Where Vivid Narratives Live

What’s SUP?

SUP or stand up paddle boarding is yet another non-motorized way people can enjoy spending time on Lady Bird lake. Since Austin is currently experiencing 100+ weather, I met a group of other women around 10:30 Saturday morning to SUP in relatively cool 80-degree weather.

GPS got me in the vicinity of water sports rental dock, but I asked several strangers along the way to make sure that I was on the correct path. Literally. I’d parked under an overpass and took a hiking trail to get to the dock. I had no problem picking out the woman who’d organized the excursion even with her baseball cap and big shades–she was talking like someone who’d organized an excursion. In the meantime, I was dressed like someone who’d never SUPed before: a black and fluorescent spandex top with black spandex pants. I’d planned to look sleek and stylish while flailing about.

Our fearless leader had called ahead and secured a terrific discount of $20 for the whole day. Contrast that with the strange pricing of $20/hour or $40 for the day. We all placed our few personal items into a numbered plastic container along with our pre-death certificates (I think they were actually called “waivers” or “disclaimers” or something along those lines), paid our money and then picked out our life jackets.

The most experienced in our group scoffed at the necessity of wearing a life jacket . Two of us who’d never SUPed before diligently put on our life jackets like obedient women. Then we walked down the dock to select our paddles. Based on the one video that I’d watched about SUP, I knew that I needed to adjust my paddle handle so it was 8″ higher than me. A real useful piece of information if I had any means of measuring what 8″ looked like. Even the most experienced woman among us had just eyeballed it. There I was, of course, trying to be logical. I stretched my arm, keeping a slight bend in my elbow and then adjusted the length of my paddle.

Once we had our paddles, we walked to the dock’s edge in order to get our boards and the guy working the docks rightly guessed that some of us had never SUPed before. (Was it the fact that two of us were actually wearing our life jackets?) He gave us a brief summary of the rules and some tips, including that fact that we weren’t obligated to wear the life jacket, but had to wear the ankle leash that was attached to the board. Again, the most experienced scoffed, but complied by hooking their life jacket to the leash before fastening it to their ankles.

Another rule stated that we had to be on our knees while near the dock. The guy added with a laugh that he didn’t want any of us falling off the board and splitting our heads on the dock– a fear I hadn’t thought of until then. I eased onto my knees on a padded board. I concentrated so much on my balance that I didn’t realize that I’d grabbed the paddle incorrectly. I mean really, holding the paddle is about as difficult as putting together a two-piece jigsaw puzzle, but at least I kept my balance!

I gently started paddling away from the dock and, using the guy’s advice, I placed my paddle perpendicular to the board, did the downward dog and stood up, feet already in a wide stance and knees slightly bent. From there, my balance was just fine, but I’ll have to practice paddling on a few more excursions. The three newbies all stuck together–at times, a little too well. My paddle board smacked into others three times before we set off in the direction of the Congress St. bridge. At first, I didn’t think we were making much progress toward the bridge. One newbie kept bouncing of the other newbie’s and my board before safely removing herself from the middle.

I kept playing with how to paddle while talking with my fellow newbies who had both, at some point in their lives, lived in Libya. The closest to Libya I’d ventured was on vacation in Siwa Oasis when I taught at an American school in Alexandria, Egypt. Interesting conversation flowed beautifully down the lake between one newbie and me when I started noticing turtles whose backs were covered with vegetation. Then we were nearly stuck in vegetation ourselves. We looked around and discovered that other people in kayaks and paddle boards had avoided the middle of the lake. As the two of us guided our boards to the side of the lake, the third newbie cried out, “I’ve got an equipment malfunction!”

First thing I thought about was the infamous Super Bowl half time show where Janet Jackson experienced a wardrobe malfunction. Then I replayed her words in my head. She held her paddle completely out of the water and stated that the clip wouldn’t lock. Just as the idea crossed my mind that I’d have to paddle back over the thick foliage to help, she locked her adjustable handle in place. So much for a dramatic rescue.

