Writing – Page 23 – Where Vivid Narratives Live

Ignorance Slayer

This Saturday, I attended my hottest poetry event yet…started off as 90 degrees when I arrived and swelled to 95 by the time I left.

Nonetheless at the base of Philosopher’s Rock and the entrance of Barton Springs…that 68-degree natural waters would’ve actually felt refreshing if I didn’t have another reading afterwards.

I first explained to the audience that as a former teacher with nearly 20 years of teaching experience,

I’d declared myself the Ignorance Slayer long ago! With impromptu musical accompaniment, I read the following poem:

4.6 billion years ago

Earth started

As swirling sultry gas

Her fiery nature cooled

Morphing into a hot rock

Icy asteroids collided

With their watery mark

Mother Earth developed

Atmosphere

A geochemical cycle

After a billion years

Life arose

A biogeochemical cycle

Nutrients recycled

One cycle’s products

Another’s reactants

Nothing wasted

Along come the upstart humans

Newborn babes in the wilderness

Huge frontal lobe full of potential

Toolmakers, empire builders

Environmental destroyers

Tasked to be good stewards

Command the flora and fauna

Our nearly unchecked progress

Created fantastic human endeavors

And spurred demise

Now we arrogantly seek

To save the planet?

And her asteroid waters

Forgetting

Mother Earth will continue

Long after we destroy ourselves

We don’t gather to save her

We gather to save ourselves

From our own self-destructive ways

Our greedy five-planet consumption

As if we have four other planets

To consume

When we poison the waters

We poison ourselves

Everything we do

Good and bad

Has an impact

Mother Earth and her waters

Have existed long before us

The only question that remains

Will our sense of

Self preservation kick in

Soon enough to

Safeguard our natural resources

And save ourselves?

One of my friends, who happened to be a DJ, got politely snaked into spitting poetry about saving the Barton Springs water.

One of my favorite moments, came when the “Cool Water” quartet, who sang about water as if it were a whiskey song. As I watched, I kept thinking, “I hope I don’t have to follow them.” Of course, I jinxed myself. Luckily I’d thought about what I wanted to talk about the second time around: my preoccupation with clean water when I was a Peace Corps Volunteer.

Before I left, I listened to a band that played many environmental songs. The usual lead singer, wearing an orange shirt, referred to me as a “modern, cross dressing, samurai.” I quickly unsheathed my sword and roared, “I’m a woman!” I stabbed him after they finished their set.

I made the leisurely drive down the street to the second poetry venue. As soon as I walked in, still discombobulated from the sweltering poetry by the pool, a group of people added to my confusion by telling me, “Your troupe just went that way.” Considering the fact that I’d arrived much earlier than I’d told any of my poets to be there, I was quite sure “my troupe” hadn’t entered the building yet. When I went to the bathroom to freshen up, that’s when I discovered the futuristic hair and clothing models. After freshening up, I posed with their sign.

About two hours later, the rest of my troupe showed up. The event organizer spoke very kind words about the Austin Writers Roulette and then went down the line to introduce all of us.

When she got to one artist, she kept stumbling over his name and he kept repeating it with a super-jazzed up Spanish accent. I finally told her that he just loved having a woman say his name repeatedly.

I introduced myself as the Ignorance Slayer. Many in the audience encouraged me to use my sword, which I said I would, especially on the poet behind me who was heckling me!

Here’s what I shared with the audience:

When I recently conducted an Internet search, I typed in the words “how to make a bomb” and got 170 million hits in half a second, but the words “how to make war” received 763 million hits in a third of a second. The words “how to make peace” resulted in an optimistic 796 million hits in nearly a minute.

So it takes a little longer to come up with 33 million more peace-making ideas than war-making ideas. If the mind is like an Internet search, you’ll think of bad ideas faster during a conflict, but have much better ideas if you think just a little longer before you act. Counting to ten should be the first peace-making idea.

And if you’re really good, you’ll write down your negative, angry thoughts. Even better, you’ll research the conflict. After all if it’s worth your anger, then it’s worth learning more about. Then, one of the best things you can do is share your results with others. It starts with you. You are the person to make the difference, if only to sleep better at night and make better choices the next day.

Fortunately there are places where people who are passionate about life can share their words. They’re called…poetry events. In and around this Awesmic City, there are weekly, monthly and annual poetry events.

