‘Monkey’ Knocked Off Singh’s Back

The media has dubbed it the “race row.” Original use of alliteration. But it is over, as everyone on the Australian and Indian sides say. They want to just get on with it.

And get on with it they will tomorrow when the sides meet for the much-anticipated Twenty20 match at the MCG (Melbourne Cricket Ground) in, well, Melbourne. Andrew Symonds is in the lineup for Australia. Harbhajan Singh for India. And the attendees have been warned that officials will not tolerate any bad behavior. On the ABC this morning, I heard that some are calling for a “turn-your-back-on-Singh” protest. It should be an interesting match.

But unfortunately, it comes just a few days after Symonds was humiliated by the New Zealand judge appointed to rule in Singh’s appeal of the three-match ban leveled against him when the monkey business started. And rule he did, though not without some drama.

He overturned the three-match ban and instead charged Singh half of his pay for the Sydney test match, which is $3,000 or so. In addition, he essentially blamed Symonds for all of this. But then, after the ruling, the judge found out about Singh’s other infractions on the oval. And, well, the judge said he wished he had known.

Oh well, the oldies are saying on this side of the world. Have better manners, don’t let this happen again, and just play cricket. Very strange.

‘Sorry’ to Aboriginals

Australian Prime Minister Kevin Rudd said he will apologize to the Aboriginal people on February, 12, the day the federal members of parliament adjourn in Canberra (Australia’s version of Washington, D.C.), according to the Courier-Mail.

The Prime Minister has moved “effective” reconciliation to the top of his reform agenda as part of a concerted move to distance his Government from the Howard legacy.

He told guests at The Lodge on Saturday night that he wanted indigenous people to be “full participants” in society, rather than marginalised Australians.

But his plan to use the opening of Parliament – when the new government traditionally outlines its reform agenda – to push a new compact with indigenous people will be controversial.

Former prime minister John Howard steadfastly refused to apologise to the Stolen Generation – a move that damaged race relations but gained the former Liberal leader widespread backing.

The paper also reported that Canberra’s local Ngunnawal elders will in some way welcome the folks to their land.

However, according to the newspaper The Australian, Jenny Macklin, the Indigenous Affairs minister, isn’t sure the date will stick, as she wants to make sure all members of parliament are consulted.

A major point of contention in Australia is the relationship between the country’s Indigenous and non-Indigenous people. Aboriginals, having been pushed to the outer limits and considered non-human and, well, just way to different, have been calling for an apology.

A report called “Bringing Them Home: The Stolen Children Report,” written in 1997, details among many other things, what happened to a generation of Aboriginal children taken from their parents who were deemed unfit. These children were sent to homes and taught how to assimilate into white culture, thus stripping them of their own.

Rudd’s impending symbolic gesture is big, especially given the fact that the prime minister he just unseated refused to say anything.

The best part, though, is the fact that most Australians are pretty much against it. “What about the white children who were taken from their parents?!” is a common complaint, as well as the suggestion to make available an “opt out of the apology” list.

It’s an acknowledgment of what took place, as well as the subsequent treatment they received as a result of racist attitudes toward them based on skin color. I kind of wish I were blogging a decade ago when I was in the midst of my race crisis and subject (or at least no longer ignorant) to similar chants of covert racism such as these. It’s really an amazing thing, and I wonder how it feels to reject the notion of an apology — a symbolic apology. No, generations of today were not there 230 years ago. So I wonder what the problem is?

It’s Culture … or Lack of It

Some of the commenters, which I’m sure represent much of the angst over the issue, say that being taken from ones family happens to white people, too. Yes, of course it does. And that aspect of it is no less traumatic.

Something else went on for the Aboriginals, and I say this not being Aboriginal. They were not only taken from their families; they were taken from their culture. The language, the celebrations, the customs, all of it was stripped from them the minute they were snatched. Wearing a badge of color means to most people that there is a shared heritage. I can’t relate being taken from a shared cultural group, but I can relate to searching for the belonging that my skin color dictates.

“What are you?” “Where are you from?” Half black and white. Los Angeles. Of the first answer I am not totally certain, because others have placed a litany of other ethnicities on me. And as a sociology professor once told a classroom full of grad students in New York, half of ethnicity is what you bring to it. But half is what others bring to it.

Aboriginals taken from their families grow up knowing they are Aboriginal. But as a descendant of a member of the stolen generation said this morning on ABC, the language is gone. The culture is gone.

Reality TV Check

Unfortunately there are few things that surprise me anymore. Equally as unfortunate, though, is if something does have the potential to surprise, once it settles in, be it in a minute or, say, five, it goes back to being not such a surprise.

But I think I found something.

I was watching a DVR-recorded episode of “Criminal Minds” the other night, sweat dripping off my face because I had just gotten off my stair stepper, and I was a little slow on the fast-forwarding uptake. As a result, I managed to catch a promo for the upcoming season of “Survivor.”