Since I wasn’t wearing a watch, I made an effort to go to the bridge, turn around and hustle back to the dock, leaving my newbie companions. As relaxing as SUPing was, the whole way back, I hoped that I wasn’t wearing out my arms or lowback since I’d planned to take two tango classes later that afternoon. I did like the fact that paddling isolated core muscles, which are also important to dance tango.

As I neared the dock, I assumed the position and paddled while on my knees. All flawlessly executed. Next time I SUP, I will scoff at wearing a life jacket and ankle leash.

Painting Trio

This past Friday, I celebrated the “birth” of my third painting. As usual, I initially saw all of the shortcomings of it before appreciating what was wonderful about it. Namely, I really like the way the background for the lower three panels look, the characters pop off the canvas and the fractured look of the sections. I struggled with the top section for several reasons. The maze is not painted at the angle that I originally envisioned and the clouds aren’t nearly as billowy and ominous as I would like them to be. I still struggled with getting the body portions correct, but I like the difference in their positions.

As a matter of fact, I just recently attended two art galleries where the human form was deformed by Picasso, Miro, Chagall, and other artists. I wish I could be as fearless as those great artists. Yet, my style is not to be purposely “deformative.” Nonetheless, as I concluded with the very first painting, I’m not going to improve my technique by dwelling on the amateurish errors.

Once I rearranged the other two paintings in order to accommodate the addition of the third, I was struck by the intense energy coming off the trio. I actually cringed, thinking about 24 of them coming all together! Yet, I like the painting collaboration with my writing. Of course, the next day, I prepped the fourth canvas. Thanks to this third painting, I don’t know if I’ll section off another canvas in the traditional rectangular sections of storyboards. I like playing with the unusual sections.

Jasmine’s Visit

Every time one of my nieces or nephews turn 16, they fly out to where I’m living to spend a week with me.

As soon as I whisked Jasmine from the airport, we went straight to a locally owned 24-hour diner.

As much as I wanted to impress my niece, I loved my entree as well: collard greens pasta!

Since we were already on South Congress, we walked North so she could see the sights on this historic street and get some local ice cream.

Then of course, I had her stand under the famous penis-shaped hotel sign.

Followed by posing in front of some famous grafiti.

Later that evening, she had her first, and perhaps last, capoeira class. Everyone assured her that it’s always confusing for the first couple of months.

Unfortunately, I had to drag her to a 6-hour meeting on Tuesday, but she was a trooper, texting and reading an actual book. Since the meeting was a few blocks away from the State Capitol, we took a little mini-tour.

In the evening, we went to a Spanish conversation class, followed by poetry slam. The poets were their usual, high-energy extreme emotion selves, but the featured artist was a sword swallower.

It was bad enough when he swallowed the sword and bowed at the waist, but then he had to do 20 pushups.

Followed by lifting several purses by the swords in his gut.

My insides were already wrenching when he did the ultimate: the snake with swords in his gut.

The next day, Jasmine tried her first bikram yoga class and we went to a dinner theatre to see a sorry movie that she picked. At least the food and drink were good! We had to endure a 3-hour meeting Thursday. Yet on the way to put my parking permit on the dashboard, I found a $20 just lying on the asphalt. At the conclusion of the meeting, I was gifted 2 bottles of red wine, but only one was palatable. I later took the other one to a party. I figured since one had to be drunk to drink it, then a party would be the perfect place to offload it.

We attended a book signing at a local museum where a married couple had documented a brief history about the traditionally Black Rosewood neighborhood.

At the same museum, there was another event, which featured a beautiful dress made of a thousand red origamy cranes. That was a fundraising, concious-raising occasion to bring awareness to domestic violence.

After her second bikram yoga class on Friday afternoon, Jasmine enjoyed an oreo custard shake. While still sipping our shakes, we walked into an Indian-fusion restaurant.

