Where Vivid Narratives Live

Try as I might, I cannot rid myself of all superstitous beliefs. This past week, my reoccurring superstitous belief of bad things happening in threes manifested itself. In actuality, there were four things, but one has already been remedied while the other three remain.

The excited energy of returning to school has been drained, dealing with physical, emotional and situational stresses. I’m amazed at how so few things can redirect my optimistic, creative energy and seep into the recesses of my mind when I’m asleep and bring me back to a waking, unrested state.

The first stressor came as soon as I attended my first meeting with a new group of colleagues. Although I’m teaching at the same high school this year, it’ll be a radically different job description.  I was very excited about the opportunity to do something different for my fourth year at the school. Again, I don’t want to believe in “signs,” but as soon as I entered the room, but before being seated, I felt a sharp pinch on my right foot.  I looked down and saw a small black speck, which I assumed to be an ant, but in retrospect, could have been a tiny spider.  Either way, I slapped it, killing it, but my foot itched and swelled around the bite. Such a tiny, pervasive annoyance that was temporarily relieved when I when home and put a topical solution for bites on it.

The second stressor came Tuesday when the man who I was absolutely crazy about turned down yet another invitation to hang out with me. At that point, there was no mistaking the writing on the wall. I’d felt recently that things had been lopsided in terms of attraction.  Instead of suggesting a “raincheck” date, I just fell on my sword and texted him that I’d see him when our paths crossed again. He reminded me that he didn’t sit still in one place for very long. Ha! I’m a busybody too; so I know how convenient it is to hide behind a busy schedule and secret my free time.

The third stressor came Wednesday after the first science department meeting. I discovered that the teacher who’d been hired for my old teaching position, had broke her contract and accepted another position at a different school. In a logical world, that should not have affected me. At my school, however, the powers that be decided that I would temporarily resume my old position until a suitable replacement was found and that my new positition would be temporarily filled by its former teacher! I still prepped feverishly for my new five different classes, but I was furious that I would probably not be the teacher greeting my students on the first day and perhaps the first week of school.

So, later that day, with an inflamed itchy foot, slightly broken heart and angry mind, I attended my usual bikram yoga class. I usually appreciate the intensity of the heat helping to relax my muscles for a deeper stretch and sweating out toxins, but with as much physical and mental stress that I’d walked in, I especially needed to purge my body of poisons.

Two years ago when I’d resumed my bikram yoga practice, I’d agonize nearly the whole 90 minutes and there were postures I absolutely hated. I’ve come to enjoy the experience and Wednesday’s class proved to me how three different ailments, one physical and two mental, could be alleviated. I emerged from class feeling sensational–my optimism had returned and no itchy, swollen foot!

Friday, after finishing the last of the five sets of lesson plans, moving furniture around, and jettisoning unneeded things from my classroom, I received a call from the woman who I’d been hired to replace, telling me that she was ordered to report to my new classroom and I was to report to my old classroom. This time around, I walked into bikram with sore muscles and an agitated mind. Once again, I reemerged with such a big smile on my face that a fellow yogi commented at how good a practice I must have had.

The next stressor came Saturday. I’d been having a very good day with a basic capoeira class in the morning and then two tango classes in the afternoon.  I make it a point to work my butt off at school Monday-Friday and take the weekend off.  The only school-related thing I chose was buy some highlighters. In the parking lot, I was in line, waiting for a car to finish parking when the heavily tinted station wagon in front of me suddenly backed out and slammed into my car.  I was stunned and had unfortunately hit the horn too late.

We got out of our perspective cars and my heart sank to see such a young adult behind the wheel. I had the right state of mind to take a picture of her temporary tags, which included the VIN and I took a picture of the make of the car.  Unfortunately, I didn’t take a picture of her driver’s license.  She wrote down her name, phone number and told me that her insurance was State Farms, but she didn’t have the insurance card in her car.  I was so discombobulated that I gave her my card and asked her to email me her insurance information, but I didn’t get her email address in return.

After talking with my insurance, I was informed that not all the information that the young woman had given me matched.  In other words, State Farms wasn’t going to pay for a claim if I couldn’t get the correct information.  I just hope that that young woman taps into whatever sense of budding adulthood and take responsibility for her actions. At this point, my insurance is going to run down the VIN, but I don’t know what else can be done.