I used to watch this show. Just the first season. The foul-mouthed, short-tempered truck driver from the Midwest was much too entertaining to ignore, and, well, it was an interesting idea. The problem, though, is that the show has run out of ideas. I haven’t kept up, but I can only imagine that is the reason they’re doing this season what they’re doing. Because of the need for ratings to satisfy advertisers so someone makes a big buck.

The brainiacs behind “Survivor” thought it would be a good idea to divide this season’s contestants into four teams by race: Blacks, whites, Latinos, and Asians. I didn’t hear that right, did I? I hit the rewind button. I did hear that right. My mouth fell open, ready to scream at the television, but nothing came out. I was speechless. Flabbergasted. Surprised, even.

Who thought this would be a good idea, asked my friend Chris today after I presented him with the information. Indeed. Have we not just spent more than a hundred years trying to ease the divisions that were drawn by race? Does “race war” no longer have meaning?

I’ll admit that I don’t know much of the show’s specifics, other than the “tribes” will eventually merge as they do each season, this time into a “melting pot,” if you’ll allow the misnomer. They hope. “It’s a social experiment,” said the scrawny little host (I wonder whose side he’s on). A social experiment. Correct me if I’m wrong, but simply stepping foot outside every day is a social experiment. There are social experiments being conducted all over the world — racially, religiously, economically.

Even the word “experiment” is unnerving. It suggests the presence of a powerful higher-up somewhere in a white lab coat tracking the data in order to prove a hypothesis. What will it be? That whites are the “it” group? Asians the smartest? What if all the Latinos are gone by merge day? The blacks? What are those stories going to be about in the papers the next day?

And consider that the point is to work together, thus assuming that each tribe member gets along well. That will rely on the presumption that all blacks like each other, all Asians like each other, and so on. Furthermore, it assumes that nationalist pride within each group is enough. That those with Canadian, Irish, German, Czech, Polish, Australian, Swiss, Chinese, Korean, Japanese, Laotian, Vietnamese, Indian, Filipino, Puerto Rican, Dominican, Peruvian, Mexican, Brazilian, Colombian, and Venezuelian ancestry share national pride. Um. Oh, and I forgot. “African-American” national pride. Sen. Barack Obama is visiting Kenya, because his father is from there. Not all blacks can trace their nations of origin. America? Lots of pride for blacks to feel about there.

Television is a representation of the current state of things. So pitting racial groups against one another in a game of survival in order to entertain is akin to sitting ringside of a boxing match. Or watching figures in a cage go at it. And viewers will be watching figures go at it in a cage, except this cage comes in high definition. Just to make the bloodshed a little sharper, more, well, defined. Sure the show is a hit. And yes people have been pit against one another before. Men and women, I heard. But never racially. And it’s a little frightening that not only do television executives think this would be a good idea, but also that there will be advertisers. Even more frightening, perhaps, is that there will be viewers.

This idea is a sick one. It’s American. It takes any social progress this country has made and dips it in a vat of lye. Maybe it’s not so dramatic. Maybe there’s another, sicker effect the producers are going for. A Bamboozled-like satire is potentially in the making, with the contestants donning modern-day blackface in the quest to belong to the “bigger,” “stronger,” “better” racial group.

“Survivor” is a game. Race is not. And sadly it’s all in the name of keeping it interesting. Because the world’s not interesting enough?

Punctuation is Key

There is more lurking about the subways these days than bag-searching cops looking for terrorists. What is that? Pen-wielding taggers who have no respect for the importance of punctuation.

I was following my back-up plan on the morning commute one day last week, which has me transferring at Union Square to the 6 when I’m pressed for time. As I walked alongside the tracks, or, rather, the cliff that leads to the tracks, I was struck by a confusing statement that could have been cleared up if only a semi-colon or comma had been used. Written on a ceramic brick pillar in blue felt-tip pen, the statement read: “Lesbians are taking over niggas better watchout”

Here it is in all its illiteracy. Unfortunately, by the time I could get back there and take the picture, some letters had been rubbed off.

There are many problems with this, and I’d like to address a few here. First I will argue that “watchout” is not an acceptable version of the intransitive verb construction. It appears in Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary, but I don’t care. Put a space in there. Moving on.

Now are the lesbians “taking over niggas” or are the lesbians “taking over” and so “niggas better watchout”? Let’s take a closer look. When I read it, I first took it to be the former. That “lesbians are taking over niggas.” But that doesn’t make sense; a simple semi-colon between the words “over” and “niggas” would have cleared it up, and I’m sure that’s what the writer intended.

Some sort of punctuation at the end would have been nice, as well. The writer is culturally illiterate; this much we know. His cover is further blown, then, because, going with this structure, we are to believe that lesbians will rule over “niggas.” But is this political rule or sexual rule? Both? I doubt this confusion is what the writer intended, which is another argument for a semi-colon. The other way makes more sense to me, and it more clearly establishes the writer as the homophobic coward that he is, rather than the paranoid one that the other construction implies.

