Hello!

Hello!

26 February 2009

Why I'm glad I learned to drive in NoVA

I had to drive in to Philly three times this week, which resulted in me spending a hecka lot of time on 476, 76, and 95. Also, I was in VA over the weekend - more time on 95.
All that to say: Philadelphians can't drive. If there's one thing we know in the DMV (that's DC, Maryland, and Virginia, for those of you who don't know), it's traffic. We, of the three hour commute (20 miles, people, 20 miles!), know how to handle traffic. We know how to keep things interesting - a little weaving in and out, a little movement. Also, we know that on the rare occasion that traffic may be moving, you must take advantage of that and MOVE. If the speed limit says 55, but things are moving, go ahead and do 65 - but stay in the slow lane. The fast lane is reserved for people who are actually moving fast - like 80 fast.

People here don't know how good they have it.... It's only a forty minute commute in rush hour! That said, if we had those conditions down in DC, it'd be a twenty minute commute. Philadelphians cannot seem to figure out how to keep things moving! You'll have two lanes of traffic, and there will be two cars, each going 65. O. M. G. People! Stop blocking me in! If you're only going ten miles over the speed limit, move it over to the slow lane.
Stinkin' Philly drivers....

;)

19 February 2009

In gear

So I just realized that I plan to be in LA in a week wearing this little number:


Yikes!

I'm planning accordingly.

On the to-do list:
  1. stop eating so many stinkin' carbs (oh, those delicious, delicious carbs)
  2. focus on my core like craaaazy
  3. invest in a little self tanner (yes, I am ridiculous)

Cali, here I come!

17 February 2009

In the meantime, can I get a sound check?

I've been thinking about a lot of things lately, some pretty heavy, and I do want to write about them, but I'm pretty frustrated after my class today. I feel like it'd be good for me to cool down a bit before I write about those issues; my perspective is a bit clouded right now.
Anyway, it's not like I haven't been thinking about my current soundtrack for a hot minute.

1. "Take Me Away" by John Legend

Oh, Mr. Legend.... There's a melancholy to it but also an optimism, and I like that. It reminds me of the way I feel in winter and how this winter has been so much better than last, partly because of the people I've had around me. And it's John Legend. How can I NOT love it?

2. "This Time" by John Legend

"This time I want it all, this time I want it all. Showing you all the cards, giving you all my heart. This time I'll take the chance, this time I'll be your man. I can be all you need, this time it's all of me." I love this song, mostly for the preceding lines. It just reminds me that I'm glad that I've taken the chances I've taken this year instead of holding back.

3. "Talkin' About A Revolution" by Tracy Chapman

So, I was in the car the other day, and this song came on my ipod, and it felt like I was listening to this song for the first time. Man, it is such good stuff!
"Don't you know you're talking about a revolution It sounds like a whisper While they're standing in the welfare lines Crying at the doorsteps of those armies of salvation Wasting time in unemployment lines Sitting around waiting for a promotion...." Go 'head and sing it, Tracy.

4. "You Got Me" by The Roots
The video is copyrighted like crazy, so click the link, because it's worth it. I remember listening to this when it first came out in the late 90s and loving it, and I kind of recently rediscovered it. The sign of good music: you hear it again ten years later, and it STILL sounds fresh and beautiful.

5. "The Nature" by Talib Kweli feat. Justin Timberlake

Such a smart song; such a clear, sharp analysis of where we are as a society. "Don't nobody talk no more they all text message Driving and typing, not paying attention, missing the next exit Depending on navigation they never know where they're goin'They stay stuck in one spot; they're not growin'"

6. "Octavo día" by Shakira

Classic Shakira, before the blonde hair and the crossover, when she was still dying her hair burgundy (has any Latina NOT gone through that stage?!). Also, the lyrics. It's funny how so often it's the non-Christians who really get our need for God, because that's what I get from this. It's also about how easy it is for us to forget Him and our need for Him, because we're so busy letting the media give us folks to worship. "Es más difícil ser rey sin corona que una persona más normal..."

7. "Hold You in My Arms" by Ray LaMontagne

His voice, the folk influences in the music, the lyrics.... Oh, the love.

8. "Sólo quiero darte amor" by La Secta

Big shout out to my Puerto Rican rock en español bands. This is just fun - love this PR rock.

9. "Boquerón" by Fiel a la Vega

Speaking of my Puerto Rican rockers.... These guys are absolute geniuses. This is a little instrumental piece that is both so classic and so Puerto Rican.

10. "Cheer Up" by Ten Shekel Shirt

Except that what I was really going for was "House of Memories". That said, "Cheer Up" is a fine substitute, especially those last lines: "Wake up, it's time to dream bigger." Challenging. I'll take it.

Also, when will this be back on tv?

11 February 2009

Things I would like

1. A week near the beach - under the sun - with the boy I love. (Scheduled to come up SOOOOON!)
2. Adequate sleep tonight. Ha!
3. If my paper for Urban Econ. would WRITE ITSELF!
4. If the article I have to read would read itself aloud to me, because I actually do want to know all about it.
5. A couple hours of free time to write.
6. A couple hours to write things that are less fun, but arguably have more weight on my future. Such as an essay and a letter of introduction.
7. Some time with the fam. Man, I miss those crazy fools.