Two ironies here: 1) her temporary license expires on my next birthday and; 2) I’m a week away from paying my car off.

Thank goodness I made a commitment to continue attending bikram three times a week when school starts. I original felt that I needed that to heal my lower back. Now I know I need to heal my spirit as well.

I’ve been reading quite a lot lately about the various forms of oppression that we women face as research for my latest novel, The Adventures of Infinity and Negativa. Although I’m only going to focus on how a lack of education, a lack of birth control and a lack of income oppress women, I’m beginning to see that the first oppressive situation is the biggest of them all.

When females lack education, they are more likely to be viewed by society as mules, who should toil from sun up to sun down on menial tasks that neither require nor stimulate intellectual thought. When society has the expectations that certain women are only good for such menial tasks, then it does not value educating such young women. As a matter of fact, the tendency is to think that the act of educating such young women a waste of resources–with time also being included as a resource.

Outside the States, in some of the most conservative developing countries, such young women are kidnapped and forced into prostitution. Many times, the local police are aware of the brothels that kidnap, beat, and drug young women, but the attitude is that they are the poor, uneducated girls; so it’s OK. Moreover, some condone the practice because the forced sexual enslavement of this perceived undesirable population of young women means that the desirable population of young women (at least middle class and educated) will remain virgins upon marriage. Males can satisfy their sexual desires with prostitutes instead of enticing the desirable population of young women into sex, which would shame her family.

As the universe tends to do when I’m researching a topic, a related workshop presented itself.  Walking into this workshop, I wanted to contrast how young women are trafficked in the States.

One of the first things that I learned was that pimps did not have to cross international or state lines to be considered “trafficking.” I also learned that “teenage prostitution” did not exist by definition since the age of consent federally is 18 and statewide, there is a range of 16-18, depending on the state. The most devastating fact I learned was that the average age for young women to be sexually trafficked in the States is 13.

In the States, young women are recruited to and from school, at women’s battered shelters and virtually any place where the pimps can have access to girls who are at risk. Again, the younger and less educated a girl is, she is at risk of being categorized as an undesirable. If the girl comes from a chaotic home where her parents physically and verbally fight, one or both parents are addicts, then being taken care of by a pimp initially seems better.

Pimps, who are much older, shower the at risk girl with attention, gifts, compliments and eventually have sex with her. Then, once the girls are emotionally attached, that’s precisely when the pimp will flip the script and put her on the street. The biggest lie is that by soliciting herself for money, that she’ll help him save up enough money to eventually marry her and they’ll live happily ever after.

For my book, I’m only focusing on prostitution as it occurs in Honduras, but the common thread of this form of oppression is, by one method or another, young uneducated girls who are poor are at the greatest risk of being trafficked. The universality of this theme sickens me. As a teacher, I’ve discovered newfound motivation to make sure the females in my classes stay plugged into school. Not only are they less likely to be trafficked, but statistically they are more likely to have fewer children and those children will be better cared for by their educated mother.

As a writer, I see it as my duty to bring about the global double standard that is continuing to plague women. I now know that it was an absolute blessing to be born to middle class parents from a developed country that values female education and insures my rights to control how many children I bring into this world and secure income and property.

I’m not sure if just one book will do, but at this point, there are so many issues that are beyond the scope of my current work in progress.  Not only do I need to address the three oppressive situations that I’ve previously mentioned, but also the whole double standard concerning female sexuality. I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me.

In an effort to meet more people, I started checking out the weekly Meet Up listings that I receive every Monday.  Confirming what I already knew about this lovely city known as The Live Music Capital of the World, there are so many interesting people and things to do…now reading
Meet Up, I know about even more things that all happen at the same time!

Just for shit and giggles, I decided to hook up with the “dinner and a movie” group this Saturday to watch the latest Batman movie. A few days later, every media source were competing with one another to break the latest exclusive angle on the mass murders that occurred at a midnight showing of Batman in Aurora, CO.

Years ago, I used to teach at a middle school close to that mall, but of course, the media didn’t care about the schools that were closest to the mall. Instead, some chose to show a map with the mall and Columbine High School highlighted, which was the last location of such horrific mass murder.