Imagine for a minute that there is some sort of punctuation (at this point anything will do). What we have then is what the writer actually meant to express, which is that “niggas better watch out” because “lesbians are taking over.” But what are lesbians taking over? Are they simply taking over everything, including but not limited to the economic and political structures in the U.S. or are they engaged in a global takeover; clothing styles; radio stations; theatre; New York? I doubt the writer meant any of these given the lack of intelligence he has. So it’s probably pretty safe to assume that he meant that lesbians are taking over women.

But again, here we find ourselves in a bit of a bind. Is this “women” in general or black women, specifically? I won’t make an assumption about this point and will therefore explore both possibilities. First of all, this implies that a) there are no black lesbians and b) black women are the property of black men and therefore need to be protected from the army of lesbian marauders poised for a “takeover.”

But then what is meant by “black” if, in fact, this is what the writer meant but failed to get across? Does it refer to those who live in the U.S. and count U.S. slaves as their ancestors? Or does it also include other people who consider themselves “black”: women from Africa, South and Central America, the Caribbean, etc.? All of these questions make me think about this writer.

Perhaps his girlfriend dumped him for a woman. It’s happened. Often, “straight” women will find themselves intrigued by other women and will often do a little dabbling. I’ve unfortunately crossed the path of a few. (But this isn’t about me, is it?)

This raises an interesting issue, though: It’s acceptable for two “feminine-appearing” women to be together. To stroke one another on the dance floor. It’s acceptable for them to step out on their men for a time to see what it’s like on the other side. Because if she “looks like a woman” then it’s hot, according to some men, and these same men believe that the act is solely for their benefit. We know this.

What’s happening here, then, is that these “lesbians” to which the writer refers are marked as such. They are visibly lesbians, such as myself, whose most identifiable traits are recognizable as masculine. And, therefore, I think it’s safe to conclude that butches are the ones this writer fears. The ones who provoked this vitriolic vandalism.

But lesbians are women, which is another problem the writer failed to address. He has with this comment erased the sexual agency women have, thus rendering them helpless against would-be predators. Lesbian predators, that is. His fear is predicated on the fact that lesbians are sexual beings who will “take over” sexually, i.e. step in and overtake unsuspecting damsels on their way to power. But if he meant that lesbians are taking over, then one can’t ignore the fact that this means they’ll be taking over themselves, because, well, lesbians are women.

From this, one can assume that the writer believes “hot” ones are okay, and most definitely are women. Further, he believes that “hot” ones, in addition to being “acceptable” versions of “woman,” are not truly lesbians, because they’re acceptable versions of “woman.” But the other ones, the butches the writer seems to be talking about, are not “real women” and are therefore those lesbians to which he refers who have no physical or emotional need for men. This is one sentiment circulating through the small brains of the particularly culturally retarded.

Now, if we are to take butches as this man’s target, it might good to briefly look into what he could be reacting to. If we are to believe that he does not think butches are “real women,” then we are forced to ask, then, what are they? Smart people know the answer to this, but this man is not of that ilk and therefore we should consider his alternative mode of thought.

If they’re not real women, which, again is what I believe he must think, then they must be woefully inadequate versions of men. This notion pervades much of the homophobic rhetoric that exists not only in this man’s world, but also, sadly, in the gay world. So it would seem that he is actually copping to his inability to deal with his in(fear)iority complex concerning his masculinity. Butches are, in fact, women whose gender expression is masculine. But they are not trying to be men, nor do they walk around trying to co-opt a male identity.

This is lost on the writer who most likely believes that butches are trying to be men, and part of that includes an attempt to “take over” “their women.” But it doesn’t end here. I hate to beat a dead race horse, but not all of us are white. Black masculinity. Those of us in this category carry by virtue of our skin color another bag whose weight rests on the fear of the black and Latino male.

I think we can safely assume that this writer was sounding a warning to black men everywhere that they should protect their women — black and otherwise, let’s just say — from preying lesbians (read, butch) bent on taking over something. I still can’t be sure if it’s the world or simply the women he is afraid of losing control over. The “better watchout” aspect of his warning does imply that he does believe he has control over something.

What exactly, a black man in the United States has control over, though, is beyond me. The writer’s target, I argue, is the butch of color. Our existence threatens his masculinity, the very thing for which he relies on for a place in this world.

Anybody Know How to Get Glue Off Fingernails?

After a ridiculous swing-shift nap that got out of control last night into early this morning, I’m trying to recover some thoughts (feelings, even) about my very first non-fiction turn in front of a camera. It either was ok or amazing. I can’t tell.

I’m leaning toward the former, because stuff came out of my mouth. The only difference wast that I was doing it with one person operating a camera, one a boom mic held a foot above my face and one asking questions from a notebook. At the end, Kerry said she’d be able to use some of it, but that some of it would be hard to edit in.

