Today I went into the city to see the exhibit on Frida Kahlo at the SFMOMA. in 5th grade I was doing a project on Diego Rivera (to this day I don't know how I found him) and discovered his wife, Frida, who was infinitely more interesting. Her paintings had an intensity about them that struck my 10 year old eyes. I loved her paintings long before I ever had my heart broken. Now that I've lived a bit and know what love and loss feel like, I love them even more.
I spent the past 18 years staring at these paintings in books, reading her diary, memorizing the stories behind each of her prints and each chapter in her life. As as young girl she thrived on her fathers attention and affection while her mother was chronically exhausted and overbearing. In her teens, she tested the boundaries of gender roles, joining a nearly all boys revolutionary fraternity and dressing in her father's suits for family photos. A trolley accident in which her body was pierced through with a bar handle, entering her lower back and exiting her vagina, left her unable to bear children and bed-bound for months. Before she was 25 she had married Diego. He was a constant adulterer, sleeping with models, revolutionary's wives and her sister. She, in unending physical and emotional pain, turned to other men (and women) in desperate efforts to self-sooth yet remained devoted to her love her entire life. She wore the glorious styles of the Oaxacan women she had grown up with in rich colors and patterns of flowing skirts and home spun tops, meters and meters of lush scarves and ornate hair updos and ornaments. Her blue house was a menagerie of native Mexican plants and animals...
And in this reality she painted. Her constant struggle in love with a man who was "physiologically incapable of commitment" and the bitter war with her "Judas of a body" through the raw and astonishing self portraits as a deer pierced with thorns, a broken column, a murdered wife killed with a "few small nips", a dual personality, bleeding out against her most desperate attempts at survival, her musings in her bath with a view of her scarred right foot and her imagination... her pride, anger and pain as a revolutionary, her devotion to her homeland,her heartbreak at being unable to bear a child.
All of this I saw today, in person, for the first time after 16 years of learning Frida. She and I have scoliosis, chronic back pain, surgery on our right feet, scarred hearts, bouts of desperation, depression. But there is so much life in her work, more than any other artist, and I was finally able to see it today. Ooo and I'm so happy!
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Friday, July 18, 2008
the edge
Glory, Glory to the Lamb
You will take us into the land
We will conquer in your name...
I moved to California. By myself. I found a job, a plane ticket and eventually a place to live. I started work five days after I arrived and had the program up and running (shakily) within two weeks. I endured the crippling stress and heartache of leaving home that kept me from eating, the snails pace of university bureaucracy, the isolation of running a program physically by myself, the egos and satan-inspired dissatisfaction of students, the backache of sleeping on the floor when my furniture took a month to arrive, the sprained ankle(s) from walking everywhere and from the first day, the first hour...
I just finished my first year. After taking two weeks to sleep and reboot at home, I am back and working like a woman crazed to avoid what pain I can from last year. Searching hungrily, desperately for what I can do ahead of time that I was not able to in two weeks before. My list is pages long. My personal list is only slightly shorter; study for the GREs, apply to grad school, write a book, buy a car, contact my house mate's friend who is a television exec. about the show proposal sitting in my mind all year...
From the first day, the first hour, and the following days and hours and still, I have been... Our plan died at the back of my mouth when I saw his eyes. He was unhappy and uninterested in my arrival. I was an obstacle. He resented me coming. He didn't move to come near me in the terminal. We stared at each other. He looked tired, already irritated. His hug was weak. I was turned off instantly. We drove in silence. In this alien place that I had struggled up the courage to come to alone and that I knew nothing about, I sat in the guest room of a stranger's house for three days while he talked on the phone with someone else in other rooms. He slept with his back to me at night except for once when he half-heartedly, almost unnoticeably, rocked his hips against mine for five minutes before rolling back over. Where was our plan to fall into each other's arms and weep with relief that finally, after so much time and distance, we could be together the way we wanted to. I watched him laugh with friends and then grow sullen with me in the car. His conversation was reduced to one word answers and I became impatient and angry quickly. I hadn't done anything. On the fourth day, I spent the day alone in his room while he went to work. Unsure of how to operate the television with its three remotes, I read the news over and over again. And I stared at the picture on the desk. When I physically could not keep my eyes open any longer from having nothing to do, I put my head on the desk. When my back started to hurt I considered the bed but couldn't bring myself to sleep in the same place where he had brought her. I laid a blanket on the floor and slept next to the TV. That was my introduction to California. It has not improved. One thousand little words, one thousand little pin sized pricks back and forth have damaged me, darkened me.
