Category: Special Events

I’d hoped to get a lot of painting done this weekend. Saturday morning, I sat on my balcony in a sports bra and pajama pants, painting in a balmy 68 degrees. Today, it’s only 61 degrees and the thunder-sounding wind keeps rolling. I’ll bundle up and brave the weather to put a few dabs of paint on the canvas before my thin blood and fingers give up.

The last time the temperature dropped this quickly, we were graced with a two-hour delay due to “thunder sleet,” which sounds as if it should be an anime character. I even mused with one of my Physics classes last week about  such a character being drawn by one of them. The next morning when I checked their assignments, I saw that one of my students, who is has excellent drawing abilities, sketched out a brute-nosed ThunderSleet character.  That class even mused what ThunderSleet’s powers would be. I suggested he could make thunderbolts of ice, but not in form of a hammer like Thor.

Some students made other suggestions about ThunderSleet’s superpowers, but I had to end the off-task conversation and return to reviewing thermodynamics vocabulary. And what inspired the mentioning of thunder sleet to begin with? The benign discussion of the differences among three different temperature scales: Celsius, Fahrenheit, and Kelvin. And out popped a superhero. Perhaps one day, I’ll read about his adventures in a former student’s comic book.

I’ve often said that Austin is a happening city–both a blessing and a curse. Last weekend, I attended yoga four days in a row, Friday through Monday. I’d never done that before, but it was a luxury for both my body and mind, not to mention my bionic left ankle, which is still recovering from surgery.

As the rest of the week unfolded, I had at least two major things to do after school every single day. I normally don’t like to book my activities back to back like that, but occasionally life demands it. I don’t regret protesting for 3-year teaching contracts the doing yoga on Monday; attending  a “Genetically Unemployable” meeting on Tuesday; attending EdTech on Wednesday before picking up my costume sword then participating in a webinar about my upcoming Peru trip on Wednesday; watching the African American program at my school then shopping for groceries on Thursday; and going to bikram yoga followed by an art exhibit at the Blanton on Friday.

Which one of those informative, life-enriching activities should I have eliminated from my schedule? I couldn’t think of a single one; so I did them all. As I strolled into the Blanton with a mixed drink that I’d bought before entering, I’d come straight from yoga as relaxed and energized as I could have been. I’d detoxed in order to retox. It’s all about balance.

My Saturday morning routine involved cleaning my apartment and changing my bedsheets. It’s the best time of the week to get such a chore done. During the week, the grime slowly builds up. Yet I don’t freak out about that since the healthy cleanliness of my apartment never dips too low. That’s how I feel about other aspects of my life as well.

Certain writing projects help me clean out the clutter. Otherwise, it would build up and rob me of sleep. I caught up on my rest on Saturday, then went to an art opening. I’d never heard of the artist before, but I will never forget him or his work.

What impressed me the most about Gabe’s work (I feel I can write about him, using his first name because he was just that warm and approachable) was the expressiveness in his subjects hands.  Of course, most people are drawn into the Hollywood cinematographic quality of Gabe’s paintings, but I’ve never paid particular attention to an actor’s hands as I did with those paintings. I still struggle with painting hands. 

When I finally got an opportunity to talk to the artist himself, I shared with him that I loved how he rendered the hands in all his paintings. He readily told me that a person’s hands tells you so much about them.  I need to keep that in mind when I’m painting. I believe most of the hands I’ve painted reveal how uncomfortable I am with that body part. If I had the chance to have a longer conversation with Gabe, I would have told him how much I also liked the way his character’s bodies flowed. There is such movement and depth in his two-dimensional still paintings.

He teased me when I told him about my painting series, representing the main character’s work instead of mine. He quickly picked up on the fact I essentially distanced myself from my own shortcomings as a painter. Again, if I had the chance to talk with him further, I would’ve confessed I needed that distance in order to calm down the perfectionist in me and continue working instead of stalling out.

Gabe formally trained as a painter and has a 15 year career. I, on the other hand, am a writer, dabbling in painting. I was surprised when Gabe stated that he was actually a writer who painted as well. After hearing that, I gave him a business card with all the information about The Austin Writers Roulette, telling him if he was ever in Austin on the second Sunday of the month between 4 to 6, then he should stop by.