We regrouped at home and then a few hours later, we went to an art opening where the featured artist had won a contest for his acrylic collection of “discard piles.”Although the gallery was small, the crowd was huge, full of interesting people. One of whom had attended the last Austin Writers Roulette and was promoting my show! Of course I couldn’t leave during that high moment.

We arrived late to our second stop for the evening at the natural history museum. We only heard a song and a half from the live band playing in front of the museum, but we were in time to get one of the most delicious brisket sandwiches. They were so packed with meat, I had to pick out and eat half the meat first before I could eat the rest as a sandwich.

This is as close as Jasmine got into the museum of natural history. When we finished our “sloppy joes,” we wanted to wash our hands in the bathroom, but by that time, the museum was officially closed except for the employees who were cleaning up. I thought I’d sweet talk my way in. Yet the way one of the guards asked me “What for?!” when I asked to go in, told me that my charms were not going to work. At least he agreed to take our picture and smiled when I asked him if my lipstick was OK.

We were right on time for our 3rd event for the night. We’d gone to listen to a forro band, but before the start of their 1st set, there was a 30-minute forro class. I was happy that Jasmine wasn’t at all timid about trying it out.

She even danced with the forro teacher once the band got rolling.

Toward the end of our evening, blessed rain started pouring in sheets. We stayed an hour later just so the rain could lessen. Fortunately, I’d parked right in front of the place and had a short walk to the car. Nonetheless, we stayed up until 2.

Saturday afternoon, Jasmine had her first tango class. Jasmine’s mother didn’t want her to dance with “older men.” So, I’ve got evidence of each one she practiced with.

Here’s partner #1.

Not counting this dance partner since she’s a woman.

Then she enjoyed her first tango dance after class.

We high-tailed it to a BBQ restaurant after tango class.

I knew that she’d like the moist brisket, creamed corn and ribs, but what really surprised both of us was…a peacock just strutting around on the lawn outside of the BBQ joint.

Since the BBQ place was near the mall, I took Jasmine there for some last-minute souvenir shopping. Out of all the things, this was my favorite–she didn’t buy it for anyone though.

Later that evening we drove over an hour to go north of Austin to attend an outdoor historical musical. We were almost on time too, given the wild goose chase GPS took us on when we were about 15 minutes away from the destination. I knew something was up when no other cars were around. We came across a group of about 10 men. All with hunting rifles, but we didn’t stop to ask them for directions.

This musical has run yearly for 21 years. I loved it when the only black actress in the entire cast said one line and her family applauded as if she recited a soliloquy. The costuming and props were very rich-looking although I found the firecracker gunfire far too loud and frequent.

I was pleased to see that Texan women were portrayed as having spunk, which motivated one male character to declare, “There are only two ways to handle women, but no one knows what they are!” During another scene, the proud townswomen chased away the harlots who’d come to set up business. As one townswoman chased them away, she said, “Hit the trail, Jezebel!”

After two nights in a row of going to bed at 2 am, I finally got Jasmine out of bed on Sunday morning so she could pack up her things, get dressed and have the fastest brunch ever at one of my favorite Sunday brunch places before whisking her off to the airport. I was relieved when I got her text 25 minutes later that she was boarding her plane. I hope Jasmine enjoyed her week with her coolest aunt as much as I did!

Beach Camping

I recently went on a beach camping trip with three other capoeira friends of mine.

We all met up at one friend’s house who’d recently bought a truck and saw how much we could safely load up the bed.

She even got all dressed up for our all-female, Texas road trip.

So after loading up the truck bed, we loaded up the car. I sat beside a young woman who wore spiky shorts. That’s a good future strategy for getting enough room on crowded transportation. After securing the tarp, we gassed up and hit the road.

About 4 hours later, we reached North Padre Island.

We arrived at the campsite very excited to get one of these spots.

This is the site we got instead.

I was baffled about how to pitch a tent on asphalt. My friends seemed to think it could work.

One tent was successfully pitched…of course that wasn’t the tent that I was going to sleep in!