My job has quieted down for the summer. It's given me time to catch up on projects that will make next year much easier and I have the satisfaction of knowing I have a job that is hard and meaningful that I'm very good at . I've settled into my house where I have plenty of space and freedom. I am buying a car this month. I am considering the future and grad school. I long to be in the classroom with my babies again. My garden is growing. It is very pretty in the summertime here. When the fog rolls off the sun is sometimes warm. And finally, I feel a break through is coming. My life is my own. I'm not led astray anymore. I have no more delusions about life. I harbor no malice. I don't hate anyone. But I have taken all that I can stand. I feel taut. I'm simply standing at the edge and praying for someone to trip the wire.
You will take us into the land
We will conquer in your name...
I moved to California. By myself. I found a job, a plane ticket and eventually a place to live. I started work five days after I arrived and had the program up and running (shakily) within two weeks. I endured the crippling stress and heartache of leaving home that kept me from eating, the snails pace of university bureaucracy, the isolation of running a program physically by myself, the egos and satan-inspired dissatisfaction of students, the backache of sleeping on the floor when my furniture took a month to arrive, the sprained ankle(s) from walking everywhere and from the first day, the first hour...
I just finished my first year. After taking two weeks to sleep and reboot at home, I am back and working like a woman crazed to avoid what pain I can from last year. Searching hungrily, desperately for what I can do ahead of time that I was not able to in two weeks before. My list is pages long. My personal list is only slightly shorter; study for the GREs, apply to grad school, write a book, buy a car, contact my house mate's friend who is a television exec. about the show proposal sitting in my mind all year...
From the first day, the first hour, and the following days and hours and still, I have been... Our plan died at the back of my mouth when I saw his eyes. He was unhappy and uninterested in my arrival. I was an obstacle. He resented me coming. He didn't move to come near me in the terminal. We stared at each other. He looked tired, already irritated. His hug was weak. I was turned off instantly. We drove in silence. In this alien place that I had struggled up the courage to come to alone and that I knew nothing about, I sat in the guest room of a stranger's house for three days while he talked on the phone with someone else in other rooms. He slept with his back to me at night except for once when he half-heartedly, almost unnoticeably, rocked his hips against mine for five minutes before rolling back over. Where was our plan to fall into each other's arms and weep with relief that finally, after so much time and distance, we could be together the way we wanted to. I watched him laugh with friends and then grow sullen with me in the car. His conversation was reduced to one word answers and I became impatient and angry quickly. I hadn't done anything. On the fourth day, I spent the day alone in his room while he went to work. Unsure of how to operate the television with its three remotes, I read the news over and over again. And I stared at the picture on the desk. When I physically could not keep my eyes open any longer from having nothing to do, I put my head on the desk. When my back started to hurt I considered the bed but couldn't bring myself to sleep in the same place where he had brought her. I laid a blanket on the floor and slept next to the TV. That was my introduction to California. It has not improved. One thousand little words, one thousand little pin sized pricks back and forth have damaged me, darkened me.
My job has quieted down for the summer. It's given me time to catch up on projects that will make next year much easier and I have the satisfaction of knowing I have a job that is hard and meaningful that I'm very good at . I've settled into my house where I have plenty of space and freedom. I am buying a car this month. I am considering the future and grad school. I long to be in the classroom with my babies again. My garden is growing. It is very pretty in the summertime here. When the fog rolls off the sun is sometimes warm. And finally, I feel a break through is coming. My life is my own. I'm not led astray anymore. I have no more delusions about life. I harbor no malice. I don't hate anyone. But I have taken all that I can stand. I feel taut. I'm simply standing at the edge and praying for someone to trip the wire.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Monday, June 25, 2007
To not want children...