The reason, she said, was that for the layman simply learning “how to come out,” my ideas might seem hard to grasp. During the interview, she asked about race and gender. And I just told some stories. After the first break, which came about ten minutes in as a result of some exterior noise, I was able to relax the tension I noticed had developed in me. And I asked how it was going.

Kelly, the interviewer, said I was a good storyteller. Cool. And Ronny, the 19-year-old kid holding the boom who was also there as a photographer, agreed. Cooler. Some problem spots I had came in trying to define butch-femme and how I fit into it. I think that was the question.

Well it turns out I actually have no idea. How do you answer that? I gave the obvious stuff. But then at some point I also said I don’t dress like this (whatever that even means, for fuck’s sake) because I’m “butch.” And I’m not “butch” because I dress like this. I got more confused as I went on, but I explored it through the words I was saying. I also observed to Kerry after it was all over that few of my answers were definitive. For instance, if I could take a pie chart, Kelly asked, and divide my identities up, how would it look.

You can’t do that. And I tried to explain the best I could that it depends on where I am, what mood I am in, and, frankly, which way the wind is blowing. I can’t talk about this stuff, or won’t, rather, without telling stories. And I had at least one for every question. Perhaps that’s why I am trying to write my book. Because I have stories and I want to tell them. But I like this setting, this format of documentary, because it’s not about just telling one story after another. It’s about developing a theme, my theme, and bringing everything together, all my identities, into one piece.

Another problem spot came when Kelly asked about my dating life. I had a bit of a laugh at first, and then tried to describe it. Laughable? Abysmal? My friends consider it entertaining. I realized I couldn’t really say good things about it. But I took full responsibility for my lack of success, and proceeded to talk about expressing need and communicating. I’m getting a little better at it, but am still choosing girls who don’t have the energy. But that turned into an interesting discussion about the “butch” dynamic. Again, though, I’m not “like this” (the care-taker at risk of my own feelings, the non-emotive one) because I’m “butch.” I’m not that bad to date, I finally said with a smirk. Or am I? Now I’ve made it public. To a gay public.

After that was over, Kelly had to leave. Ronny was shooting some still photographs, camera up in my face. Me talking. Me smoking. During this break, Kerry followed me outside and shot me leaning up against a wall. It’s frightening that I forgot the camera was there. I’m used to being watched. It was then time to play around. Kerry had the idea to have me put some press-on nails and lipstick on. She considered stepping out to get me me some mascara (please no), but Ronny told her I looked so different without my glasses that that would be enough. All along I thought it could be fun. After all, gender is play.

So I sat at the table and Ronny did his thing. During it, Kerry started packing up. But as I struggled to open the glue, having to do so with a pocket knife, as well as how to put this shit on, she grabbed her camera. My face perplexed while reading the directions, Ronny’s camera snapped picture after picture and Kerry walked around me going from my hands to my face. I was first disturbed after discovering I needed acetone to remove them. There was no way in hell I was leaving the house with red fingernails that extended half an inch over each finger. Kerry said she’d go get me some. “Yes you will, sister.”

The first nail I put on was my left thumb. I looked at it in horror. This shit is ugly. And I proceeded to apply the rest. But not without some struggle. I got some glue on my fingers, so when I tried to press them on, I pulled it right off with the glue. Ugh. I finally got the left hand done. And I stared at it. Ronny snapped my frustration from all angles with glee. “You’re enjoying this too much,” I told him. He shot my disgusted face through my outstretched hand. And then I had to do the other hand. Which meant I had to glue my clean hand with my fake-nail hand. What I now know is that stupid fake nails force your fingers into stupid, exaggerated forms. Marks of femininity that are lost on me.

I finally made it through, but not before losing one of them. The first one I applied. And not before screwing one up, which cut my circulation off of one finger. It was digging into my skin, but it was pretty much stuck there and so I tried to ignore it. Then it came time for the lipstick. Beaming Berry or Ruby Desire. *SIGH* “Don’t chicks use mirrors for this,” I asked. But the lighting was good where I was, so using the bathroom wasn’t an option. “I have an idea.” I went and got the biggest steak knife we have and used that to apply it.

Both of the visual artists seemed to delight at that choice and scrambled for position as I applied Ruby Desire. For fuck’s sake this sucks. And then Kerry wanted me to get my tattoo taken, because, she said, it was sort of masculine. So I had to take my shirt off. (I had a t-shirt on underneath, thank you.) But I had to unbutton it. Ugh. Five minutes later, after suffering through each button with the stupid nails on, it came off. And there I posed, white t-shirt, jeans, fake fingernails and lipstick.

Ronny asked me to take my glasses off and called me Clark Kent, shocked still apparently at how different I look with them off. “Maybe that’s why my dating career sucks; I look like two different people.” I took them off and Ronny shot some pictures and hummed the theme to Superman. I thought it was all over, and Kerry said she was gonna go get some more exterior shots. Ronny and I talked. And the entire afternoon’s subject seemed moot as I listened to Ronny’s story about growing up in Ecuador after his parents left him there when they moved here.