I‘ve been the proud organizer of one such event, The Austin Writers Roulette, a monthly, adult, theme-based spoken word and poetry group for the past three years. I had never organized something like this before. Originally, I started the roulette as a guaranteed way to have an event where I could read and sell my first book, Tribe of One.

The first lesson I learned was people didn’t attend or participate in an event just because I wanted to make money. As a matter of fact, for the first season, I essentially paid people to show up!

Determined not to be a failure, I changed event locations twice, changed my attitude numerous times and focused more on inviting passionate people, whether they self-identified with being a “writer” or an “artist,” to participate in the roulette. I stopped charging admission and starting asking for donations.

One of the most beautiful things I have discovered is the world is full of interesting, stimulating people. Imagine how I was humbled when I discovered that the secret of the roulette’s success was not how talented of a writer I was, but how well I could organize and attract other talented people to join me on the show.

There is power in collaboration. I’m empowered when my voice is heard. I’m empowered when I hear other authentic voices. I may not agree with all I’ve heard, but I’m enriched for having listened.

Some believe that the first person to resort to violence has run out of things to say. Those who suffer in silence are afraid to speak. There’s a vulnerability to reading or performing one’s work in front of others. I invite all voices for the small price, in return, of being respectful to other voices. Within the differences of opinion and the expansion of a conversation, collaboration occurs. We can change the narrative of reality through our participation.

With the energy and hopefulness of a beauty pageant contestant who wishes for world peace, I actively promote the creative collaboration among passionate people. The Austin Writers Roulette meets every second Sunday at Stompin’ Grounds on S. Congress. Our next show is tomorrow from 4 to 6 and the theme is “Survival Stories.”

Joining me on stage today are just a few of the artists who regularly perform in the roulette.

The next poet read about a dozen poems during his time.

The next poet told three entertaining, Southern & Spanish heavily-accented narratives.

When I introduced the last poet, I told the audience, “If you’ve never done drugs before, you’ll experience it with this next poet.” He stage whispered that he didn’t write about that since it was a kid-friendly venue. I then told the audience that I no longer knew how to introduce him! He did manage to pepper his spoken word with a little cursing and one F-bomb. I’m sure he didn’t even notice. Wasn’t a problem since no kids were present.

I’d offered to join the futurist hair and clothes models, but instead, I sat back and enjoyed their creativity. I was impressed that they were part of the education and artist collaboration.

Courageous Journey

She squared her shoulders

Defiance in her eyes

Dared him to touch her one more time

It wasn’t a threat

But a promise he didn’t want fulfilled

She’d marched too far to be denied a place

Not the best place

Not his place

But a place

A place she knew she had the right to be

So, touch her one more time

The first shove came as a shock

The second because she’d resisted

But, she warned, a third time would be his ass

Shove her out of his way?

She moved when she was ready

Not away from him

Nor because of him

But toward greater opportunity

When the time was right for higher ground

She moved swiftly

Like a huntress tracking game

With the gracefulness of a dancer

The skills of a warrior

Each athletic move well-practiced

For nothing did she possess

Had she not earned

She heard him treading heavily behind her

Winded

Life of privilege had not prepared him for this

On his own

Couldn’t touch her now if he’d tried

He who had been given everything

Ill-prepared against those who struggled for anything

Privilege won’t help him now

No one’s above an ass whupping

Whether life beats him down

Or she does

The only thing separating him from one by her hand

Is her sense of civility

Push her one more time

And that option

His safety barrier

Is off the table

The Never-Ending List

I’ll admit it: I struggle with arrogance. After all, I’m only a perfect nine. I know I have flaws. Yet I make the most of what I have.

When revising my bucket list, I was initially stumped. Consider this: I’ve traveled around the world, driven cross-country, been published, happy, in love, thinner, younger, in good health and as far as rich is concerned, money’s what I make of it and as long as I’m making enough to pursue happiness, I’m rich.

So what drives me to write, paint, read and wake up in the morning with a sense of purpose? Since I’ve resigned from teaching, my quest is to make all of my social interactions and art teachable moments.

Given the sorry state of the world, I have a myriad of things from which to choose. The aspect I love the most about teaching is research. Whichever objectives I want to know more about, I research and transform that information into an engaging lesson. That elevates the act of teaching to the art of teaching. Unfortunately art was one of the first things sacrificed to the high-stakes testing moneymaking monster.