I feel so guilty saying that. I love how babies cling to you for comfort even if your not the "baby type". I love how easy it is to make any child, in any circumstance, laugh. I love watching toddlers sleep and then I love it when they crawl into your lap when their nap is over and fall back to sleep.
But this weekend was draining and emotional and stressful. Friday was nice, we went to dinner and brought Eden home, gave her a bath that was that. Saturday the parents were already showing signs of fatigue. We made it through an IMAX movie, and the live animal section and then both had to sit out the discovery zone. We hit the museum store and it was a wrap. The father was practically asleep standing up and the mother
was beginning to show her extreme lack of patience with anything and everything. Interestingly everyone was still in relatively good spirits. Eden colored and the mother and I cooked dinner while the father slept (how sweet and 1950's) and there was general enjoyment all around while the mother showed me how to fry crabcakes. Dinner was large and fabulous.
Sunday was a disaster and I won't go into it but to say that, because I slept on the couch two nights in a row because the little girl moves in her sleep like she's fighting to stay afloat in some deep abyss, I was tired and short tempered. And it was hot and everything was fine (even after deciding that trying to get the mother to go to my church was useless) until the cashier at Target rang me up wrong and my account went into overdraft and I went back to talk to the manager and the mother offered not to say anything while I talked, but did anyways. So I snapped at her, like most other walking, breathing mammals do for no particularly good reason when the weather is such. She proceeded to lay into me not so much because I had snapped at her but because I had done it in public and went particularly onyx in the face when I reminded her that not only were we both adults but that we had been for some time. Mind you, this is the mother who is both entirely convinced of her own self-righteousness and cares most importantly, about other people's image of her. So, while I skulked away after having snapped at the mother, she cried bloody hell and disrespect loud enough for everyone around her to hear in hopes that her tirade would reinstall her into the good graces of the strangers who sincerely couldn't have cared less.
She was dropped home. Off we went,the father and I, with a much quieter Eden to the bookstores. The day got considerably more bright and enjoyable. At least for me. Whenever this sort of thing happens the father gets an upset stomach and, as a result, I feel even more peevish but in a sad way. We took Eden to the park and watched her play, pulling herself with extreme on the jungle gyms, except for when she fell and came over holding her cheek, face crinkled up in pre-cry mode. This is the moment when I love children. My maternal nature goes into overdrive and there is a sincere deliciousness and satisfaction in the sensation of wanting to cuddle and say something nonsensical and cooing but fighting the urge and convincing said child why it's not necessary to cry and what a big girl you are for getting across the jungle gym all by yourself. The mother was laughing on the phone when we came back. I apologized and got in return a sound that, if not quite "that's fine, I understand", was at least "nothing new". We ate porkchops as if nothing had happened. Eden was bathed and put to bed. The mother ate one of my fried bananas and all was tired, cranky, don't cross me and normal.
At 4am I snapped awake and instantly called the faraway who always sounds most sweet at 4am. He asked if he could get me some breakfast but I declined and asked instead if we could cuddle, after which I promptly fell asleep on the phone.
This afternoon, the father called to say that the mother was fireballing around the house furious and wrathful.
Long story short, I'm stressed still about where I'll live next week, where money will be coming from next month. irritated by the mother for nothing new and nothing good. and here comes Eden, asking, poking, jumping, burping, sneezing, pulling, hypothesizing and only occasionally sleeping. The combination was a disaster on my nerves and my patience. To the point where, by yesterday, even though I love children and I especially love my niece, the child was asking every couple of hours, "Auntie Robin, why don't you want to sit with me" and "Auntie Robin, why don't you want to have fun with me" which made me just feel miserable on top of it all.
But this weekend was draining and emotional and stressful. Friday was nice, we went to dinner and brought Eden home, gave her a bath that was that. Saturday the parents were already showing signs of fatigue. We made it through an IMAX movie, and the live animal section and then both had to sit out the discovery zone. We hit the museum store and it was a wrap. The father was practically asleep standing up and the mother
was beginning to show her extreme lack of patience with anything and everything. Interestingly everyone was still in relatively good spirits. Eden colored and the mother and I cooked dinner while the father slept (how sweet and 1950's) and there was general enjoyment all around while the mother showed me how to fry crabcakes. Dinner was large and fabulous.