Even if I don’t have much confidence in my painting ability, I trust my organization and intrinsic motivation to keep my spoken word and poetry show alive long enough to attract other artists to participate. Everyone started from some point.

For last week’s Austin Writers Roulette, Valentina hosted the “Love & Passion” show, bringing joy to all who saw her gravity-defying hair full of feathers, a big red bow and a tiny wooden ship.

She opened the show, dancing to the three songs that best described her love life.

The first song was “Got My Mojo Workin'” by Muddy Waters. She explained that 80% of the time when she was attracted to a man, he was  immune to her charms.

The second song was “100 Days/100 Nights” by Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings. Valentina said that 15% of the time, her charms did work on a man only to discover later on, usually in fewer days than the song implies, he had some questionable personality traits.

Appropriately, the third song was “At Last” by Etta James. Valentina gushed that she reached this blissful state in about 5% of her relationships. And yes, that 5% was totally worth it ’cause she never knew who he would be.

Happy Valentine’s Day to all who dare to believe in true love.

The 2014 carnaval theme was Black Orpheus, based on the classic Brazil samba movie done Greek tragedy-style. As usual, my capoeira group were honored to provide security for the samba school. A job that I look forward to doing every year since it gets me into the biggest party in Austin. We all met at our capoeira studio at 7:30, where the backstage wristbands were issued and the capoeiristas who were going to perform warmed up. Our mestre also reviewed the norms for the night.

In the past, I’ve had to contend with drunk women. Yet, this year, I’m happy to report that I didn’t have any drunk person challenge me. I was grateful for that since my ankle was still recovering and I didn’t feel as tough as I normally do. Nonetheless, I had a terrific time. I especially loved that the samba school had a wider variety of music this year. I hope that trend continues.

I have a confession: last Thursday, I told my 7th and 8th period classes to pray for a two-hour late start on Friday so we would not have to make up a cancelled day of school. Since I usually don’t assign homework, I’ll just assume that my students went overboard with the prayers. Lo and behold! Austin experienced an ice storm that shut down the city until midday.

Actually, I’m not the least bit upset about having a second three-day weekend in a row. As a matter of fact, I vaguely remember back in the day there being speculation about four-day work weeks once computers became more available. Of course that never happened since we Americans don’t know how to relax when we have a plethora of time-saving devices, except when it comes to acts of God.

Although I’d awoken a quarter to six on Friday morning, I stayed up once I found out that classes had been cancelled. After all, I was refreshed and ready to start the day. The true gift of any vacation, whether planned or spontaneous, is the extra time outside of one’s scheduled routine. One of the first things I did with my extra time was call my sister to sing happy birthday to her. I would have done that anyway, but our conversation was much longer since I didn’t have to be at work–at least the rigid work schedule I’m normally bound to on a Friday in January. I proudly told my sister that I got her birthday off.

This weekend, I’d only planned to go to the school play, “You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown” on Saturday, but when I arrived at the school theatre, I discovered that the weekend performances had been cancelled, which was unfortunate since I cannot make the remaining shows during next week. This being Austin, I had no trouble finding alternative plans for Saturday night.

First, I went to an open mic at a nearby restaurant that had decadent Italian dinner specials. Not willing to choose between the two dinner entrees, I ordered the gnocchi with gorgonzola sauce with spicy grilled shrimp added. As if that wasn’t rich enough, I also ordered hot chocolate with Nutella. That was such a pleasurable meal that my brain exuded endorphins. Once again, money can buy happiness!

I then joined the open mic out in the backyard already in progress. I was not in the mood to read any of the material that I’d brought since a significant number of the audience had heard it already. Plus, none of the other artists were reading pre-prepared material. So, I followed suit and ad libbed. Apparently, my spoken word was coherent enough that one of the other artists asked permission to use my segment in a documentary, which I readily granted.