Yet now I’m free to teach whatever I please. To follow my passions and shed light on the darkness of misinformation and misogyny, so I’ll NEVER run out of material or motivation. Just watching twenty minutes of the news can send me into an intellectual frenzy. I do some of my best improvisational spoken word, addressing the latest stupid utterance by a republican politician, or so-called Texan educational reformist, or restrictions to women’s healthcare, or latest mass killings where apparently it was the person doing the killing, not the weapon.

Regardless of the rant, I feel obligated to come across as an educated, empowered voice. Y’know the saying about how we should know history so we won’t be doomed to repeat the past? Well, history pisses me off! History tells me that minority women have been and continue to be beasts of burden, suffering in silence. Whichever misogynistic acts are unleashed against women, at least double it for minority women.

The only way I can think to help balance out the universe is to produce a different narrative, a counter narrative, my own narrative. Through fictional characters in my novels or first person spoken word. The situation’s only going to improve if I help it along.

This isn’t some Miss America beauty pageant contestant’s fondest wish of ending world hunger. Nor is it the airing of a litany of gripes about how someone should do something about my complaints. My irritation is an accurate indicator that I need to do something with integrity about the situation.

When I resigned from teaching on Friday, March 29^th, 2014, I’d already finished teaching the entire Physics curriculum, I’d paid off all debt and I’d saved up some money. The icing on the cake was that I’d resigned on the eve of the administration of the most egregious standardized test to date: a 5-hour combined reading and writing test where students would receive a cold sack lunch delivered to their testing classroom to wolf down for 20 minutes then resume taking the test. No longer would I be obligated to assist the state of Texas in its institutionalized educational version of child abuse.

The following Monday and Tuesday, two different TV reporters interviewed me over my resignation in what they called my protest against standardized testing. I hadn’t thought of it as a protest, but I certainly do not disagree.

I told the reporters how creative teachers like me wanted to do more than use the scripted lessons and limited teaching techniques to educate students. Yet teachers who dare to be innovative get heavily biased negative evaluations, put on growth plans and then threatened to lose their jobs unless they slavishly follow the teaching-to-the test strategies.

Although many people don’t watch the 5 or 6 o’clock news or listen to news radio in the morning, my fellow teachers had heard about my actions. My former colleagues and my friends who taught at different schools all reported about the buzz I’d caused at their school. Many thought perhaps now something would change.

A month later, a third TV reporter contacted me. Again, the request was to interview me about the negative consequences of high-stakes testing. I told her that my resignation was old news. She agreed, but quickly added that I was the only teacher who would go on camera to talk about it. I declined that interview since I had nothing new to add, but I gave her a tip about another education protest scheduled for that day.

I don’t blame any of the inspired teachers who will not come forward. After all, teaching is challenging enough without the added retaliation they’d surely receive from school administrators if they spoke up. At the same time, imagine what would happen if the general public knew teachers’ narratives. Would parents allow their students to participate in those high-stakes tests? How many parents know that those high-stakes tests are NOT part of No Child Left Behind? How many parents know that this is a Texas initiative?

On April 14^th, 2014 I sat in on the Texas senate committee meeting on education. I witnessed our Texas senators grilling the test makers over the length of the infamous 5-hour reading/writing test. One senator pointed out that giving high school students a 5-hour exam was the equivalent of an academic and physical test. Another senator questioned why the test was five hours just to graduate from high school when students who wanted to go to college only took a 3-hour test.

The last expert on this panel was an education professor from Dallas who had monitored three high schools. She testified that the teachers who administered the test witnessed students losing stamina after three hours and bubbling in answers in the fifth hour without reading anything.

The results of this flawed test will reflect on the student, his/her teacher and the school. And for what? The generation of data? To close the poverty gap? To close the minority achievement gap? That data will be used against students, teachers and schools. Any school that has major academic needs will be punished for it. Can you imagine going to a hospital emergency room and not receiving medical help because you’re not already healthy?

So now that I’m no longer in the trenches, no longer financially dependent upon remaining silent out of fear of retaliation, I plan to write a fictionalized account about teaching within the toxic consequences of high-stakes testing or “the machine” as I like to call it. I’ve already started doing a little research and have conducted some interviews. Yet, I need to finish my current novel before I can give this one the time and energy it deserves.

In the meantime, class is in session. There’s a life-altering lesson waiting to be learned.

