presence and asked me where I was from. The flirtation was obvious and appreciated, They wanted to come home with me and “hang out.”  I respectfully declined and they respectfully accepted. Eventually, my stop arrived and we said our goodbyes.  The one with the nice facial hair commented on the largeness of my belly button –which made me pause–, made a statement about my thickness, and bid me safe passage.

I am learning the dangers of alcohol.  I make calls and decisions I’d rather not.  My mind is not my own and this depression becomes a stranglehold.  I am not myself.  On Saturday I spun and slipped into the spiral at my feet and used my covers to seal the space. I know what I am like when I am like that. It’s not good and quickly becomes worse. I contemplate the hated thoughts of a Christian god, weep for no reason, and wish I could just rest–forever.

I could feel the worst of it approaching and so I chose — no, forced myself to — leave my house.

A friend –well, not quite that but something close– was scheduled to be the featured poet at the Ladies First poetry night.  I knew there was an open mic scheduled beforehand and felt the need to speak my words.  And so, I forced myself to go; sans make-up with a little style I journeyed in that direction.

A young woman greeted me with laughter and friendly antiquity. I signed up for the open mic then panicked in my chair.  I wanted to read two pieces but opted, safely, for one.  The second was ill-constructed, controversial, unfinished, and raw. I needed more time to be as comfortable with those words in my mouth as I was with them on paper.  The audience snapped and “Uhm-hmed” in agreement.  I left the mic with the support of joined hands and sat down.  It felt good to have people want my words.

At the conclusion of the evening they invited anyone to sign up to be Featured poets. I didn’t.  I assign a level of importance to titles like that. Later, the MC came up to me and asked if I’d be interested in being a Featured poet.  I thought she was making a funny so I laughed. She wasn’t.  I agreed as long as it wasn’t anytime soon. I need to time to write, create — build on experience.

I know I’m depressed or at least crazy because I still can’t shake the feeling Featured poet status was offered out of pity.  I came up with a working title for my show on the bus ride home.  Cystic: sloughing away that which harms me. There are people in my life like the cysts on my kidneys, taking up space and eating away at the healthy parts of me.  I would love to slough them off and dialyze my blood with the healthiness left. I’d like to cleanse myself of their remaining spots with the hope that there is something substantial beneath.  I need this cleansing now and am grateful for the opportunity to create.