He just joined them three years ago. Growing up without his parents like that when he had a U.S. citizen brother sitting pretty in a nuclear family. He talked of the numerous times he tried to come up, both legally and not. And he talked of his passion for visual arts. It’s clear he loves it after discovering photography just three years ago. He’ll be taking classes at the International Center of Photography, and he already has photos in the Queens Museum of Art.

My story all of a sudden became unimportant. Or, perhaps, just different. And then Kerry busted in and told me to grab a clove and my shirt. Fuck. I went across the street to hear what her idea was. “That means I have to put this on. With fingernails.” She buttoned it for me. “Do you want me to tuck it in?” She tucked it in for me. Standing on the corner of President and 6th, Kerry stuffed the front of my shirt down the front of my pants. I tried to ignore the curious passersby, hoping the camera sitting on the tripod was enough to justify the strange activity. I went back to the front of my place and leaned against the wall, smoking with my red fingernails clutching my brown clove. Then it was finally all over. And I wasn’t waiting for acetone. I just pulled them off.

Anybody know how to get glue off fingernails?

The Avoidance Factor

I was in a good mood this morning, surprisingly, so I decided to treat myself to a bagel. I haven’t had one of those in a couple of weeks. I returned to my room and watched tv. Practically all day. I also watched a little bit of the movie Fiddler on the Roof.

I figured I would be able to avoid any personal racial revelations with this one. I was right. I love Tevya. The Papa! I did venture outside finally, later in the day. In an almost agoraphobic space, I meandered about the East Village and, realizing I was too early for the show I was supposed to see, decided to head to my favorite reading ground, the tea lounge. Sitting outside, smoking a clove, I began to think. This always gets me in trouble, leading me, as it is wont to do, to places I find it difficult to return from.

That ‘thing’ that happened Saturday morning is there, like a big cloud now, that I feel I can’t maneuver through. So I began to take it apart piece by piece. I didn’t get very far, though, because I tried to remember another time where a similar ‘thing’ happened, a time when I felt an overwhelming lack of history and singularity.

Immediately, I thought of it. The moment happened when I was about 25. I sitting on the back of a colleague’s pick-up truck on a lunch break at my first editing gig. I was reading Homegirls, a black feminist anthology compiled by Barbara Smith. The particular piece I was reading was about the sistren, the great-grandmothers, the grandmothers, the aunts, the sisters, the mothers.

I remember looking up and imagining all of them, sitting around telling yarns about the days of old, speaking in the language only they could understand. And for good reason. Just then, another colleague, returning from his own break, pulled up by me to engage in, what I’m sure was, a stupid conversation. His name was Daryl.

This ‘L Word’

I’ve seen the ads, but I’ve thankfully managed to miss all of the hype of “Showtime’s Lesbian Series.” (Nice description, Showtime.) I’m intrigued only because I’m interested in what the writers/producers will depict. Intersections of race, class, sexuality and gender will be front and center, with, apparently, race being on tap for the first episode. As for gender, well, after a few auditions, they ultimately decided to write my character out of the show. They wanted the character of Shane (figures) to be the one to get all the girls. How else will they appeal to a male audience? Vulnerability. Acceptance. Defiance. Distance. Tough things to go through every day. So I decided to put my school stuff back up on this joint. After all, that’s what I’m here for.  And although I’d like the day to go into the wee hours of this very snowy morning, I unfortunately must sleep.

A Hair Story

It’s not so much about hair as it is about the experience I had today getting mine cut. I rolled out of bed around noon — I love this week off I’ve given myself. Of course, this was after the third (I’m gonna try to keep track of them) dream I’ve had about my PhD applications. This one had to do with the fact that the deadline for the Rutgers app is Jan. 2nd. I already submitted my application online, but they require supplemental materials to be sent by mail. Annoying.

Not wanting to deal with post-office crowds, I decided to go today. Yesterday. The 26th. It’s late. Early. Anyway, in the dream, I was in desperate need of one of those handy little FedEx things and I couldn’t find one with labels. Despite the fact that I had plenty of time, I was way stressed out for no reason and then I woke up. There is absolutely no reason for such dreams, but I keep having them. Three and counting.

So I went to the post office. That was fine, although I don’t understand why people don’t move when you say excuse me. I had to shove a bit. This guy had his arms around his girlfriend and he was standing in the middle of the aisle. Then he thought he’d look at me. I think the look on my face deterred his staring. After leaving the post office, I went into Manhattan to see if I could get an appointment for my haircut later in the day. It turned out that the woman was ready then. But first we had to listen to a cute little story from a guy who used to live in L.A. about a bad haircut he got at the Beverly Center.

I told him I was raised in the Valley. He didn’t seem to care. Where’s the love? I immediately regretted the interest with which I listened to him. He left finally and I went to put my bag down.