Sunday was a disaster and I won't go into it but to say that, because I slept on the couch two nights in a row because the little girl moves in her sleep like she's fighting to stay afloat in some deep abyss, I was tired and short tempered. And it was hot and everything was fine (even after deciding that trying to get the mother to go to my church was useless) until the cashier at Target rang me up wrong and my account went into overdraft and I went back to talk to the manager and the mother offered not to say anything while I talked, but did anyways. So I snapped at her, like most other walking, breathing mammals do for no particularly good reason when the weather is such. She proceeded to lay into me not so much because I had snapped at her but because I had done it in public and went particularly onyx in the face when I reminded her that not only were we both adults but that we had been for some time. Mind you, this is the mother who is both entirely convinced of her own self-righteousness and cares most importantly, about other people's image of her. So, while I skulked away after having snapped at the mother, she cried bloody hell and disrespect loud enough for everyone around her to hear in hopes that her tirade would reinstall her into the good graces of the strangers who sincerely couldn't have cared less.
She was dropped home. Off we went,the father and I, with a much quieter Eden to the bookstores. The day got considerably more bright and enjoyable. At least for me. Whenever this sort of thing happens the father gets an upset stomach and, as a result, I feel even more peevish but in a sad way. We took Eden to the park and watched her play, pulling herself with extreme on the jungle gyms, except for when she fell and came over holding her cheek, face crinkled up in pre-cry mode. This is the moment when I love children. My maternal nature goes into overdrive and there is a sincere deliciousness and satisfaction in the sensation of wanting to cuddle and say something nonsensical and cooing but fighting the urge and convincing said child why it's not necessary to cry and what a big girl you are for getting across the jungle gym all by yourself. The mother was laughing on the phone when we came back. I apologized and got in return a sound that, if not quite "that's fine, I understand", was at least "nothing new". We ate porkchops as if nothing had happened. Eden was bathed and put to bed. The mother ate one of my fried bananas and all was tired, cranky, don't cross me and normal.
At 4am I snapped awake and instantly called the faraway who always sounds most sweet at 4am. He asked if he could get me some breakfast but I declined and asked instead if we could cuddle, after which I promptly fell asleep on the phone.
This afternoon, the father called to say that the mother was fireballing around the house furious and wrathful.
Long story short, I'm stressed still about where I'll live next week, where money will be coming from next month. irritated by the mother for nothing new and nothing good. and here comes Eden, asking, poking, jumping, burping, sneezing, pulling, hypothesizing and only occasionally sleeping. The combination was a disaster on my nerves and my patience. To the point where, by yesterday, even though I love children and I especially love my niece, the child was asking every couple of hours, "Auntie Robin, why don't you want to sit with me" and "Auntie Robin, why don't you want to have fun with me" which made me just feel miserable on top of it all.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
wishing for the 1 year old who just smiled and pooped.
I'm loosing my mind. This child is driving me crazy! The down side to a brilliant five-year-old is that she talks. Nonstop. About important stuff!
Friday, June 22, 2007
Visiting the career counselor
I spoke to the graduate career counselor yesterday about my employment prospects. I told him about the position closest to my heart and my dilemma with negotiating a salary. Of course, like any logical individual, his next question was, what are they offering me. I told him.
Long story short, it's not even negotiable. Survival in that part of the country is not expected making what I would make.
*ha-rumph!*
On the flip side, my family is coming up for the weekend and their bringing my five year old niece with them. I know, I'm an only child. But being as though they practically raised her mother, she is now my neice and she is coming to Boston. Joy! When I tell you, this girl is going to do a damn site better than Condelezza one day, it's no exageration. Already, she reads at the level of children three years older then her. She speaks her mind, but coherently and logically, causing most adults to look in the other direction for the source of such grown up philosophy. And she's a happy, well-adjusted child who hates eggs and loves Dora. So we're going to the Science museum this weekend, and Baker's Best, which, if you're from the Boston area you already know about because its so stinking fabulous and if you're not, then you've missed out on one of life's great and simple joys. I don't like Boston. I've been scarred by Boston's attitude, racism and overall, rude way of life, but for the eggs benedict at this place, I would come back and stand in line in the rain.