I was still trying to figure out my tent, which could sleep 5 people once we got it together.

We staked our tent on the sides and the back to stabilize it.

Of course once the tents were pitched, it was time for a glass of boxed red wine.

Although some people in this world actually prefer white.

As the sun began to set, I started cooking Italian turkey sausage burgers with our nifty propane grill, which I didn’t trust myself to light. I just kept envisioning fire balls.

I “woke up” around 6:20 the next morning, which was a minor miracle since I didn’t think I’d slept at all with the active winds making noise with the tent and car alarms going off. We dutifully reported to the visitors’ center before breakfast.

The last time I witnessed baby turtles being released was in 2004 in Tampico, Mexico.

preparing to release the turtles (1024x768)

These turtles reminded me of my students: a few way ahead of the pack, the mediocre masses and a few going the wrong way.

Here’s a close up of one of the stars of the show.

The little turtle star works the crowd before joining the mass exodus.The mass exodus takes an amazingly slow amount of time, but I was pleased to learn that seagulls only pick at the turtles, not eat them.

We watched the turtles trek into the ocean for about 35 minutes.

When we returned from turtle-watching, we put up the canopy and started making breakfast, which for me was 3 types of tamales.

We frolicked down at the beach for a few hours until mother nature convinced us to return to the campsite to put up the rain guards on our tents, chill in the shade and have a drink until the rain stopped.

Five minutes later, we were back in the sun.

I was impressed that at least one of us liked wheat bun sandwiches–with nothing between the buns!

I chose this time to teach one of my friends how to play go. She hadn’t played in 30 years, but through drinking wine, cursing and discussing, I helped jogged her memory. We took a bathroom break and when we returned, our magnetic board had been tidied. The coverstory was that cleaner thought we’d finished our game.

As if we were following a schedule, we returned to the visitors’ center for an afternoon sand-sculpting demo.

Just like the turtle-watching event, we arrived just when things were about to get rolling. The guy showed us how to scoop wet sand into a big pile as high as the base will support.Then he used a set of plastic utensils to sculpt the tower.

With the plastic fork that was missing the middle tines, he added some details to the roof.

Then he started the precursor of the staircase.

He told us when making the windows, we should scoop out the sand instead of jabbing or poking.

Then he cut right angles to make the stairs.

With a clump of wet sand between the two towers, he leveled out a bridge.

As I watched and took lots of pictures, I fantasized of doing some small-scale experiment with my Physics students to do this sand castle building experiment.

Afterwards, it was back to the beach for some capoeira tricks…wave-jumping, boogie boarding and ukelele playing. We passed another boardgame-filled and nearly sleepless night. We packed up camp to head back to Austin on Sunday morning.

We briefly stopped at a tourist shop. Posing in the shark’s mouth was worth the photo op. Of course, I didn’t buy anything.

The tarp suffered a minor rip, but our resourceful former girl scout driver found yet another good use for duc tape and we returned to Austin with dry things and no property loss!

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.

Brewery Tour

I’ve always professed not to be a beer drinker, but I jumped on the opportunity to join a social group of 30- and 40-somethings for a nearby small brewery tour. I made sure that I arrived on the early side of noon since one of the social group organizers advertised that he’d have a canopy. I figured if I got there early enough, I’d be one of the 20 lucky people to get under the shade.

We wanted to get a good spot in the blocked off concrete area, just in front of the musical stage and close to the food and beer. Plus, our group was the first in line to get our $10 beer glass that would be filled three times. As two volunteers set up the glasses, another volunteer came through the line with a wristband, which I initially thought was merely show that people were drinking age. I noticed that they had a slightly smaller, more attractive-looking beer glass. I patiently waited for them to finish putting out all the glasses to cover the table’s surface. Then I cheerfully told the woman, “I want the pretty glass.”

