Since I’ve dedicated this summer to being a full-time artist, my main creative outlet has been writing since I work my second novel daily and nearly everything I read somehow flavors that manuscript. Additionally, I finally found the time to reflect on my first two years of teaching at an Austin public school, which has been the most challenging teaching situation I’ve ever faced.
I wrote an essay, called “Monochromatic Butterfly: How Teaching to High-Stakes Testing Leads to Teacher Mediocrity.” Although I started working on this essay a few days after school was out in early June, I did not finish the first round of editing until The Fourth of July. I thought that was an appropriate time to email what was essentially a two-page protest about my current teaching situation to about 30 friends, the majority of whom were educators or had been. I requested that they email me their reaction to the essay. I made a special request to friends who happened to be English teachers and/or writers to edit the essay.
My goal was to send my polished essay with the AISD superintendent and Lloyd Doggett, but a few friends suggested that I send it to a few major newspapers as an op-ed piece. One friend, a journalist, recommended that I interview other teachers and throw in some stats. I laughed at the latter suggestion since I know that people lie with statistics all the time. I don’t want to adulterate myessay with that deviltry!
In the meantime, I was amazed at some of my friends’ passionate response to “Monochromatic Butterfly.” I emailed them back, asking permission to add their unedited reaction to my essay in its entirety. This would at least give other educators’ voices, chorusing in harmony with my main point: high-stakes testing leads to mediocrity, both among students and teachers.
With so much emphasis on the test, students mainly prepare through rote memorization and the “new strategy” that my school tried this past school year was to standardized the lesson plans as well.
I was horrified that things had worsened. My love for teaching had only lasted this long due to my freedom to be creative in the classroom while teaching the curriculum. Take away creative freedom and I might as well do some other less stressful job that pays more. (I know a few passionless accountants who make more money and have less stress than I do!)
Whatever happens as a result of “Monochromatic Butterfly” at least it has provided me a creative outlet to vent and share my opinon. Sometimes, just getting things off my chest is just the thing I need to continue pursuing happiness.
My two-week visit “back home” is nearly drawing to an end, but at least my visit will end with a bang since tomorrow’s the Fourth of July. I love coming home to attend my family reunion and then spend additional time with my immediate family. Some people find it hard to believe that I’m so close to my family since I’ve lived either out of state or out of the country. As a matter of fact, when I flew into Dulles, Mom welcomed me “To the Land of the Living” as if I were coming from a much more exotic place than Austin, TX.
I always feel that I eat too much and exercise too little when visiting my family. I was smart enough to write down some of the beginning capoeira curriculum before I left Austin both to teach my 10-year-old nephew and to make sure that I practiced while I was away. At 40.9, there’s no way that my body’s going to bounce back well from a two-week total absence from capoeira. Fortunately, my nephew’s a very active, energetic soul who happily practiced with me twice in the backyard and once at a waterpark.
This particular waterpark was more geared toward much younger kids, but my nieces, nephew and I still managed to have a rip-roaring good time. In my normal life, I usually swim 21 laps (3 sets of 7 different strokes) twice a week, but I only raced my nephew a few laps in the underpopulated pool. We were very lucky since, as we pulled up to the waterpark around 4pm, two busloads of screaming schoolkids on summer break were fetched away! I spent most of my time in the pool, practicing several capoeira kicks. Of course, my nephew joined me. With nothing much better to do, even my two nieces practiced each kick a few times.
Another day, we went bowling. As soon as we entered the bowling alley, I spotted a sea of gray-haired people and leaned over to Mom and whispered, “This is where people your age hang out.” When we walked over to the counter to get our tacky two-toned highlighter colored bowling shoes, I loudly and without a trace of shame requested bumpers. My older sister teased me, but I didn’t care. I know my limitations. I don’t do well with any sport or game that involves balls; so this would be the only way I could bowl and enjoy myself. Besides, it has been years since I’ve bowled.
Bowling has become so high tech now that they can program who gets bumpers and who doesn’t. Everytime my sister bowled, the bumpers dropped, but they were present for her kids and me. Plus, the score was automatically done by the computer. I had been looking forward to brushing up on my bowling math, but shook my head in slight disgust that all this automation would lead us to being a dumber society. Nonetheless, the automatic scoring told the truth: I won the first game with 133 points! I’d bowled 4 strikes. At the end of the first game, I knew that my second game would be lackluster since my right shoulder was in pain. Even though I was third place for the second game, I was still the overall winner.
When my sister had first mentioned going bowling, her kids had screamed “chili cheese fries!” So after bowling two games, we got two orders of the intestinally challenging dish. It was so warm, gooey and yummy, I felt guilty about every delicious bite. Surely I’d pay somehow for eating it.