Ain’t I a Woman: My Testimony

Growing up in the Bible belt, I learned very little about the contributions of blacks and even less about strong black women. Yet from the little I was taught, one of my sheroes was Sojourner Truth.

Named Isabella at birth in 1797 in New York, she grew up speaking Dutch, the language of her original slave masters. She was first sold at age nine and learned English the hard way, bearing the lash whenever miscommunications occurred. She labored hard in the fields, agonized as nearly all of her children were sold into slavery and fought for equality before and after she became a free woman. At 29, Isabella changed her name to Sojourner Truth, walked to freedom and preached about the abolition of slavery, women’s rights, the right to vote, temperance, prison reform and ending capital punishment. She helped Abraham Lincoln formulate The Emancipation Proclamation, pioneering the civil rights path when everyone else was still preoccupied with talk of the civil war.

In her most famous speech, Truth asked the fundamental question: Ain’t I a woman? In Truth’s day, white women were put upon pedestals that were planted firmly on the backs of black people. Black women served as beasts of burden in a variety of ways: cook, caregiver, maid, field hand, breeder.

Truth knew in her heart that black women were only different than the women on the pedestal due to their slave status, racism and lack of equal access to resources. Given the prevailing pseudo-science about the mental capacity of blacks and the pseudo-religious belief about blacks not having souls, those untruths justified their continued enslavement and the denial of a proper education.

One of the ways Truth made money was by selling pictures of herself. The caption on each portrait read, “I sell the Shadow to support the Substance.”

I understand Truth’s drive to succeed. Her motivation to hustle. Her trust in God to open windows where others had closed doors. Using the power of her persuasive voice despite her illiteracy. Fighting for more than the stereotypical roles others desperately coerced black women to remain.

I can be the temptress, the tease, the naughty girl next door you salivate to defile. Afterwards, will I be the trollop, the strumpet, the slattern, the meretricious woman and all the other 200+ negative names you call sexually expressive women because you feel guilty or inadequate about your own sexuality? No matter which way your sexual pendulum swings, (sensually) ain’t I a woman?

Oh, I got your joke. Find my feminism funny? As a matter of fact, you’re my favorite punchline. That’s right. While you’re laughing at how little I earn despite my education and experience, which is equal or superior to yours, just remember, for my last joke, I’ll get the last laugh. (laughs) Ain’t I a woman?

All these conflicting messages on womanhood. I’m to be strong for childbirth, but weak for birth control. Creative in the kitchen, but unimaginative in politics. Loud when singing praises for others, but silent when standing up for myself. BUT AIN’T I A WOMAN?

And if ever you succeed in quieting me down, don’t think you’ve won. You should be afraid. ‘Cause I’m plotting something subversive. (whispering creepily) Ain’t I a woman?

Womanifesto

As the youngest child of three girls, I played the theatrical role of being the youngest and loudest. Whenever I didn’t get my way, I’d pout. My mother, a Virginian country girl at heart, knew how to nip that in the bud with one question: “Do you want me to give you something to cry about?”

Thus, I learned at an early age the gracelessness of whining.

And since I have a strong A-type personality, I used to approach every conflict with the double barrels of logic and reason while disrespecting people for wearing their emotions on their sleeve. As you can imagine, that particular attitude did not go over very well with supervisors.

Instead of being thrilled that an employee pointed out the illogical and inefficient aspects of whatever they were asking us to do, they seized the moment to flex their muscle. At the height of stress, my emotions get the best of me and I whined.

Some supervisors pounced on my announced vulnerability like feeding time at the Serengeti. At one point, I was so stressed with work, the supervisor-induced power struggle and life in a new country that I suffered from insomnia and my hair thinned. During vacation, I returned to the US and bought a book about negotiating office politics, Working with You Is Killing Me. Not only did I feel more empowered and slept better, but I learned a new twist on the lesson Mom had taught me: supervisors will give me something to cry about when I don’t tactfully voice my opinion.

Then, I self-published my first novel, Tribe of One. I truly believed hoards of people would buy it now that it existed. What a humbling experience. The most formidable obstacles were my own expectations and attitude.

Of all the books I’d read about marketing, PR, branding, and the publishing industry, another book about negotiation, Getting More, taught me the most valuable business skill: listening. Knowing what the other person is thinking is the main premise behind getting more out of any negotiation. You must listen to what the other person is saying, regardless of whether they are illogical, mistaken or just plain batshit crazy.