We had about 20 minutes to wait until they actually started serving beer; so I returned to the canopy since I figured why stand in the sun when I can sit in the shade? Besides, I thought this would be a terrific opportunity to get to know some of the other early birds in the social group before the same space transformed into a scene that the Sumerian goddes of brewing, Ninkasi, would be proud of. As I sat, I was surprised that no one else had joined me. I watched them and wondered what the hold up was. The line didn’t move at all. After 5 minutes two guys from the social group joined me. They informed me that the volunteers working the glass/wristband line decided not to sell anymore glasses until 12:45 when the beer was ready to serve.

I then spied a few people who already had their beer. The guys informed me that VIPs could get their first beer without having to wait in line. I joked that I always felt like a VIP. They encouraged me to try, saying that I probably wouldn’t get turned down. I thought to myself these guys could probably get away with some “white skin privilege,” but I told them, “You two are white guys. You could a VIP beer if you wanted.” Granted, that wasn’t much better than what I’d thought. They laughed that off and said that as an attractive woman, I’d be more likely to get a VIP beer. I took the challenge.

I walked inside the brewery, glanced at the 6 beer choices and confidently asked, “Which one of these beers is the fruitiest?” That questioned seemed to throw them off, but after some reflection, one guy pointed out two choices. I asked to sample one of them. As the guy put a sip’s worth in my glass, he asked if I was in the band. I was flattered and joked that I looked as if I should be in band. I tasted the beer, thought it was passable and told him he could fill my glass. He reminded me that I still hadn’t told him who I was.

I smiled and introduced myself. “I’m Teresa with the Austin Writers Roulette.” I whipped out two flyers and handed one to each of the guys behind the bar. “We’re a monthly spoken word and poetry event. Our next show is Sunday, July 14th and the theme is ‘Personal Triumph.'” When he asked if we’d set up a table, I said, “We’ve got a canopy set up.” He concluded that was good enough and filled up my glass. Reminded me of the advice my sister Carla told me years ago, “Just act like you know what you’re doing.” Exactly.

Not only were the two guys who were sitting with me impressed, but one of the co-organizers who was still standing in the glass line pointed me out. Apparently he was already amazed that I was one of the few who had been sold a glass to begin with.

Once the beerfest officially began, that co-organizer let me sample the stout he was drinking, which had been the second beer recommended to me. I liked it better; so I told him to let me know when he was finished with his first and I’d go with him to get another. He finished it in two gulps, saying that I’d twisted his arm and we walked over to the nearest beer tent.

As we walked up, I saw a large rectangular tray under the water container, but then spied a similar one behind the beer serving table. I knew they didn’t want just anyone walking behind there. I announced my arrival by asking, “Can I dump the rest of this in one of those containers?” They all said yes, but one guy, a tall black man with dreads, shook my hand for being one of the few people to ask instead of dumping beer in the first container, which held water for the dogs.

I filled my glass with water, figuring that it couldn’t be a bad idea rehydrate in between beers while hanging out in 95-degree weather. I joined the co-organizer in line, telling him how friendly the black volunteer had been. The co-organizer laughed and informed me that he’d seen that guy checking me out and shook my hand just to flirt with me. He said he knew I had something special when I got that VIP beer.

Instead of joining the others back at the canopy, we walked into the brewery to take a tour. The brewery itself was one big room with some large, impressive machinery. I was delighted to hear the inebriated guy giving the tour with his own beer in tow, explain the biochemistry behind making alcohol. One big machine was to convert the starch into sugars. At some point, additional oxygen was pumped in for the yeast to multiply, but at a later point, they were denied oxygen so they would make alcohol. When I teach my students about anaerobic respiration, I joke that if we were yeast, we could get drunk by periodically holding our breath. The other big machine was to boil it and add additional flavors.The longer the boiling, the darker and sweeter the beer, which explained why I liked the stout.