I was unsure at this point who was going to cut my hair, so I didn’t know where to go. Then she started talking to me and I heard the word “shampoo.” I didn’t respond and then she said “papito.” I think. I shook my head. “How did you know what I said?” she asked. “I didn’t,” I responded, “but you said ‘head,’ didn’t you?” She laughed and shook her head. “What did you say?” I asked. “I asked if you wanted a shampoo.” “Oh, no, I don’t need one.”

I went and took my seat and proceeded to tell her what I wanted. As she was clipping, she took the time to admire my earrings. “Your mother let you do that?” For the next second or two, I was confused. “Why would I need permission,” I thought to myself. Then I realized she thought I was young. “I’m 30.”

She stopped what she was doing, placed her hands on my shoulders, leaned in with amazement in her eyes and said, “nooo. You look like a baby. How do you keep your skin looking like that? So young?”

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t do anything special to it. I don’t even eat vegetables.”

“You don’t eat vegetables?”

“Well, I shoved some in my mouth last night.” “I can’t believable. (That’s not a typo.) You’re not 30.”

“I can show you my ID.” As she was getting over her shock and awe, she resumed clipping.

Not two minutes later:

“You look Spanish.”

“I get that a lot,” I said. I was in a good mood and within two minutes, I discovered that this was going to be a fun haircut.

“Where are you from,” she asked.

“Los Angeles,” I responded with a huge smile on my face, knowing she was looking for something a little more informative. But she seemed satisfied and continued her line of questioning.

“Does anybody else in your family look like you? “Nope. I’m the black sheep of the family. They’re all white.”

“What is your father?”

“Well, there’s a story behind that.” She stopped as if to prepare for storytime. I continued. “There’s shock value in it. Wanna hear it?” “Yeah.” She was practically drooling in the clippers. I told her the dealio, she stopped for a split second, and had the same look of amazement at hearing my age.

“And your mother kept you?”

“Well….yeah. She dug me. You would have too if you’d have seen me. I was cute.”

She smiled and continued clipping. At this rate, I was beginning to wonder if I’d get the haircut I went in for. It usually only takes about 10 minutes. Believe it or not, the conversation didn’t end there.

“You were like the son she loved.”

Oh lord.

“Son? No. Daughter. I’m a chick.”

“Noooo. You look like a man.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot. I’m not.”

“But you look so much like a man. You’re a woman?”

“Yeah. I can show you my ID.”

This then led to a discussion of sexuality, which then led to a discussion of butch/femme relationships and the fact that there are women who dig butches. Thank god.

Anyway, we also discussed that special type of lesbian that doesn’t understand why a woman “would want to be with a woman who looks like a man.”

Why don’t they just be with men, is the standard follow-up question. The nice woman from the Dominican Republic then let me know that there were a lot of religious people who didn’t agree with gays. Who believe that we choose to be gay. “I’m not like that, though. I have lots of gay friends. And they tell me they would love to have the marriages and the babies.” I didn’t want to get into this arena with her, but I did tell her I had just watched “A Wedding Story” on TLC and I’m definitely hoping to one day meet a woman I can have a “wedding” with.

She was cool. And funny. And blunt. But that’s real. I can respect that. She ended the haircut by reminding me that I am at least in the right place to be who I am. I didn’t have the heart to tell her about the evil stares I get from people, but at least I am not in Laramie. I know that. And am grateful for those open-minded people. Or maybe it’s just that all of them really do think I’m a guy when they walk past me on the street. Whatever.

It’s all good till someone gets killed in the end, I guess. So that’s my hair story.

Cornelia and I watched A Mighty Wind and Best in Show. During the first film, I began officially freaking out about my thesis. I want to get to it, but I have a couple of other things on my plate I need to take care of. I mentioned it to her and we started talking about Derrida, Lacan, Foucault, and Butler.

I will probably be using only the latter two, as the first two are totally difficult and I’m only on page 23 of Lacan’s Four Fundamentals of Psychoanalyis. And it’s difficult. I did decide from our conversation, though, that I’m going to look at the film Orlando rather than the novel. But yeah, I’m really starting to freak out. Holy shit, I have to write a thesis.

What the hell am I doing here?

Music Therapy

Music is really a wonderful thing. I acquired some new music today, most of it, well, all of it, dance music. First of all, Missy’s “Pass the Dutch” makes me smile. And it makes me want to dance. I intend to dance very soon. I heard Meow Mix has a good deal on Thursdays. Last week, a friend of mine, Candace, told me she was taking me out to “a happy hour somewhere.” She was sick of me not smiling. When the time came, she said we were going to Meow Mix. “Cool,” I thought to myself. Unfortunately, there were five people there when we arrived and they were fixin’ to do karaoke. We left and went to a bar called The Library. Candace is 26. The bartender didn’t need to see her ID, which is a good thing because she didn’t have it. However, when it came time to look at mine, the woman stared at it. “Impossible,” she said. “You’re not 30.” After she was convinced, I proceeded to order my first of two pint-sized Kahluas. Candace wanted to do Meow Mix on Thursday but couldn’t. So I will do it soon. Maybe this week. I gotta dance. There’s another song I’m diggin’ on: Milkshake by Kelis. I was in New Jersey the first time I heard it. So there is some sadness associated with it. Especially because we never got to dance to it together. I’m left only to my imagination, which has been dead for a while. But enough of this sadness bullshit for the time being. It’s after 3 am and “Pass the Dutch” is on. So I’m gonna write about other stuff.

