life

A Notion of Fear

Leave a comment

Cross-posted from my “academic” blog – The Mind’s Vale –

studying-watercolor1The day after tomorrow, my summer courses begin. It has been six years since I have undertaken graduate coursework, and I find myself becoming very nervous. I am in a completely different situation now. When I was in college and graduate school, I could devote my full attention to my studies, without work or anything else that necessarily required my attention. I had my hobbies, friendships, and a romantic relationship, of course, but those were choices. Now I am a wife and a mother and those are high demands on my time, whether I like it or not. School must come second, naturally, but it must also be completed. I have five weeks in these two courses and all the expectations that come with graduate work, which will – most likely – include two 20-page papers at the end of this road. Not to mention that those papers will come due right when I am supposed to leave for my anniversary trip with my husband; so, naturally, I will need to finish them early.

So, altogether, this means that I will have to be focused and hardcore AND dependent on others to help me. That last one is not a trait with which I often like to truck. I am very independent and like to do things myself. However, I KNOW that I cannot amuse a toddler AND pay attention to a lecture on video or read dry academic writing and have it sink in to my brain  and memory satisfactorily. At least, not without losing my sanity. So, for five weeks, I will have to be dependent on my husband, my in-laws, and maybe even my friends to help me carve out the necessary time to myself to get my classes done and even to get ahead on my work. To those wonderful people, I say thank you in advance for your help.

I’d also ask ,though, that you keep me accountable with my studies. This is not an option; it is something that must be done, that I will be graded on, and I want to, if anything, push my GPA ever higher. So it will require attention, focus, and hard work on my part. This will not be easy, I am very nervous about being able to do it well, but I will do it.

Let Down Your Hair

2 Comments

As I sat in my hairdresser’s chair the other day, I picked up the magazine that was on the counter – a back-issue of Hype Hair and began to flip through it. I realize now that I should have counted advertisements, meaning I should have counted how many advertisements for Remi hair that I saw in the half of the magazine that I flipped through. Its frequency was almost literally every other page. For those of you who don’t know, Remi is a supplier of hair extensions. The reason this sparked in my mind is because, a month or so ago, I posted this selfie on my Facebook page sans make-up or anything, on a whim and sense of feeling pretty. 968036_10152100165903133_807967466_n In the comments, someone asked me if I had Remi hair. Honestly? I had to look that up. When I figured out what it was, I alternated between laughing out loud and feeling a little insulted. For the record, though, I have never once had hair extensions, weave, or anything of the like. Every inch of that was my own hair (six to eight of which came off the other day). But what I also realized is that is not the first time I have been asked that. I have been asked if not only my hair is real but are my nails real? I like to grow out my nails a little bit, always have. They grow quickly and my cuticles have a curve to them that makes my natural nail growth graceful (at least, I think it does).

So, in my mind, this prompts a question. What is the expectation of beauty in a black woman that seems to predicate an assumption of falseness? False hair, false nails, false eyelashes, intense make-up, etc. Why must any part of me, or any of us, be false? Let’s be honest, the advertising would not be so intense and frequent if it were it not successful. What is it about current social expectations of beauty that would prompt people to look at me and ask if I am all ‘real’? I mean, the same thought is prompted when someone asks, “Is she a real blonde?” or “Are those her real breasts?” By the way, I am 5’2 and a D-cup; I’m pretty sure that latter question has been lobbed in my (in)direction a time or two. Next confession: I relax my hair. It’s easier to manage and care for this way. So, no, while this may not be my hair’s natural state, it is still my hair. All of it, every inch, every grey, every (sometimes broken and split) end.

I know that this an old debate but yet the question remains. Why is falseness assumed (or worse, expected) in certain standards of beauty, for both men and women?

A Change of Space

Leave a comment

When I arrived at my parents’ house on Monday, we let Elizabeth familiarize herself with the house while we got settled. Ben and I are sleeping in my old room, of course. The reality, though, is that it looks nothing like the room I grew up in.

Gone are the pink, then white, then blue walls, now a soft taupe leading up to an ivory ceiling. the bookshelves, the desk, the stereo, the shrine to boy bands on the corner shelves by the window. Gone is the window unit air conditioner, inserted and cemented into a cutout in the wall; the entire house is central air’ed now. The windows o the north and east wall are smaller, fewer. The closet contains my mother’s clothes and shoes (both of which far outstrip my own collections, I am fairly sure; the shoes, I am CERTAIN!). The furniture is all different and only a few years new (the bed is a thing of beauty and comfort from top to bottom). The dresser holds my mother’s clothing and several collections of knickknacks and crafty stuffs. Only one drawer contains a few articles of clothing of mine from my teenage/college years that either my mother could not bear to throw out, as they were my staples for around the house, or that she has kept on just in case I should ever desire or need to wear them again. As a matter of fact, I am wearing a pair of pj pants from that particular dresser right now.