At the end of the tour, I recognized a woman who worked with my school district. I had been initially surprised that out of all those people that I hadn’t bumped into anyone I knew. I’d just had a couple of false sightings. Although she wore huge dark shades, there was no mistaking her wonderful smile. I spoke with her and her husband for a bit before foraging for food. Didn’t take me too long since there were only two food trailers–one for sweets and the other for savory. Since I was reading at a poetry potluck later on, I knew that I’d get several choices for sweets and opted for a delicious meatball and cheese sandwich.

I returned to the canopy and sat down to enjoy my food. Since I wanted some down time before heading out to the poetry/spoken word venue, I told one of the co-organizers that I was taking off and poured my remaining beer into his glass. He glanced at my wristband. His eyes popped out when he saw that it had only one mark on it. He knew that I’d had two beers and since only one volunteer had bothered to mark my wristband, I was leaving with two more beers officially left on it.

To placate him, I stood in line to get another beer for him. When I returned, I emptied my glass into his and dramatically extended my arm to show him the wristband. It hadn’t been marked. He was beside himself. I gently removed my wristband and wrapped it around his wrist since his band had only one beer left. At that moment, one of the guys who’d challenged me to seek a VIP beer told me that I should have given my band to him. By some beer logic, he said that he’d earned it.

Both guys invited me to join another social group that was geared toward professionals in their 30s and 40s. Their next event was to meet at my favorite sushi place for their wonderfully delicious happy hour. I said I’d definitely check it out since I loved eating there and had been craving sushi. They said some final flirtatious parting words and not once did they comment about my menstrating ear!

A few days earlier on July 4th, I plunged into the 6 ft end of a swimming pool and could not equalize the pressure in my right ear. I completed my laps, but once I returned home, the pressure built up to rupture the eardrum,causing excruciating pain. As stubborn as I am, I mixed a medicinal amount of ibruprofen and red wine, took an hourlong nap, cleaned myself up and attended my tango class, a BBQ party and even walked over to view the fireworks.

Looking back, I’m glad that I didn’t allow one nonfatal health challenge stop me from enjoying this holiday weekend, celebrating the birthday of the United States.

1st Chapter Adventures Painting Revealed

Once one of my critique partners brought it to my attention that my latest work in progress, The Adventures of Infinity & Negativa, contained a fantasy element, I immeditately knew that I wanted those fantasy parts to be in graphic novel form. Although the best things are free, a graphic artist is not. A few people were initially interested, but in order for a true collaboration to happen, I would have needed to compensate them for their time. In the future, for another book, that may be a possibility if I have the resources. Yet, my greatest resources right now are time, creativity, motivation and intermediate painting skills.

So, on January 22, 2013, I took the first step of being my own graphic artist by taking a blank 16″ X 20″ canvas out of my storage room. From there, I worked on it once or twice a week, which was a snail’s pace, considering that I planned to complete around 24 canvases.

In addition to working around a full-time teaching job and an active social life, another challenge were my fears: the fear of not completing the series and the fear of not being good enough. A few weeks into the painting project, I overcame the second fear first. To make my lack of professional-looking painting abilities work in my favor, I decided to make the paintings the product of my main character, Nuru. I signed her name on the front and my name and the date on the back.

As soon as summer break began, I started painting every day. I quickly learned that the best rearrangement of my schedule would be to paint as soon as I finished writing in the morning since the reliable Texas heat will have the sweat rolling off my back by one o’clock. The painting truly came together, but I needed an extra push to finish it in a timely fashion.

My next wonderful idea was to present the painting at an open mic that takes place every 4th Thursday. I figured I could finish it in a week; so the painting would have nearly a week to dry and the added bonus would be starting on the second painting.

I had two friends to pose for the composition of the second painting. With the lessons I learned from the first painting, I launched into the measuring, taping and preliminary painting of the second one. I did myself several favors such as not having something complicated for me to duplicate repeated in more than one frame. I also learned, when I was researching about sealing the first painting, that one should use multiple thin layers in order to create an oil painting. I’m quite sure my Honduran oil painting teacher never told me that. I know my Spanish was not that bad. At some point, he could have told me not to use so much paint. I absolutely love the richness of oils, but with my skill level, I need the ability to make corrections as easy as possible. Nonetheless, this whole experience is one big “discovery learning” endeavor and I’m so happy that I have three months to dedicate myself to the pursuit.