03 February 2009

Formative

I had to write a case study about a "cross-cultural interaction" from my personal experience for my Cross-Cultural Skills and Understanding class. I struggled a lot with it because I didn't want to get too personal; I think I did end up going in that direction, but it wasn't my intention. I wrote a few bits before the final draft, a little snippet about an experience I wrote about here before, which I kind of liked, so I'm including that here:

Last August: I was running an errand for my mother. The car windows were down to take advantage of the August heat, and Alejandra Guzmán blasted on the radio; Mexican rock spilled out the open windows. I pulled up to the stop sign, ready to turn right, and waited for the coming car to pass. I saw two teenage boys in the car, windows down; there was nothing unusual about it, just a couple high school kids taking advantage of their last weeks of summer vacation. And then they drove by; one leaned out the window: white face, black mouth. “GET OUT!”
My heart stopped and my mind raced. Was he talking to me? Did he just yell that at me? Was it my flag hanging from the rearview mirror? Was it the Alejandra Guzmán on the radio? Was it just the sight of this brown face? My hands trembled on the steering wheel because I knew they were driving in the same direction that I myself was heading toward, and the thought of running into them at the grocery store terrified me. Here I was, twenty-five years old and afraid to run into a couple of high school kids at the grocery store.
The car behind me honked, snapping me out of my paralysis. I drove, still shaking, knowing that this would never end. No matter how long I spend here, I will never fully understand; I will never fully belong. The feeling that this is home will always be tenuous and fragile. I am not welcome.


That's not what I ended up writing about, though. I wrote about an incident that happened when I was eleven that I have never been able to shake off. It's the one that has pushed me to be more and better my whole life. I think about Edward James Olmos in Selena, saying how Mexican-Americans have to be more Mexican than the Mexicans and more American than the Americans and I think of that day in 1993 when that first became clear to me. So here's a bit of what I wrote for class:

I’m eleven. At eleven, I could not possibly be more all-American, having lived most of my conscious life in the Midwest. I straighten my hair and worry about the fullness of my hips and listen to rock; I’m busy trying to fit in, trying to hide the ethnic parts of myself and my upbringing. There’s no way to hide it right now, though, because my grandmother and two of my cousins are visiting and I have to speak Spanish, not just inside the house, but outside of it as well. We have come to the mall with them, and I am walking with Marilyn, my cool oldest cousin, the older sister I always wished I had. We are in 579, my favorite store, lingering over a rack of stirrup leggings with matching sweatshirts; it was 1993. I remember my fingers trailing over a pair of plaid leggings – jade green, maroon, and ivory – and wondering if my mom would say yes to this purchase. Marilyn and I talk excitedly about the outfits, already carefully selected by the company and hung on interlocking hangers. We speak Spanish.
One of the saleswomen leans over the counter to talk to the cashier. I can still remember her: the shoulder-length blonde perm, the bubble bangs, and the winter white sweater she wore; it’s all seared in my memory, just as clear sixteen years later. She opens her mouth and says, “You know, we’re going to have to start offering a credit card for these Hispanics like Sears does. These Hispanics. They come to this country and they don’t learn English.” The cashier nods her head knowingly as if she’s thought of this before – as if she understands.
I’m standing not three feet away, at a rack right next to the register, but they have not bothered to lower their voices. I look at them nervously from the corners of my eyes. Marilyn, of course, is oblivious and it occurs to me that they think I don’t understand. I feel a heat in the pit of my stomach, a ball of shame and fear and confusion. I can’t make my tongue form words in either language, and all I know to do is to move away as quickly as possible.
I’m still clutching the plaid leggings and the matching jade green sweatshirt when I meet my mother and grandmother in the back of the store. The words are still ringing in my head, and I can feel my hands trembling despite my tight grip on the plastic hanger. Somehow, I convince my mother that Mari and I are ready to leave 579. She pays for the clothes in our hands, and I escape the stifling air of the store with my family, all of them still speaking loudly in the language that has caused my personal crisis.
I was afraid to mention it for months, afraid to put words to the event that had transpired. I did not know how to respond to it, and so I kept silent. One day, nearly three months later, I sat in the backseat of the car and told my mother about it. The confession felt like release at the time, a sharing of hidden pain that made it possible for me to be defended. My mother marched down to 579 one day and spoke to the manager. She told her everything that had happened, and made it clear that we would no longer support their establishment and that she would share our story with all our friends. There must have been apologies, offers of better service, something to keep her quiet; but it did not change her mind. We never set foot in that store again.
This is always in the back of my mind. Deep down inside, I’m still that eleven-year-old girl in 579 overhearing the staff say that my people did not learn English. I know that it was not my first uncomfortable cross-cultural experience, and it was not even the worst of those experiences, but it is the one that I carry with me, the one that haunts me....


As I was writing, I was amazed by the clarity of the memory. I can remember the cashier's long, brown hair - wavy in the way hair was wavy back in 1993 (was it called a body wave?). I can remember the guilt and shame I felt every time I wore those daggone stirrup leggings - shame that was not associated with the fact that they were stirrup leggings, but that they'd been purchased on the day I knew I needed to flee that place. (Don't worry, I'm now QUITE ashamed of the fact that I wore plaid stirrup leggings, period.) I don't think I'd realized quite how much that shaped me, how I realized that if I spoke we could organize a little economic resistance, how I felt wonderfully principled and proud every time I walked by my old favorite store without so much as looking in, how it's taught me to be the kind of woman who will speak Spanish in public places and challenge a stranger's stare with my own....
For better or worse, this, and all those other incidents, have made me who I am. They've made me embrace my culture with so much pride, while walking that careful tightrope of being "ethnic" in the US: la prima americana, the Puerto Rican friend. Ésa soy yo.