In the corner is a pile of stuff that includes hand-me-downs for Elizabeth, craft supplies of my mom’s, a photo poster of Elizabeth to be framed and hung somewhere (and she always finds the room), and seasonal decor/gift items. There are few, if any, vestiges left of what made this room my room for 13 years. And yet…I don’t mind.

I don’t mourn the changing of this room, the changing of the entire house since I’ve been gone and married these almost eight years. It has been improved and redecorated from top to bottom inside and I think it’s great. The house is beautiful and clean and excellently-cared-for and I envy my parents that. I hope that I can do such wonderful things with my own home some day.

So it’s not my bedroom, technically. It’s the guest room (and mom’s work room) but I still find myself comfortable and safe in its space. I miss my own home, for sure, but no amount of change will ever cause me to forget that this is my home, too.

Retraction to “Nerdy Imposter”

Leave a comment

Justice Magazine: Catwoman by Stanley “Artgerm” Lau http://artgerm.deviantart.com/art/Justice-Mag-Catwoman-367502858

I was wrong. I shouldn’t have implied, with yesterday’s post, that, unless you are a die-hard participant of a hobby, you are not a member or part of that community. I definitely did not mean to discourage girls from reading, enjoying, and discussing comicbooks (Stan Lee insists that it is one word, after all) or their movies. Nope! Far from it, as a matter of fact!

I was writing from a personal emotion, a personal feeling of…inadequacy lately. All around, sort of, but particularly in something that I have always enjoyed: comicbook-based conversations. I didn’t feel up to the task of defending my opinions, though why I thought I had to be is still beyond me.  Here is the truth: just because I am not knowledgeable about every nuance of plot or story that the movies I enjoy are based on, it doesn’t mean that I am not a ‘real’ comic book fan.  It doesn’t mean I’m not a ‘real’ geek girl. I know that the answer to feeling like I can’t hold my own in conversation about comics and their movie franchises would be most likely and most easily remedied by actually…you know…reading the comics. An maybe I will get around to it, but it’s not not required to enjoy the films, discuss with my friends, and have my own opinions regardless of their arguments. As I sorted through a small stack of comics, not to mention the ones I bought over the weekend at IndyPop Con, I found myself smiling and sort through and composing stacks to read in my few quiet moments, grinning over some gorgeous Catwoman back issues that I have garnered over the past year or so, safe and sound in their boarded plastic cases.

I may feel like an imposter at times, (and not just with comics) but I’m not. I am a comicbook nerd; my favorite is just Catwoman.  Ben is a comicbook nerd and his favorite is Swamp Thing. I am not an imposter and I was wrong for thinking of myself in such a way. So, please forgive me, dear readers, and I will forgive myself, and we will move forward from here.

Come along, loves! ^_^ There’s stuff to do and things to see!

Leave a comment

In the last year, I have lost approximately ten pounds, am within 1-2 pounds of my pre-pregnancy weight, and, I think, have gained about a pound in muscle over the last almost-month. I am 21 days into a 30-day ab and squat challenge, the furthest I’ve ever made it into a fitness challenge like that, and I’m already planning my next one. It hasn’t been easy but the last two months have been the most triumphant. I’ve lost a dress size (in certain stores), one pant size, and I feel myself getting stronger again. The strongest I had ever been was back in late 2007-2008 when I was belly dancing hardcore, five classes/practices a week, not including personal daily practice and conditioning. I remember when we were working on a troupe routine to “Rhythm Nation”, I watched us move perfectly together in the mirror and I felt powerful, strong. I want that back, and I’d like to think that I’m getting there.

Reading my Soul

3 Comments

I had a thought today, as I was driving, about how I write. I pictured reaching into myself, taking my soul in my hands, and turning it around, examining it. Sometimes I feel like Quorra in Tron: Legacy, watching Flynn draw out a corrupted line of her code to examine the damage. I draw out lines within my soul and it is from these bits and pieces, these lines and stories, that I write.

As I write, I take my soul in my hands, its glowing orb warm and pulsing with my own heartbeat, strong and delicate at the same time. It is the heart of me, the seat of my being, everything that makes me me. When I am done here, I will put my soul away until it is filled with inspiration and bids me take it out and turn it over again.