The reading of the excerpt that goes along with the painting went over well. I even read a page and a half after the opening fantasy scene so the audience could know a little about the main character who’s “doing” these series of paintings. I ended my reading at the first cliffhanger in the book, which had the intended effect.

Now that I got the ball rolling, I don’t feel like dragging any paintings–at least not until they are all completed–out to be publicly displayed. Just like the journey starting with the first step, I’ve added this work to the gallery that I set up in my apartment a few months ago. Once again, now that there’s been a change in the gallery, I feel compelled to stop and contemplate it. Then on the opposite side of the room, I stop and study the current painting that I’m working on. I know exactly where I need to pick things up, which is usually at the point of some “error” or “ugly” that needs to be redone.

What I love about painting these scenes, other than having the visuals for the novel, is that the book motivates the paintings and the creative composition of the paintings affect the editing of the story. Now that this project has grown in scope, I’m no longer pressuring myself to complete it in fewer than seven years, providing I still have to juggle a full-time teaching schedule. Only time and creativity will tell.

Juneteenth Celebration: Mattie Gilmore

On June 19th, 1865 Texas slaves in Galveston heard the announcement that they were free. For this year’s Juneteeth celebration, I volunteered to do a character interpretation of one of the newly freed slaves. Although I read through all the lively character interpretations, I was assigned to by Mattie Gilmore. According to her narrative, she was an unmarried young woman when emancipation came. She reported that some former slaves laughed and celebrated while others cried. She and her stepmother were asked by their former master, Mr. Barrows, to remain on the plantation and work and he compensated monetarily.

What I found most interesting about her narrative was her observation that Negroes weren’t used to managing themselves nor their money. This situation was further exacerbated when some former slave masters did not give their former slaves money when they released them. Ms. Gilmore’s conclusion was that even though they were free, they still suffered. The period costumes that we wore were very heavy and beautiful. I just imagined that we were dressed up in the Sunday finest clothing since this was a celebration of freedom. Yet, I also wondered how they could stand be in such clothing during the summertime. I have to believe that they weren’t as used to creature comforts as we are now or they actually wore a cooler blend of clothing.

I overheard this male actor giving a very lively interpretation of his freeman’s narrative. He talked about how some former masters went crazy after emancipation. One was so distraught that he had a heart attack and died. One has to wonder was it merely the thought of free Negroes or did he predict that life would be so horrible without the power of being a slave owner. After telling my freewoman’s brief narrative to vistors, I bid them farewell and told them to enjoy their freedom. That was a heartfelt good bye since I often think that we take our hard-earned freedom for granted.

Recently, a popular Southern white TV chef was charged with making racist comments, least of which was using the N word in anger. The worst was her wish for a “traditional plantation” wedding were black men were dressed in all white and serving food. This is the third time in my life that I’ve heard a white woman romanticizing how wonderful things were back in the good ol’ days when either slavery or Jim Crow were in place.

As long as that attitude is among our society, we’ll need things like Juneteenth and Black History Month.

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.

Firedancing!

You know I’m on vacation when I have enough energy to go to a morning capoeira class, two afternoon tango classes and then take a firedancing class in the evening. That’s exactly what I did this past Saturday and much to my surprise, getting eight hours of sleep and having virtually no stress means that I’m well rested enough not to need a nap in between activities, which is good since I scarcely had time to eat and sip a glass of wine.

I, like some other capoeirista participants, was initially confused as to whether the “fire” aspect of the dance was interpretative or literal. To be on the safe side, I brought my five-finger shoes since I knew we wouldn’t have real fire inside the capoeira studio. What I had not anticipated was the handicraft portion of class. Coupled with the fact that the workshop started thirty minutes later (Brazilian time!) than it should have, we were still finishing up on making four torches each when the workshop had been scheduled to end.