Secondly, you must control your own emotions. Even if the other side resorts to name-calling, yelling and temper tantrum antics, they will remember if you do the same. Magically, if you control your emotions to the point of maintaining a positive persona, the universe rewards you for exerting good energy.

The ground shifted beneath my feet when I received notice how much my rent was going up. Fortunately, I was due for a capoeira class when I found out. I released a lot of angst while training that Brazilian martial art.

Then, I did what I do best: I wrote out my situation in a letter addressed to the property manager. I even included two pictures: one showed the 12 canvases I’d completed and the other showed me in costume for the roulette.

In my letter, I explained how my only New Year’s resolution for 2014 was to finish my second novel, The Adventures of Infinity & Negativa, which included at least 16 paintings. I’d saved up money and transitioned from high school Physics teacher to freelance editor and writer in order to have a more flexible painting and writing schedule.

This was only possible if I had affordable, safe housing, conveniently located near cultural events and included free Internet. By raising the rent beyond my budget, he would effectively evict his unofficial artist-in-residence.

After reading this, the property manager said my letter was the nicest, most well written of its kind that he’d ever received, which he’d put in his scrapbook. The best part: he only raised my rent by $20.

I learned another facet of Mom’s lesson: when people hear a persuasive, heartfelt appeal rather than whining, they are more willing to negotiate.

In life, there are a few things you pledge loyalty to and adhere to your sense of integrity. For the rest, it’s negotiable. You can whine your way through a conflict or you can successfully resolve it.

Forgive and Move On

Right off the top, I forgive all the assholes who’ve ever crossed my path. As I understand it, opposites attract and so at some molecular level, they simply could not avoid interfering with my pursuit of happiness. This includes, but is not limited all those people, who upon a few seconds of meeting me, conclude that I’m a one-trick pony and the too-curious people who copped a feel of my dreadlocks without first asking my permission to touch me.

Next, I forgive all the jealous women who ever said catty things to me or did petty things against me because they were not honestly aware that the very things that they hated about me was what they wanted to possess for themselves.

And to be gender balanced, I forgive all the men who wished to control me because they liked me and did not know how to express that feeling without driving me away.

I also forgive all those pheromone-drenched men who drove me nuts once I got a whiff of them, but were not the least bit attracted to me.

I forgive all the horrible bosses who were somehow threatened by the fact that I have a much larger skill set than what they know what to do with. After all, I’ve known for some time that I need to be my own boss in order to have the freedom to use all of my talents.

I forgive all the friends and family who expect me to be the same person who I was years ago or even last week. I’m an adventurous person who would become utterly bored with life if I didn’t try out new things and that has an affect.

I forgive those people who think because I’m a strong person that I don’t have feelings.

Lastly, I forgive myself for:

holding grudges long after an incident has past
causing myself to dwell in toxic situations thinking that I’d somehow “win” if I just managed to be the last one standing or get the last word
being so self-absorbed in my wonderful life that I don’t take two seconds to ask the other person about him or herself
beating myself up when some artistic or professional endeavor falls short the first few times I’ve tried
looking at my reflection and seeing the flaws before seeing the attributes
being consumed with anger and blocking the ideas of reasonable solutions
needlessly worrying about the what ifs and not enjoying more of the have nows.

And I thank God for giving all that I have and my parents for teaching me how to see the humor in life and laugh away the blues.

The 1st Two Chapters

I couldn’t wait for all the paint to dry before putting Ch. 2 of The Adventures of Infinity and Negativa on my gallery wall. I now feel that I’m on a roll that I don’t want to end. After getting over the hump (or more truthfully, getting over myself), I can honestly say that I’m ready to charge into the third painting with all the confidence of a novice who knows that the only way to improve is to pick up the paintbrush and paint.

What I like about this second painting is that the background actually recedes and sets up the characters, including the cement truck, which appear to leap off the canvas–more so than the first painting. With the first painting, both the background and the characters have equal value and so the characters don’t stand out as much.

I still struggle with painting things in their correct size, but I’m pleased that the twins look more alike than in the first painting. Also learned my lesson by not complicating the scene with a lot of details, given my abilities and timeline. Ideally, I’ll finish the series at the same time that the final manuscript is completed.