No Need to Be Extraordinary

2 Comments

“At this point in my life, I’m trying to figure out the things I truly care about.” “What’s something you care about less than you did ten years ago?” “Being extraordinary.” — Humans of New York – https://www.facebook.com/humansofnewyork

This struck me today. I think, once upon a time, that I wanted to be extraordinary. Extraordinary as a teacher. Extraordinary as a writer. I wanted to stand out, to be able to look at the people who made fun of me in school for my bookish studiousness and smirk, “I win.” I wanted, like Roxy Hart, to see my name featured prominently – somewhere, somehow (all good reasons, of course). But, over the years, as I have learned myself better, studied even harder, and discovered interests and skills and passions, I find that ‘being extraordinary’ isn’t so important to me anymore. I don’t mind being in the background, plying my skills at quiet things. But I also am getting better at being brave and bold and putting my thoughts and feelings, my skills and passions out there for others to see.

I don’t need to win Teacher of the Year, don’t ever think I would. I don’t need to take the world by storm with my writing or blogs. I don’t need to become famous on YouTube for my fashion sense and personal style or anything like that. I don’t need to be extraordinary in the world’s eyes. What I need to be is the best person that I can be and that is a daily, hourly, moment-by-moment work. I am still learning myself, even at thirty-one years old, and constantly trying to put what I learn – the good and the bad – to good use. I have a husband to be better for and, now, a daughter, not to mention myself.

I don’t think I need to be extraordinary. I really just want to be good.

Poetic Thoughts: Today

Leave a comment

Today, the world around me is emerald and earth, set underneath an alabaster-flecked azure sky.

Today, I see life and death in equal measure, meted out in fields fresh from the plow.

Summer is coming in its heat haze and, with it, growth; then, with fall in her gold, maturity.

Time marches on, changing its garb as it goes.

#LoveYourSelfie – A Brush with Beauty

1 Comment

I feel beautiful today. I don’t know why. I’m in my pajamas, my living room floor is cluttered with toys, clothes need to be sorted and folded in the bedroom. Aside from my toddler, who’s napping, I’m alone. But I feel pretty, beautiful, desirable, pick a word. I do.

Maybe it’s my hair. My mother helped me do it while she was here, touch it up with relaxer, curl it up in rollers. I can do it myself but it always feels so much better when she does it. It’s years worth of memories, conversation, etc., during that process. So now my hair falls over my shoulders, still in light curls, as I left the curlers in for about nineteen hours and just took them out yesterday. My hair is light and soft and it flows when I move. I had a ridiculous fun time just rolling around in my bed with fresh roller curls and feeling my hair  bounce and flow and brush my face, shoulders, neck as I moved.

I don’t know what it is today but I feel beautiful. Last night, I dressed up with the intent of expression just such a feeling. Today, I’m content in my ladybug pj pants and pink tank, my hair a lovely tousled mess.

I guess the song is rather appropriate today: “I feel pretty, oh so pretty! I feel pretty and witty and bright!” I don’t pity anyone who isn’t me, though I do wish you a brush with you own personal beauty today that will last much longer than you dare to hope. ^_^

A Thread of Control

Leave a comment

I’ve realized that very few people understand my particular brand of organization. How I arrange things in the fridge (and, yes, there is an order), the dishes in the drying rack, my particular bookcase, even my husband’s clothes in his baskets in the bedroom. No one really gets it, no one seems to understand that there IS an order, a point. Or at least I think that no one gets it. Maybe it’s me, but I assume that it’s obvious when you look at it.

Take the fridge for an example:  fruit and snacks on the top shelf, drinks on the second shelf (left to right: coffee/beer, water bottles, sodas/juice boxes), large drinks (juice and milk) and leftovers on the bottom shelf, and in the door: condiments on the top shelf, cheese in the little cabinet, and large bottles (wine, mineral water, etc.) in the middle and bottom shelves.

I admit, I get annoyed when people mess with my system, when things get placed willy-nilly rather than in their particular places. Not all the time but sometimes. I like seeing things where they should be, to feel that bit of accomplishment in that something is in order. The order that I can impose upon my environment is that little bit of control that I can have in an out-of-control world. Some people might say that is a foolish notion – control – but…it’s what I do. I like to know my environment and I do. As a teenager, I could tell when someone had been in my room, when things had been moved from where I had specifically placed them, the second I stepped into the door. It’s why I set my kitchen table so that neither I nor anyone else will be tempted to set clutter on it. It’s why my bookcase with my historical fiction novels is ordered by dynasty, author, and then titles chronological within that author’s scope. It’s why my closet is ordered by clothing type (cardigan, tops, dresses, skirts) and then by color within their category. These are the little threads of order that I can hold onto and that I can set right if they ever get out of whack, unlike most of life, and it’s gives me a bit of relief, I realize.

These are just the thoughts that bounced around in my head as I cleaned out and ordered the fridge the other day.