While at the open mic, I got an email from one of my fellow capoeiristas. He invited everyone to a Brazilian percussion performance later that night. I’d planned to go as soon as the open mic had concluded, but then one of the other poets read my tarot cards. I hadn’t had my cards read in nearly twenty years; so I indulged myself in a reading. Besides, how often would I get the opportunity to have my cards read by someone who professed he regularly used heroine for the medicinal calm effect?

The cards revealed that I was at odds with my present situation, but had the talent, arrogance and motivation to successfully change it profitably. During that positive reading, I’d pulled the “power” card. Of all the cards that I could have pulled, the power card reminded me of who I am, where I’ve been and all the potential I have. As I’ve always known, life is more difficult when I don’t stand up for myself. Also, I can withstand being in a toxic environment much better when I don’t drink the Kool-aid.

I went to the bar where my fellow capoeirista was playing a few minutes before they started. What a brilliant, moving performance! Even though I still babied  my recovering ankle, I did the bare minimum of dancing as the rhythm seeped into my bones. I’d needed surgery just to remove the smile from my face. What a joy to see people from capoeira to various Brazilian musical genres.

One guy I’d assumed I’d heard his band before. He came up to me saying that he finally placed where he’d recognized me from–work! Out of context, neither one of us readily identified the other. I just laughed, gave him a hug and talked with him. We both were very thankful for the act of God, giving us more down time to enjoy life.  Such a contrast outside of a toxic workplace.

This morning, I felt so energized during bikram yoga class. I fully embrace that the body can heal itself when we live in harmony. If nothing else, this unplanned long weekend has taught me that with happiness, everything else falls into place.

     On Labor Day 2013, I walked into a drop-in capoeira class, which is a Brazilian martial arts, and left limping. I’d fallen during a sparing exercise. Despite the pronounced popping sound, I thought I’d severely sprained my left ankle. After all, I could still walk.

The next morning, I slipped on an ankle brace, hobbled to work and realized I would not make it through the day. I called in sick, quickly got sub plans together, made a doctor’s appointment and had everything ready by the time school started.

Driving to my doctor’s appointment, I optimistically wished to have a boot. That way, I could still hobble around, but my foot would be more protected. The nurse practitioner ordered an X-ray. When he saw the X-ray, he prefaced his conclusion with “go big or go home.” He then explained that my left fibula had a spiral fracture. Since the fibula bears only 15% of the body’s weight, a person can walk on it even if it’s broken. Still in good spirits, I took a picture of the X-ray to show to loved ones and friends.

A few hours later, I received my boot. As the boot tech fitted me, I showed him the picture of the X-ray. He speculated that I might need surgery, but I was sure I didn’t. After all, I was in good health other than the broken ankle. Besides, I had full social calendar and travel plans, which didn’t include a trip to the OR. A few days later, I had a pair of crutches to go along with my boot and an appointment for surgery.

Within three days, I went from shock, denial and then anger. I displaced my anger as I furiously planned for two weeks’ worth of lesson plans for my science classes. I could have scheduled my surgery for an earlier date, but I couldn’t fathom undergoing surgery and taking a two-week sick leave without solid lessons for the long-term sub.

Another thing that curbed my anger was my lack of spare energy to be angry. Since I had to keep weight off my ankle, I used crutches and a rolling chair to get around. Using my upper body strength to move around felt like running a daily marathon. (I still don’t know how anyone can gain weight while being on crutches!)

Before surgery, the lesson plans had been written, one of my sisters had flown in to take care of me for two weeks, and gradually, I had undone all the immediate plans I had set for my life. I stopped capoeira, tango and bikram yoga classes. I cancelled my trip to Myrtle Beach for my 25^th high school reunion, complete with flight and hotel reservations. Instead, I made appointments with friends who helped me take out the trash and recycling, gas up my car and shop for groceries.

The novelty of riding around a motorized shopping cart in the grocery store was partially tainted with my first taste of invisibility. No one saw me at that height. I’d hobbled in with a friend and my crutches, placing the crutches in the basket once I got the cart. Although I joked about jousting, I was amazed to discover that people initially reacted to the crutches as if inanimate objects had suddenly come to life. Some people dashed in front of me in such a hurry since allowing me a few seconds to pass by them was too much of an inconvenience.