This the first time that I’ve collaborated with myself and it’s a cool experience so far. I’ve toyed with the idea of how to maintain the daily discipline of working on a canvas when I come home after work. What I’ve come up with so far is canvas prepping, which translates into me looking up images on-line to create the composition, sectioning off canvases with tape to create the story board and sketching. All of those things are necessary, but don’t involve me setting up my paints on the balcony. That way, I can continue advancing the canvases instead of working on them just two days a week.

The manuscript is coming along. I like the work I’m doing and make several revelations regarding the plot and characters every week. I truly enjoy being able to research through reading. Even though I have a daily habit of reading at night when school is in session, I’d really like to get the entire roughdraft completed before school starts. With each canvas, I edit that part of the story to match.

The Real Superman

In 1938 Superman was born. Now, I’m not talking about the Action Comics Superman that was published on April 18^th and cover dated for June. I’m talking about the REAL Superman born on April 10^th, 1938. The one who was heaven sent and grew up in Danville, VA—not the one from planet Krypton, raised by farmers in Kansas.

Like that other superman, the real superman also came from humble beginnings with high moral standards. Both supermen are on the quiet side and have hidden strengths that only emerge whenever circumstances demand a strong man of action. One superman can bend steel with his bare hands. The other superman is ambidextrous and can fix practically anything.

These supermen both wear birth control glasses during their day job, one a mild-mannered reporter, the other a retired sergeant major in the Air Force.

Both supermen fell in love with smart, ambitious women, who they support with grace, using their superpowers to provide a protective bubble around them. Yet the real superman also has three daughters and four grandchildren, all of whom sensed the real superman’s love for them at an early age ‘cause the real superman knows that the love of family is the greatest power of all and the protection of family is the highest honor bestowed upon him.

The real superman is also a numbers man. Don’t leave a piece of paper lying around—or else he may start figuring out his numbers for the pick 3 and pick 4 on it. The real superman used to bid everyone in the house a good morning then ask what they dreamed about, ready to look up the numerical significance of the dream. Whichever scheme he employs, the real superman has never won significantly more money than the average person, but anyone who knows him, knows that the death number is 769 and that my sister’s wedding anniversary is 624. As morbid as it sounds, the real superman also plays the death dates of famous people.

Back on his 70^th birthday, the real superman told all of us who were in attendance for his party that the key to good living was measured in laughter. That’s why the real superman, my father, Karl Wayne Roberson, can still leap over tall buildings in a single bound, laughing and sending good energy the entire way.

Cowboy Boot Shopping

When my sister and her husband said they were coming to visit me, I didn’t realize I would be a chauffeur to two shopping fiends! After concluding their business conference in San Antonio, I picked them up. That was after they’d hit two cowboy boot shops.

A cousin of ours, the same cousin who had chauffeured them to the two boot shops, took us to a yummy Mexican restaurant. My brother-in-law figured that since he wasn’t driving, he’d have two strawberry margaritas.

The next morning, I dropped them off at a shopping mecca to get their early fix when I went to my doctor’s appointment. When I returned, I was then introduced to the mystical world of Panama hats (which actually originated in Ecuador), hat boxes, hat sizing and choosing the perfect hat for one’s body shape.

We spent a little too much time in the hat shop and was a bit late for our lunch date with another cousin who’d driven to Austin from Atlanta to spend the week with her boyfriend. Another thing that delayed us was a sudden downpour, which everyone blamed on the recent tornadoes for stirring things up. Along with those two things, I parked in the first available spot that was about 6 blocks away or a mile and a half if one listened to my brother-in-law.

We were soaked even with our umbrellas, but at least we had a table waiting for us. A bonus came in form of one of my favorite samba teachers who was a server there. She had just got off work and was closing her tickets, but not before giving us a complimentary sampling of antipasta.

I ended up ordering two glasses of malbec and the creamiest bowl of gnocchi I’ve ever had the pleasure of having in my mouth. Turns out, it was my cousin’s 28th birthday; so we had our server put a candle on a wedding cookie and my sister sang a jazzed up happy birthday song.

Given a 50-50 chance, I initially led everyone in the wrong direction to the costume shop where I wanted to rent a Superman outfit for my upcoming Austin Writers Roulette. Yet even the downpour couldn’t put a damper on the fun we had in the fabulously entertaining shops on South Congress. No matter how whacky the store, my sister and her husband still managed to find boots.