I think I’ve officially decided to not write about Hedwig, which sucks. But I don’t want to write about something that someone wrote about just last year. I might have another idea, though. I saw a movie this summer called “Imitation of Life.” One of the storylines in it is about a girl who is light-skinned and despises the fact that she has black in her. Her mother is the implicit housekeeper of an actress. Also, there is a book by Nella Larsen called “Passing,” which I have to read soon for class. I’ve just read some critiques of it, which reference Lacan’s idea of having the signifier disappear from the subject. I’m not totally interested in race in general, but this particular aspect is similar to that of gender for me. Of course my interest in it stems from my own race issues, but I won’t be introducing those into my thesis. I’ve got to talk to my professors before I go any farther. A couple of good things about my examining this book are that I can use the paper for my writing sample, as well as for part of my thesis. Killing birds here, people. I went to Coney Island today. I took an enjoyable ride on the W train accompanied by seven pages of Emily Dickinson poetry that I got from the Internet. I like this train because most of it is spent above the Brooklyn streets. I didn’t go so I could ride the rides or sit by the beach. I went to the batting cages. Apparently there is some anger inside of me that I can’t realize. Elizabeth is trying to get it out of me. Since I can’t very well hit the walls in my house, I figured that hitting some softballs would do the trick. It didn’t. I only became more frustrated, because I have lost my swing. With Dickinson’ poetry rolled up in my back pocket, I stood in the cage and hit 84 balls; only a few of them would have been hits. So I spent most of my time analyzing my form and trying to correct some stuff. It was nice to hit again, though. And I don’t even have blisters. I’m sure I’ll be sore tomorrow. After the cages, I took a quick walk on the boardwalk and then sat on a bench and stared at the Atlantic Ocean. I still haven’t replaced my headphones so I was forced to listen to the waves. This wasn’t such a bad thing. The Spurs are going to be here tomorrow. Not my house — in NYC. I might pop over to Madison Square Garden and see if I can get a $10 ticket. I’ve been sick this past week (a touch of bronchitis, I think, because I can hear the stuff all up in my lungs) and so I’ve been out of it. Coughing, hacking, sneezing, etc. So I should rest. But I don’t want to. They won’t be back till January and I don’t want to wait that long. I also have to do a lot of reading, because I haven’t gotten a lot done in the last couple of days. And seeing as though I’m still up, I can’t imagine being out of bed before noon. Which means I won’t have that long to study before the game starts. Plus I have a paper due on Wednesday. Plus the Cubs might make it to the World Series tomorrow and I have to watch that. So we’ll see about the basketball game. So I mentioned this anger thing. Apparently, anger turned inward is depression. Elizabeth, who, by the way, is the best therapist in the whole world, is trying to help me find it concerning the latest developments in my life. So far I haven’t been able to. So last Monday, during my first of two sessions for the week (she wanted to see me twice), she told me the office was going to be closed on Friday because of a health day or something. She had forgotten I made an appointment for Wednesday. After I told her this, I asked her if she had to be at this health fair. She said yes and that she was doing a seminar with a colleague, “which you can’t come to.” I asked her why and she said because it’s about how to help a friend in need. I laughed. Then she told me about this session in the afternoon about anger and how to express it. I went. The guy was weird. He told too many stories. Elizabeth was there and asked a question at the very end. It was something to the effect of how do you get someone to find their anger. He asked if this person (me, I’m thinking at this point) was depressed. She said yes. “Do they know they’re depressed?” She said yes. So I’m depressed, I guess. He suggested she find ways to bring it out in me. We’ll see what happens on Monday. It was funny (actually, none of this is really funny but she’s cool because she knows how to talk to me — she sees through my bullshit, which is what she gets paid for) — last week at some point, she asked me how I felt about some things she had just recounted for me. I wasn’t looking at her, and I leaned forward and said “I don’t know” a couple of times. Then I said, “angry?” “Are you really angry, or are you just trying to appease me?” See? Funny stuff. She’s exactly what I need right now. My friends have been awesome and I know my life is full of them. I appreciate the long e-mails I’ve gotten and the time people are willing to spend with me on the phone. In addition to this, I have a therapist (my first real experience with therapy, incidentally) who is a woman not too much older than I am. And she’s compassionate. A little over a week ago, I expressed to her in a rant of my disbelief in the fact that there is a woman who actually would want to grow with me in a fucking romantic relationship that — for love of god — would last longer than two, three fucking months. Who would ask how I’m doing. Call me in the middle of the day to tell me she misses me and just wanted to say hi. Make a fucking effort for fuck’s sake. I expected her to say something like “well, you and I will work on making you believe that.” She didn’t say that, though. She said something like (I never remember the stuff word for word) “for what it’s worth, I believe 100 percent that there is someone like that out there.” And then I think she said I was an amazing woman or remarkable woman or something like that. I looked up at her and she was looking right at me. I could barely utter a “thanks,” but I did. And she smiled. Now, I know therapists forget about their clients when the session ends, but it meant a lot to me. I might even be able to trust someone when they say things to me. I just gotta get over all this crap basically. 2003 has pretty much sucked so far in the girl department, so I’m really looking forward to 2004. And I will not be picking up any chicks in bars on New Year’s. I learned that fucking lesson. There’s a first and last time for everything. It just dawned on me that this particular post really feels like a journal entry. I’m lettin’ y’all in pretty deep here. Just don’t hold it against me. I’m still the punk ass you all know me to be. I’m just exposed a little more than usual right now. I can’t hide what’s going on inside me. In a way it’s a good thing. I refuse to suppress shit (apparently everything except anger). But then I am open to what I see as a lot of sympathy, which makes me uncomfortable because I feel like I’m imposing on people. I’m not looking for sympathy. I’ve been trying to hold everything together my whole life and it’s all coming undone now. Not really. That’s so dramatic. It’s not all coming undone. I’m just examining it for the first time. But for some reason (ok, it was Alia’s pleading) I began counseling. And I’m learning a lot. And it just so happens I’m missing someone through it. So it’s tough stuff. And I fear that my sessions are running out. I’m afraid to ask how many I have left (I lost count). Anything else? My lungs are still making noise now. I should go to sleep. I’m not in the mood, though. I feel like just going on and on. Michael Franti and Spearhead and going to be in town next week. I might go see them. I think the ticket is $17. He’s awesome. I just started reading The House of Mirth for my race and gender class. I think it’s due next Monday; Emily is due tomorrow. I’m not big on her poetry. I have no problem admitting it. Maybe my opinion will change after class. In other good news, I keep losing weight. Woo fucking hoo. When I moved to New York last August, I weighed in at a whopping 262 pounds. Huge mother fucker. The last time I checked (yesterday), I weighed 215. Sweet ass. I wonder if I could lose another 35 pounds. I’m not gonna be able to afford the new clothes, although I did buy myself a sweater yesterday. I can’t wear any of my pants without a belt and I can even pull them off with the belt fastened. Ridiculous. But cool, nevertheless. It’d probably come off quicker if I worked out. I haven’t done that in months. Well, I cannot think of anything else I’d like to regurgitate onto the screen. It’s after 4 now and I’m still probably not going to go to bed yet. I’m gonna listen to Missy (wanna dance) and Kelis (wanna dance still and I’m a masochist).