...back to Eden (my niece)...and we're going to paint and shop and eat some more and nap (oooowwweeee!) and...
so, despite the arrival for the very first time of the notion that I may not live in that part of the country right now, it promises to be a busy and very enjoyable weekend.
Long story short, it's not even negotiable. Survival in that part of the country is not expected making what I would make.
*ha-rumph!*
On the flip side, my family is coming up for the weekend and their bringing my five year old niece with them. I know, I'm an only child. But being as though they practically raised her mother, she is now my neice and she is coming to Boston. Joy! When I tell you, this girl is going to do a damn site better than Condelezza one day, it's no exageration. Already, she reads at the level of children three years older then her. She speaks her mind, but coherently and logically, causing most adults to look in the other direction for the source of such grown up philosophy. And she's a happy, well-adjusted child who hates eggs and loves Dora. So we're going to the Science museum this weekend, and Baker's Best, which, if you're from the Boston area you already know about because its so stinking fabulous and if you're not, then you've missed out on one of life's great and simple joys. I don't like Boston. I've been scarred by Boston's attitude, racism and overall, rude way of life, but for the eggs benedict at this place, I would come back and stand in line in the rain.
...back to Eden (my niece)...and we're going to paint and shop and eat some more and nap (oooowwweeee!) and...
so, despite the arrival for the very first time of the notion that I may not live in that part of the country right now, it promises to be a busy and very enjoyable weekend.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
fighting the perpetuation of the colonial enterprise, and you?
It seems that since this form of communication has become a giant beast of a thing, I ought to develop my little corner of tail or snout and get to emoting as well. Truthfully I hate being left behind; call it only child syndrome. I used to call myself a writer, and then life began in earnest and I had to put that aside to become a better student, a better daughter, a better friend and a better useful thing. Then writing became assignments and deadlines and when graduate school introduced itself to me, in the form of theses, conference papers and long nights of mind-numbing, unapologetic affairs with the lower levels of obscure libraries. Now that I've finished my schooling (temporarily) I can get about the business of finding my humble happy niche, as idealistic as it may sound. In the downtime, should it arise, I can revisit the life lessons, bad poetry and world happenings parts of my mind and reflect on what I find, here. I thought the title fitting only because my small drop to the olympic sized swimming pool of the blogsphere is never the less that, a bit of something, tiny yet significant, shifting and ultimately, fading. I have no false expectations of living into eternity, but I do like the idea of my words being here until God knows when. (or until Blogger.com goes belly up). Is that even how it works?
I am an African American woman, 25, recently having concluded graduate school with a Masters in Cultural Anthropology. Now struggling with what to do with this degree in one of the last great vestiges of institutionalized colonialism. How ironic! I decided on a degree in Anthro, not because masochism is a dish best served by professors who study me (!), but because I wanted a cultural degree that allowed me the flexibility to legitimately research indigenous self representation, child development, social structure and human rights all within one discipline. And I did that. And now I search for work that is more hands-on, more "teach this baby with her pretty little curls". More "How can I help without imposing my imperialistic, paternalistic, downright rude American upbringing on you?". More "would you like to travel half-way across the world?". Why yes, thank you.
I am an African American woman, 25, recently having concluded graduate school with a Masters in Cultural Anthropology. Now struggling with what to do with this degree in one of the last great vestiges of institutionalized colonialism. How ironic! I decided on a degree in Anthro, not because masochism is a dish best served by professors who study me (!), but because I wanted a cultural degree that allowed me the flexibility to legitimately research indigenous self representation, child development, social structure and human rights all within one discipline. And I did that. And now I search for work that is more hands-on, more "teach this baby with her pretty little curls". More "How can I help without imposing my imperialistic, paternalistic, downright rude American upbringing on you?". More "would you like to travel half-way across the world?". Why yes, thank you.
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