That first grocery shopping trip gave me an initial taste of the loss of independence and invisibility an injury can cause. I never realized that I existed in a fast-paced crowd and an injury such as this would cause me to be left behind even when I was among them in social settings. I repeatedly envisioned myself as one of the injured animals in the Serengeti that had been left behind for the predators to consume.

My invisibility also meant that men no longer flirted with me. I had a tremendous loss of sex appeal that had nothing to do with my age, hair, clothes, weight or any other physical attribute we women drive ourselves crazy about. Men acknowledged my physical disability and politely ignored me since we are raised not to stare at people who look different. The ironic thing was, before the accident, I didn’t care to attract too much male attention. After being injured, I thrilled to have anyone notice my existence.

A week after surgery, I gained a little more mobility and visibility once I got a knee walker, which most people referred to as a “scooter.” One coworker even took to calling me “scoot” during the three weeks I rode it at work.

Apparently, I made that knee walker look attractive. Students wanted to ride on it, which I wouldn’t allow. Friends gleefully suggested I decorate it with a motor, a horn, some flags. I smiled as if I appreciated the suggestions, yet I quietly simmered, mentally telling them to go fuck themselves, counting down the days until I no longer needed it.

Five weeks after surgery where I had six screws and a metal plate put into my fibula to help it mend straight, my doctor pronounced that my recovery had progressed so well that she was clearing me a week early to start physical therapy. I waived that in lieu of returning to yoga. After all, the whole reason I’d recovered so quickly was due to visualizing myself doing the things I’d done before the accident. The promise of returning to my former routine motivated me to heal.

Doing bikram yoga three times a week proved to be medicinal. With every class, the edge of possibility moved farther than where it had been the time before. After three classes, I’d kicked the boot to the curb—just in time to attend one of my friend’s wedding reception.

I dressed up scrumptiously well, arrived nearly an hour late, but parked very close to the venue, thanks to my handicap placard. Now that I’m “permanently handicapped,” a label that I vehemently deny, I have a lifetime of convenient parking at my disposal.

As soon as I entered, the bride gushed at how beautiful I looked. She went on about my hair, the dress and others commented about how slender I was, but in my mind, the beauty lay in my upright mobility. Even though I hobbled at half the speed of the average abled-bodied person’s gait, I was within the realm of ambulatory. Later on, I pressed my luck gingerly dancing with male friends who were all younger, gorgeous and in shape. Not only did I celebrate my friend’s nuptials that night, I celebrated being revisible.

The celebration continues with the things that I’m grateful for because of this experience.

1.I have a loving family who called me every day to check in with me when I was on sick leave along with a sister who came to take care of me during that time.

2.My drive to make the most of my life, coupled with my refusal to accept the “permanent handicapped” or “disabled” labels helped me heal faster from this injury than my doctor had expected after the surgery.

3.I now know that a physical injury may slow me down or disfigure me, but will not disable me unless I allow it.

4.Life is far too short and precious to tolerate bullshit.

I have hit another milestone on my road to recovery after fracturing my ankle on Labor Day 2013: I returned to capoeira class. The significance of that action lies in the fact that a freak accident during a capoeira exercise caused my ankle injury. Several people, all non-capoeiristas, concluded that I would never train capoeira again. My usual retort was, “If I’d broken my ankle taking a shower, would you assume that I’d never take another shower?”

I’d warned two of my capoeira teachers via text the Saturday before that I intended to return to class on Monday, but I would not be running, jumping or sparing.  They welcomed me back, assuring me that they would modify my training to get me back into shape.

Thanks to traffic, I arrived about 15 minutes late, which would technically be on time by Brazilian standards. Yet, I only did half of the exercises before going to the side and stretching on my own. My capoeira teacher, who had an achilles injury himself, suggested a stretch with a weight to help open my left hip. At the end of class, we played drums and practiced singing capoeira songs.