One of the differences between the two incidents was how much technology has advanced. In addition to several cell phone calls to 911, there were digital images, tweets, texts and good ol’ fashioned eyewitness interviews on camera. Law enforcement did its best to respond to the incident, including urging the media not to hype the situation and encourage copycats, but honestly, the amount of planning and preparation that Holmes underwent cannot be readily copied.

In addition to feeling sympathetic to the family of the murdered movie goers, I became angry that once again, some nutjob legally purchased weapons of mass destruction and killed and injured many people within minutes.  Granted, I’m not a gun owner and I have next to no hunting skills with any implements, but I fail to understand why the average private citizen needs the type of fire power that allows hundreds of bullets to be sprayed in minutes. No hunter, novice or experienced, would carry such a weapon, but it seems to be the legal weapon of choice for the mentally unstable.

Despite my efforts to meet new people, I forgot that I needed to arrive at least 30 minutes prior to showtime and ended up watching Batman by myself. Nonetheless, I’m thankful that all the drama and violence occurred on the screen. Plus, I was proud to be among a full house of people who did not allow fear of copy cats keep them away from enjoying life.

I’ve had such a productive week, I’m amazed that only a week has passed! I took the positive energy from last Sunday’s writers roulette and channeled into the new search for some “raunchy writers” for the upcoming “Expressing Your Wild Side” roulette.

I attended an open mic, a romance writers’ social, an art opening, a milonga and several tango classes.  All the while, I’ve been handing out flyers to people and leaving them places in visible places.

I even got the bright idea to contact two businesses that I thought would do well, given the theme. All-in-all, I’ve been thinking out of the box to build up the event. One thing I’m surely going to miss when school starts up in the fall is the flexible schedule that I have to do everything that I need to get done in a humanly pace rather than feeling stressed with a million things to do.

This upcoming week, I plan to pay one of the potential vendors a visit since I know the manager’s going to be present. I’ll have to call the other vendor, just to make sure that she received my email with the vendor information. Plus, there’s at least two open mics that I plan to visit.  I like the idea of seeing people perform and recruiting the artists who I want.

I’m also going  to meet a friend for a light dinner then try out a modern dance class.  Of course, I’m going to drop off flyers along the way. These days, I’m always thinking of the roulette and ways to improve it. I think I’ve got the basics covered and I even have my first submission. I’ll be doing very well if I can have all of my writers lined up during the next two weeks.  Although the first show went very well, I want to nuture it into something spectacular.

Last year, I dreamed of reading my original work at least once a month; so I prepared about 30 professional-looking press kits, made a list of venues and spent a lot of time driving around and passing them out. Out of all my efforts, I got 2 gigs before I abandoned the mission. This time around, I finally realized that in order to participate in the type of event that I want to be a part of, I have to organize it myself.  So, I’ve spent the past month and a half organizing the Austin Writers Roulette, a monthly cultural event of spoken word, poetry and performance.

It’s been an interesting, constructive way to spend my summer vacation. One thing I loathe about teaching is the beaucratic paperwork involved and yet, I’m now the creator of my own forms in order to organize this event. And like my students, some artists have not taken the time to read, a “short” one-page attachment about participating in the roulette as a performer and/or vendor. However, I take it all in stride since I know, just like teaching at a new school, I’ve got to work out the kinks and adjust my “lesson plans” according to the culture.

I took an 8 am yoga class just to help calm mind nerves, which worked for the first two-thirds of the class, but I became increasingly nauseous toward the end. I managed to stay in the room by doing one set of the last four postures. Once I left the intense heat of the bikram yoga room, the nausea subsided.

In a few hours, I’ll get to see my plan unfold and see where the gaps are. Better than that, I’ll get to emcee my very own event, introducing a line up who I personally recruited and whose material I’ve reviewed for an audience to whom I advertised with the help of social and traditional media.

At this point, all that needs to be done is to set up the chairs, my vending table, and the audio equipment. Come what may, I’m going to take comfort that I’ve done all that I humanly can do to make this first event of many a success. The rest will depend on other people–what a scary thought for a control-freak Virgo like myself!