Using clothing that capoeira and crossfit students had left behind and placed in the lost-and-found box, we cut strips out of the clothing and tightly wrapped them around the wooden sticks that we used during our maculele choreography. To secure the cloth strip in place, the mestre told us to bound it with nylon string or yarn. As anyone familiar with my handicraft skills could have predicted, I made the “nonexample” torch as we politely call “incorrect” in the educational world. Of course with my luck, I sat beside a capoeirista who’s known for her creative handicrafts.

Although the mestre only spoke a pocketful of English and I spoke even less Portuguese, I asked him questions about my torch in Spanish. At least we both understood enough of that language to communicate. He undid my first torch since the cloth and string were too loose, which he assured me would fly off the stick and create a fire hazard.

Throughout the workshop, the mestre would periodically give us safety tips. At one point, I just laughed to myself about all the safety concerns that the two graduado (high-ranking) capoeiristas were translating for the rest of the group. As straightforward as the fire considerations were, I wondered if anything was being lost in translation.

At the time when the workshop had been scheduled to end, we all stood up, put away one pair of our torches and practiced some basic firedancing moves. After ten minutes, the mestre told the two graduado capoeiristas to divide up the group and work with a small group. Instead of doing a 1-2 count off and having all the 1’s work with one graduado and the 2’s work with the other, the graduados selected groups using the ol’ kickball method of picking group members by name. Never in childhood had I ever been the last one called since I’ve always been a fast runner. So at least that minor humilation didn’t tap into any bad childhood memories. Fortunately, I really liked the choreography that my group came up with; so I was well placed.

After working on the routine for twenty minutes, my favorite part of the entire workshop occurred. We formed a semi-circle, the mestre distributed small bottles of water and we practiced spewing water into the air. I cannot remember during my happy childhood ever being allowed, much less asked to spew water into the air that would wind up on the floor. Even though we were simulating how to spew fuel into the air, pure joy shot out of my mouth.

Once we cleaned up the floor, we took our torches and some safety support such as damp towels, a couple of buckets of water, and out to a nearby courtyard. The mestre confessed that he had never used the tiki fuel that we were about to use. The fuel came in two varieties–purple and yellow. I’m not sure if the color designated any significant difference, but both contained citronella.

The mestre thoughtfully tested out a couple of the torches. We discovered that the ones that had been made from a green sweat shirt were fire-resistant. Also, the nylon string was fire-resistant, but if the cloth was flammable, then the torch still lit. The yellow yarn burned pretty well.

Once that experimentation part was over, the mestre asked capoeiristas to dance and spit fire individually. Another capoeirista and I were the only two who refused to put the fuel in our mouths. We both stated that next time, we’d bring something like 151 rum to use for fire spitting. I figure that I’ve got enough problems without adding accidental poisoning to the list. Besides, I didn’t want to have any throat/voice problems the day before I was to host the Austin Writers Roulette.

Negro firedancing (768x1024)

Caju spitting fire (768x1024)

Ed spitting fire (768x1024)

However, I practiced dancing with fire, mainly for the photo op. Then I practiced the choreography with my group, using unlit torches. My refusal to voluntarily put poison in my mouth worked to another advantage: I was able to give the verbal cues to my partners.

Miraculously, none of us got burned although I nearly slipped with all that spewed tiki fuel on the tile. One woman in the other group had problems controlling the fire on one of her torches because the stick had been wrapped with a flammable, decorative tape.

After both firedancing choreographies had been completed, all sense of safety brokedown as more people grabbed lit torches, danced and spit fire. Those few of us who remained spectators, grabbed a blanket, got near the fire extinguisher and/or yelled out “You’re dripping fire!” to the firedancers. I took this as my cue to leave. I’d pressed my luck enough for one workshop.

All in all, I’m still interested in practicing firedancing–I’ll just have to bring the rum.