The next time I attended capoeira class was Saturday. Fortunately, two other capoeiristas were relatively new and we worked a lot on the ginga, the basic move that looks like a dance step. As a matter of fact, ginga sets up all the kicks and evasive maneuvers to make one’s game more fluid.

Throughout both classes, I could feel the limits of my left ankle being tested and the boundaries of movement expanding further. When I attended a tango presentation later Saturday night, I politely refused to dance since I still could not balance well with all my weight on the left ankle.

The next day, I went to yoga class where I experienced more balance on my left ankle than I ever had since the accident. Although practicing bikram yoga three times a week has contributed to the gains I’ve made in my recovery, I credit capoeira for expanding that recovery. The beauty of cross-training, even when not injured, is that one learns different skills and works different muscles.

As soon as I can consistently maintain good balance with all my weight on the left ankle, then I’m going to return to tango class. Not merely to exercise different muscles, but also to regain cultural practice and sensuality.

As a Meetup organizer, I’ve joined other meetup groups that have interested me, both for the activities and the networking potential. This past Saturday, I met up with other single people who don’t want kids, but one of the tricky twists that made last night wonderful was the presence of two among us who actually had kids! We dubbed them “The Infiltrators.”

Allow me to set the scene: during a recent cold front, seven of us braved the weather to meet at an upscale burger and beer joint. I was fashionably late or on time, depending on your culture, arriving about 20 minutes after the predetermined dinner time. Yet as soon as I walked into the restaurant, I immediately spotted the hulking 6’5″ organizer, who was waiting with our party.

He had not called ahead of time to make reservations, betting on a gamble that he could get a table for ten by showing up early. Sure, why not? It had worked for him in the past. Except that this was a popular restaurant on a popular night that obviously overwhelmed the staff to the point of basic duties being neglected. Case in point: after waiting for 30 minutes, I went to the bathroom, which was miraculously empty given the crowd, and found no toilet paper except in the handicap stall that did not lock–I of course found a temporary solution to lock the door since I am a Physics teacher for crying out loud!

One member of our party abandoned ship after an hour of waiting while the rest of us diligently continued to wait. After all, we had managed to sit down. Not at a table, but still in the waiting area.  It was an improvement. After 30 more minutes had passed, another member of our party, who had been drinking (and, gasp eating!) at the bar, rejoined us in the waiting area to socialize. Apparently, the one table where the hostess wanted to seat us had a party who had already completed their meal and paid, but were still socializing (damn them!). After a few smart phone searches and bombarding the hostess station, none of which I participated in, we went to a nearby French restaurant.

Our second restaurant was wonderfully underpopulated and quiet–until we brought the noise! Ironically, the hostess asked us if we had kids with us. Ha! We gleefully told her no and she sat us in a vortex of families with children. No problem.   Our raucous party of six cleared out that section in no time. The last stragglers made haste toward the end of dinner when our entertaining waiter serenaded us in two different languages, first Spanish followed by German.

Among the many interesting conversations that ping-ponged around the table, the meaning of “singles who don’t want kids” volleyed. One parent stated that she had not planned on having kids and had even requested to be sterilized, but the doctor would not do it since she was under 32 and her husband did not want her to be sterilized. Her argument to the group was that she was now divorced and didn’t want children in the first place; so she should be allowed in the group. The other parent stated that he had not planned on being a parent either, but his interpretation of the group was “singles who didn’t want any MORE kids.”

My vote was to allow them to be in the group since a) they were fun, interesting people; b) were single; c) were done with procreation.

At the end of the chilly night, we had had a good night, ate a delicious dinner, made new friends and no one went home pregnant.

As I approached the beautiful park where my friends’ wedding reception was held, I briefly worried about finding a close parking space since I was nearly two hours late. Yet, the one silver lining to fracturing my ankle is that I have a handicap placard and there was a handicap place available.

I placed my famous cornbread on the savory table and joined some capoeira friends in the food line.  About the only things I was looking forward to in the food line were the brisket, my cornbread, wedding cake and a glass of red wine.

The fun thing about this reception, other than the fact that it was a pot luck, was there was no formal “head table;” so I joined the blushing bride and other capoeiristas when I finally made it through the food and drink lines.