Almost There

I got a check from school today. I’m still missing $1,400 but I hope to clear that up next week. And I was browsing the New York Times classifieds this morning to try and ward off some insomnia and found some editing jobs that I’m qualified for.

So in the stress I anticipate feeling during the next year about my financial future, I know I can always turn there.

So I read some more of Uncle Tom. And I watched a little too much television. I rented Bringing Down the House, too. I tried to take a nap and all I could think of was the camp aesthetic, something commonly associated with homosexuality, and whether it can be applied to other sub-categories of identity, such as race.

And I thought of this Queen Latifah/Steve Martin vehicle, which appears to look negatively upon blacks. As I was trying to sleep, I pondered a thesis wherein I compare the use of camp in Hedwig and the Angry Inch and the movie I rented today. I would be able to address both race and gender. In both films, stereotypical behavior of gays/transsexuals and blacks, respectively, are presented to other, more identity-stable characters who are forced to contend with the differences in their lives. So I don’t know.

Before I watched the film today, I thought about the scene where Latifah kicks Steve Martin’s character in the crotch and then knocks him out. Also, Eugene Levy’s character lusts after her — the hyper-sexualized black woman. So I considered the fact that a lot of stereotypes applied to blacks seemed to be rolled into this one character; it was as if she was a minstrel character. I think I could compare this film to another film from the early 20th century where blacks are presented in such a light for my pop culture paper. And then roll what I came up with into my thesis somehow. I have to talk to the profs about it. I’ll think more on it and spin it for them in a week or so. Needless to say, I never did nap. I should sleep well tonight, although alone. By the way, I laughed my ass off at parts. I want to see it again. Also this morning during my sleeplessness, I perused the American Studies Ph.D. program at NYU. It’s a great program. Will I apply? Don’t ask. I feel as though I’m at the top of a long drop on a roller coaster and I’ll reach the bottom in May. Caught up in this feeling is my uncertainty about applying to doctorate programs. So I’ll just choose not to think about it quite yet. I’m off to do some more reading. Cornelia is going out so I’ll have the place to myself for a bit. R.I.P. John Ritter. Shocking.