This morning, Igot up a little too early for my taste, 8 am. When school’s in session, 8 am is “sleeping in,” but since I’m in the middle of vacation, it’s a wee bit early. We all got dressed to go to church, which I love attending since I don’t go to church in Austin. I love Black baptist churches, but I’ve never had the desire to join one or be baptized. It’s not that I don’t think I’m worthy or think I’m better than any other Christian. I’ve just never believed that those things were necessary for my relationship with God. And whenever I can cut out the middle man, I do. That’s why I self-published my first novel.
The minister seemed annoyed by the low attendance and commented about how we would stay longer if we continued acting like we didn’t really want to be there! Either he was joking or the energy changed enough in the room that he saw fit to release us after an hour and a half. Whatever the case, I liked his message of Independence Day being more than just our freedom from British rule. We should celebrate our liberation from whatever challenges that used to enslave us. As I gear up to start a new school year, I’m going to see how much systemic foolishness I can emancipate myself from.
Last year, I missed the annual family reunion on my mom’s side of the family because I chose to study and in between the two summer sessions, I changed apartments. This summer, I fought for my right to party! And since I”m a workaholic nerd at heart, that pretty much means that I’m not working, studying or moving this summer. Pure bliss!
I flew into DC and was picked up by one of my sisters and her family and quickly whisked to a wonderfully delicious seafood restaurant. I relax my normal workout and diet regime when visiting with my immediate family since I’m outnumbered. My sister, Renee looks forward to my visit since among other things, I help them get back “on schedule” with their exercise routine. From my perspective, however, I don’t exercise nearly as much I as normally do! Could be all the marathon TV watching I do in their company.
Two days later, we trekked about 5 hours south and checked into our hotel where we normally stay when attending our family reunion. Thanks to the magic of cell phones, Mom was waiting for us in the lobby to greet us and give me my room key since I would share a double with my other sister. After giving Mom a hug, I went to my room, hugged my sister and threw myself onto the bed. I announced to my sister, “This is all the family reunion I need!”
After a much too brief nap, we all loaded up into two SUVs and headed to the fish fry, which is always held on the Friday preceding our main family reunion main event on Saturday afternoon. I was especially excited to visit with my extended family and to see how our permanent shelter where we hold our reunions had been decorated with a Hawaiian theme. We’re not descendants of Hawaiians, but do we care? We are a creative extended family who always have a good time when we get together.
I was rather impressed that a few relatives had asked me about my book, Tribe of One. I knew that a handful of them had heard of it and some had even downloaded it on their Kindle, but I have the feeling that, due to the adult nature of the Tribe, my usual promoter, Mom, had not advertised to many people. Well, the gig would be up on Saturday since I was part of the entertainment lineup. In addition to that, I was apparently going to do a hula dance as well–a genre of dance that I’ve not actually taken classes for.
Everybody was colorfully decked out in their Hawaiian best on Saturday. And for the first time, I noticed that someone had even thoughtfully hung a picture of Obama since there’s no doubt in my family’s mind that he’s an American! My sister and I set up a table where I displayed copies of Tribe and she, being far more ambitious than I, had baskets of decorative roses as a cancer fundraiser, her face painting paraphernalia and a surefire kid-pleasing basket of candy and stickers. Even though I’m a self-published author, one thing I’ve never yearned to do was sit chained to a table and sell my book. With my sister by my side and surrounded by extended family, the experience was wonderfully different.
Since our table display attracted a steady stream of interest, I periodically dashed off and take some pictures and socialize with my relatives. I was pleasantly surprised when I first returned to the table to discover that one of my older cousins had just purchased Tribe and was patiently waiting for me to return and sign it. In the first of several signings, I began with the word “cousin.” All in all, six of my cousins bought my book, two of whom were a mother and daughter and another daughter in the same family had already downloaded it!
By the time I sat down to eat my much anticipated family reunion food: fried chicken, macaroni w/cheese, string beans, sweet corn and corn bread; I was beyond hungry and very happy that my “cousin-in-law” who emceed the program had not called me up to read an excerpt from my book yet.
I followed an older woman, who I’d never seen before (I’m not sure since she wore huge face-covering shades the entire time), recited two very moving poems from memory. So, not only was her poems inspirational and “clean,” but she’d had them memorized! I nervously walked up to the front, quickly played with the tricky microphone situation while informing everyone that I had relocated to Austin, TX and was no longer in “Africa.” My relatives swear up and down that they cannot keep up with where I live. I had served as a Peace Corps volunteer in Tanzania from ’92 to ’94 and had taught in Egypt from ’01 to ’03, but from ’03 to ’09, I was in Mexico and Honduras–something that most had collectively forgotten (and not a sole other than my immediate family remembers the brief teaching jaunt in Seoul for 14 months), but the Motherland is hard to forget, even if they’ve never visited.
I briefly warned my devoutly Christian relatives that my book contained “adult content” and even joked that my mother might want to put on earplugs, which of course she wouldn’t do for the world at that point. I told them that the inspiration for my book came when I dreamed the first line, “Life would be so much easier if I wasn’t a gay man trapped in a black woman’s body.” According to one of my sisters, everyone’s eyes got big for the first of several shocking moments of my ten-minute reading.