I felt as if I was at a capoeira family reunion. I got to see people I had not seen since I temporarily stopped training.

Funny thing is, I cannot remember having any deep conversations with anyone, but we were all in a jovial mood, which was appropriate, given why we were all there.

The happy couple hired different musicians, most of whom played a genre of Brazilian music, to perform for an hour.

The bride and some of her musician friends surprised the groom by playing a selection of songs.  My favorite song kept making double entendre math/science comments.

I took a chance to dance forro on the smoothest surface I could find. My gamble paid off and I didn’t hurt myself, but of course my ankle became swollen.  As hardheaded as dancing was, I couldn’t attend yet another music-filled evening as a mere spectator.

As invisible as I’d felt the past couple of weeks, I felt exhilarated to be seen once again.

Not only that, but some other women even commented on how beautiful I looked in terms of both my attire and the fact that I’d lost weight.

Honestly, I don’t know how anyone could possibly gain weight while being on crutches, but I do know how one can lose sexuality while being injured.

I realize that my entire since of self is not tied solely into my ability to walk, but my recent resurge of happiness is definitely due to gaining visibility and independence.

Without a doubt, Halloween is my favorite holiday since

A. I say that every year around this time and

B. I dress up as “someone” at the drop of a hat regardless of the time of the year.

This year, I’ve finally linked up with some kindred spirits and made an evening of it. Before going to the Zombie Ball, we all met up at a posh restaurant to get party started before the madness of the whole event.

I dressed up as Viveca A. Fox in “Kill Bill” although I must admit, my favorite part of the entire costume was the sword.  I hobbled a few feet taller while brandishing that sword and the elbow length black gloves added a hint of sexiness to the assassin look.

The dinner turned out luxurious and fun. Most of us were black except for one white guy who ended up getting the worst service out of all of us.  I kept joking about “reverse discrimination,” much to the amusement of all the other blacks, but I don’t know if the white guy in question was as amused. In such a festive mood, I took everything else in stride, even the boot!

I ended the meal like every meal should end with a rich plate of delicious rich chocolate along with polishing off the rest of my Malbec.

I seized the moment to stab a woman dressed as Uma Thurman from “Kill Bill,” by announcing that I was one of the Kill Bill assassins.  She actually got out of the drink line to pose with me.  Lord only knows where the dude in the bear suit came from to photobomb us.

For once, I ran into a friend who I didn’t know was going.  The first two years that I’ve attended the Zombie Ball, I went solo and had a perfectly entertaining time. Now that I had a group to hang with, I see a friend.  Go figure!

We finagled our way to the balcony seats for a breather. Once again, I documented the boot since I knew its final days were nigh.

Fortunately, the view of the show was much better than my camera phone could capture.  Nonetheless, we kept ourselves entertained with conversation during the other events, including the costume contest, leading up to the headlining band. I listened to two songs and then went home.  After all, it was a school night and I just made it to bed five minutes to midnight.

A mere two days later, I dressed in my Kill Bill assassin outfit again to be part of a bachlorette party of women dressed up from the movie.

The friend who hosted the party’s rendezvous point dressed as the nurse and served up some delicious snacks.

I didn’t know how long my recovering ankle would last without the boot (I’d finally kicked it to the curb!), but I was determined to get in some action shots before leaving to hit the town.

Our first stop after leaving the rendezvous point was a small E 6th bar that played an appealing mix of Latin and hip-hop.  I must admit, our little bachelorette party excited the inebriated guys since we were all swinging in costume swords, knives and a ball and chain.

We managed to get the bride-to-be up and dancing although she successfully avoided anything too embarrassing.

I struck a final pose with half the posse before dropping off a few of them to the next location.  I’d had a good night and since I couldn’t dance and wanted to take the 10 am bikram yoga class, I went home a little after midnight.

The best thing about this weekend is that we gained an additional hour, which I used to leisurely get ready for yoga class and organize my pictures.  I don’t know about other people, but I approach pictures as documentation of the interesting times of my life.  If I bother to take the picture, then something productive must be done with it! Just like every other aspect of my life.