As a matter of fact, there were two boot stores they wanted to hit on South Congress, which was convenient since that’s where the costume shop was. I knew that I couldn’t afford to drop hundreds to thousands of dollars on a pair of cowboy boots, but I was mildly affected by boot fever, which I attribute mostly to the delightfully dizzying smell of leather.

After I tried on several different Superman and Supergirl costumes, I finally settled on a Supergirl costume with some glorious red go-go boots, which I would’ve taken a picture of except there was a sign forbidding me to do so. I was feeling pretty rule-abiding at the time; so I’ll have have to wait until I’m completely decked out for the show for pictures.

The second boot shop, which was lesser known and not truly on anyone’s hit list, was closed by the time we got to it. Nonetheless, we continued north on South Congress until we were in the heart of downtown Austin. My sister and her husband wanted to check out the downtown location of the hat shop where they’d shopped in north Austin. The only landmark that we had to find it was across the street from the oldest hotel in Austin.

The hat shop was a bust, but I escorted my visitors a few blocks on the infamous 6th street just so we could say we did. The heavy rain and the time of day meant that the freaks had not come out to play, but my guests weren’t too interested in people-watching anyway. Despite the fact that we’d just eaten about two hours earlier, my brother-in-law bought a slice of pizza from a place that boasted the 16th best pizza in the US. All I can say is if that was #16, the #1 pizza must give one an outright orgasm.

The next morning, I made a light breakfast and took my visitors to the 10 am capoeira class, which happened to be the advanced kids’ class.

push up lunges (1024x768)

I had warned my capoeira teachers that I was bringing a couple of 50-somethings; so I wanted them to go easy. I further told my sister and her husband to modify the moves by not going so low to the ground.

I’m happy to report that not only did they survive, but they actually completed the entire class. I also told my sister that that class was my revenge for her forcing me to see a movie that I had not wanted to see.

We cleaned ourselves up, ate then went to tango class. I knew people would be shocked to see me since I hadn’t been in tango class for 9 months.

dancing tango (1024x768) The tango teacher even jokingly introduced herself to me after I’d made introductions. My brother-in-law never rotated to dance with other women, but at least he and my sister had enjoyed the class and got to test out the basics.

Of course, we went to another boot store, followed by its second location down in the south part of Austin, where my sister got a second pair of boots, which turned out to be kids’ boots–perfect for her tiny feet and cost about $40 less. Before we did anything else, I demanded that we take an ice cream break. After all, I always make a trip to the famous locally made ice cream shop for everyone who visits me.

Then we hit my favorite thrift store that has never let me down whenever I’m looking for an outfit. My sister had it in her head that she wanted a particular country western shirt, but she ended up empty-handed. I think she was too exacting in her search. My brother-in-law, by contrast, found his country western shirt and even a shirt for my nephew.

Next up: BBQ. I took them to my old standby place, which doubled as a gas station and was near their temptation–the mall. I told them no matter what else they got, they had to try the extra moist brisket and creamed corn. My brother-in-law proceeded to order far too much food, but I’m not complaining since I’m going to enjoy a couple of days of leftovers.

After recharging, we headed to the mall. Fortunately, we didn’t have too long to shop since the mall was closing in two hours!

This morning, I ended their visit with a trip to one of my favorite Sunday brunch places. I knew that we’d be seated relatively soon since there wasn’t a huge crowd on the balcony. One thing that I had never thought to ask a server was if the alcoholic beverage that the restaurant was named after was actually served there. Leave it to my brother-in-law to inquire. We split two shots of it, which meant he had one and a half shots since my sister and I just took polite sips of the shot we shared.

As a drove them to the San Antonio airport, I saw a sign for yet another location of one of their favorite boot shops and I teased them about how we weren’t going to stop shop. I felt a little bad about that since my sister called about thirty minutes after I’d dropped them off at the airport, saying how there wasn’t much shopping to be had at the airport.

Yet, they cannot truly say that they failed in having a shopping good time. At this point, I don’t even want to buy my usual gas and groceries since I’m so shopped out!

Thirty Sixty Ninety

Many around the world had feared that the coming of the second millennium would be a technological doomsday that was going to throw us back into the dark times of…the pre-computer age. On New Year’s Eve I had full tank of gas, bottled water, canned food, and I had spent the night with some friends just in case calamity broke out and I had to help form a new tribe.