Once again, I had a brush with my latent psychic skills nearly two weeks ago when I first arrived at one of my sister’s house. I normally keep certain items prepacked in my suitcase–wine opener, goggles, camper’s headlamp. For some inexplicable reason, I handed my 11-year-old nephew my headlamp. I proudly boasted that I liked being prepared for all occasions.

Fastforward exactly a week and a line of thunderstorms later, the lights browned, flashed back to normal and repeated.  I’d lived in enough developing countries to know an impending electricity blackout warning when I saw one. I raced to my suitcase and got the headlamp as the lights blinked off. While everyone else ran around the house, I adjusted my headlamp and proudly walked around, lighting the dark rooms until they found their own light source. My nephew grabbed the little flashlight in the TV room, beating his mom to the punch. My father  wore the “emergency” hat he had been given, which came equipped with two little lights built into a cap.

With the background hum of electrical appliances and TVs eerily quiet, we could hear the threatening sounds of mother nature. We all met in the basement, where it was safe and cool. Without any of the distractions of electrical conveniences, we actually began to talk with one another–well, except for me and one of my nieces. I wanted to finish the section of the chapter that I was on.  My niece eventually received all the updated texts from her friends who were also in the emergency storm situation. The phone battery eventually wore down until she had to reconnect with the rest of the family conversation.

Once the storm passed over, we waited another thirty minutes in the basement, but the electricity did not return. My father, who has elevated napping to an art form, was the first to make the trek upstairs to get ready for bed. We were fortunate to still have running water even though we only had a limited amount of hot water. Since the basement was the only cool part of the house, my sister and her family slept on the sofa and made sleeping pallets on the floor. I just slept on my usual roll out bed in the loveseat sofa. Well, “slept” is an optimistic retelling. I was subjected to two versions of competitive snoring and a tiny flashlight, doubling as a night light…I’m a dark room sleeper.

I was pretty bitter when I finally emerged the next morning. The sight of my nephew playing a board game with one of his sisters turned my attitude around. Instead of being spoiled little brats, complaining about the electricity outage, my niece and nephew automatically switched to a nonelectronic form of entertainment. I joined them in the “TV room” to read a book after my breakfast of freshcut fruit.

While the rest of the family took showers, using as little hot water as they could stand, I boasted about being the only clean one, thanks to my habit of showering at night. Yet, the house had begun to heat up and become stuffy; so I figured I wouldn’t have too long to wait before I lost my bragging rights.

I took my father up on his offer to go to the grocery store. The first one we tried was closed due to the power outage. The second one smelled of food about to go bad and had partially stocked shelves. The third one was just right: brightly lit, fully stocked and no funny smells.

We made another outing later in the afternoon, mainly to be in the air-conditioning, wait for the return of the electricity and vie for charging our electronic devices, using the car charger. We figured out that we could charge two phones at once, but the challenge was there were 6 of us. I inwardly laughed at how we were reduced to animals, fighting over a limited resource.

By dinnertime, the electricity still had not returned; so we went out to eat. Again, we competed to charge our phones. This time, I opted out of the competition since my plan was to charge my phone at the restaurant. With my luck, there wasn’t a close outlet to our table, but I encouraged my sister and father to charge their phones near the servers’ station. I figured throughout our entertaining and delicious dinner, two phones would be out of the competition back in the car.

A few hours and too much food later, we waddled out of there. Mom and my sister just had to go shopping afterwards, but I succumbed to a food coma. Just before nodding off, I noticed that the car video monitor had a USB port. I jumped up and tested it out. One of my nieces, who was low on the phone charging list, became excited as well. As soon as her mother returned from shopping, my niece borrowed her mother’s phone cord and plugged in her phone. We all celebrated as if we’d just discovered a vital survival strategy.

We became excited when we noticed that the traffic light closest to home had resumed working. The townhouses closest to the intersection had electricity. Our hopes dimmed as we drove past the dark  townhouses leading up to our house. I anxiously looked through the house windows as we rolled into the driveway. “The kitchen lights are on!” I reported.

We raced throughout the house, turning off unnecessary lights while plugging in our nearly depleted electronic devices. Just like that, we catapulted back into being electronic slaves, abandoning the civilization we’d briefly rediscovered.