Since humankind didn’t come down with the millennium bug, I had another special reason to celebrate the year 2000. That was the year I turned 30, Mom turned 60 and her mother, Mama Bea, turned 90.

A 30-60-90 triangle has special properties, such as the ratio of the length of its sides, which is 1: . Mama Bea, Mom and I have our own special ratios. Our age ratio is 1:2:3. Mama Bea birthed 6 children, Mom birthed 3 and I’ve birthed none.

Early on, Mama Bea and her switch taught me not to boo-boo in my britches. Mom and her belt pretty much taught me all the rest. Say what you will about spankings (or whippings as my family calls it), but as an energetic, creative child, I usually gave plenty of motivation for whippings. Throughout my childhood, Mom often said that if anyone ever kidnapped me, they’d bring me back in a hurry. As a matter of fact, several of Mom’s favorite Teresa stories were those that ended where either she or Dad disciplined me or as she loves to say that one of them “whipped Teresa’s little tail good!”

Yet, who can blame me? I’m the third generation of hyper energetic, intelligent women. Mama Bea was the first Avon Lady in the Cascade, VA area. We, her grandchildren, thought of her as the “Original Ms. Prissy.” She kept her money straight and conducted her business with the grace and elegance of a sweet-smelling, well-dressed woman with a beehive hairdo and vintage bejeweled cat eyed glasses—before that style actually became vintage!

Mom briefly dipped her toes at being an entrepreneur, but spent most of her professional career as a bank teller. I’m quite thrifty with money myself. Although I’ve had rare occasion to write a check these days, I’ll never forget an important checking lesson Mom taught my sisters and I: just because you have checks, doesn’t mean that you have money! And of course, that leads to one of my favorite banking analogies: don’t let your mouth write a check that your ass can’t cash.

Now, no decent Southern woman worth her salt would dare show her face in public without knowing how to cook. My earliest recollections of Mama Bea took place in her spacious, aroma-filled kitchen. When my grandparents marked out the rooms of their future house, the contractor consulted my grandfather about the enormous size of the kitchen. Papa basically told him that if Bea marked out a big kitchen, he’d better build it.

Mama Bea had two deep freezers full of homemade sausage, chicken, creamed corn, green beans, various other greens, yams…well you get the picture. Out of all the savory Southern cuisine that Mama Bea cooked in her cast iron skillet and antiquated oven, fried apples with buttermilk biscuits was my absolute favorite.

Now don’t get me wrong. Mom also knows how to cook. From fried chicken, to pork chops, potato salad, cole slaw, barbeque, Thanksgiving dinner and Christmas brunch, do you know that Mom’s favorite meal in the world is hot dogs? HOT DOGS! As well as my momma knows how to cook, she’ll break for a hot dog and a cherry slurpee in a heartbeat.

Mama Bea, of course, was ol’ school. I remember one time a big group of us went out to a wonderful seafood buffet. Once everyone had fixed their plates and the blessing had been said, Mama Bea looked to her left and her right and said, “Lawd, look at all these people too lazy to cook.”

Unlike my grandmother and mother, I didn’t grow up knowing how to cook. I had a mother and two older sisters for that. I didn’t learn how to cook until I was in my twenties. In the beginning, I was amazed how I could buy fresh food, “cook” it and end up with edible poison. When I’d consult Mom about how to cook some of my favorite dishes, she’d just get this big smile on her face and say, “Well, y’know I don’t MEASURE. I just go by taste.”

One of the things that I treasure that I inherited from Mama Bea and Mom, other than intelligence and beautiful skin, is my gift for storytelling. Sitting at the knee of those two entertaining women, usually during the preparation of food, the breaking of bread and the settling of a meal, I listened to their personal stories and stories of extended family. Their daily dramas no matter how serious or tragic, were seasoned by humor with an aftertaste of a life lesson.

The fictional stories I write, follow the same recipe—with a dash of sex thrown in! Yet no matter how extensively I’ve traveled the world, how many academic degrees I’ve earned or how many books I read, I’d be an educated fool, as Mama Bea would say, if I ever forgot the influential women who raised me, protected me, and shaped me.

Mama Bea stood no taller than 5’2” and Mom stands about 5’3”, but I dwarf in the accomplishments of those two women. Perhaps one day, if I’m lucky, I will stand as mighty as they have.