I especially chose a chapter that only had one curse word, which I didn’t get to since I didn’t read the whole chapter. Yet I read the word “lesbian” and used the word “balls,” meaning “meatballs,” but in tasteful double entendre. Since the speakers were right above my head, I heard myself a little too well and couldn’t hear my audience well enough to interact with them as much as I would have liked to. The biggest laugh during the reading came when I read the part about how the more expensive a barbeque grill, the less inclined men are to allow women around it. At that point, I joked a little with my relatives before continuing with the rest of the reading. Yet I didn’t read the full chapter since I couldn’t hear their reaction to the reading and thought best not to bore them.
Once I got to a good stopping point, which was after a flirty exchange between the main character, Salome, and her man du jour, I stopped, telling them if they wanted to know what would happen next, they would have to purchase the book, either on-line or they could buy it from me while at the family reunion. One of my younger, enthusiastic second cousins immediately followed me out to the table where I promptly sold and signed her a book. She told me that I’d inspired her since she had always wanted to write screenplays and had just completed her first film. I gave her one of my business cards and told her not to let anyone stop her from doing what she wanted to do. I even gave her a sound piece of advice, “The best way to shut up someone who says you can’t do something is to accomplish whatever you’re trying to do.”
Blessedly, the hula moment didn’t materialize and I got to enjoy listening to a group of teenaged cousins play music. They started off with Al Green’s “Love and Happiness,” followed by an original composition that sounded familiar and a jazzy tune. Later on, one of my 5 year-old third or fourth cousins brought the house down singing a Justin Bieber song. Thank God I didn’t follow him!
We left around 9 pm, mainly because my parents were exhausted. I feebly attempted to counter balance some of my vacation eating by working out on the elliptical machine in the hotel workout room for 30 minutes, but I’m not too stressed out about it since I’ll shed those pounds once I return to life as I know it in Austin. In the meantime, I’m just so happy that I’ve had a chance to reconnect with my extended family
I love the part of summer vacation where I start to lose track of the days. Thank God, I have a smart phone where I can input all the things that I’m going to do on a calendar! I made up my mind not to work, study nor change apartments over the summer; so now I have a wonderful routine of daily writing, and going to either yoga, capoeira or swimming–along with going out dancing when there’s a good venue to do so.
Everyone who knows that I’m on summer break always makes some jealous comment about hating teachers’ summer break, but I gently remind them that they don’t envy us the other 9 1/2 months! After teaching for 15 years, I finally understand how to use these weeks of unstructured time wisely. There’s always this tease of studying, working and or moving during the summer because “I have the time,” but this is the first time in a long time that I’m using my summer vacation for something that I normally leave town and go on vacation for: reading.
I know I sound like the typical nerdy teacher, but I’ve got lists of books that I’m determined to plow through and the maddening thing is that the more I read, the more books I put on the list. Even when I try to curb myself, I still think that now’s the time to do so since “I have the time.” One interesting thing that I’ve noticed in my concentration of reading is how many times I run across the word “struggle.”
That may not seem significant, but one of the characters in my latest novel is named Struggle. I never outline the chapters of my story or even the overall outline of the book, which would be a wonderful and logical thing to do, but it’s just not ever worked for me. What has worked very well is writing every single day. That way, no matter how little or much I write, I’m advancing the story. I like to humor myself that I’m coming up with the advancing chapters “organically,” but now that I have a serious reduction of stress in my life, I can make even more connections between the various things that I’m reading, which spans a wide range of interests from the Bible, theoretical physics and sexuality, especially women’s sexuality. In all of those topics, there’s a mention of “struggling.” I never pondered how struggle was such a universal theme in life. I guess it’s pretty ironic that Struggle is the most laid-back character in the book so far.
I’ve not organically come up with an ending to the story yet. That’s sort of the gift of my approach to writing fiction. When I finally reconcile with my subconscious about some new insight, it’s the most amazing feeling. It’s not often I get to surprise myself in everyday life, but I do increase the frequency through writing. Occasionally, when I have something stressful weighing on my mind, I go swimming and intuit a solution. Yet, when I write, I never know where the story’s going to take me.
Proving yet again that even on a two and a half month vacation, I cannot truly bring my routine to a screeching halt. I even temporarily stopped taking tango and Spanish conversational classes to free up my schedule, which made me one of the perfect people to volunteer for the ProArts sponsored Black Arts Movement (BAM) Festival. I originally signed up to volunteer for three days out of the twelve days of festivities and of course, those were precisely the three days that I did NOT have to volunteer with a notable exception of an hour on Saturday.
My first volunteer contribution was to pick up some dancers from the airport. I was apprehensive about driving a mini van, but was quite relieved to discover that it drove just like a regular car. I came pulling up to three women who just looked like dancers while wearing my capoeira uniform. Since I’m one of the few women who don’t like making several dress changes throughout the day, I could almost imagine myself as a quasi-bodyguard even though capoeira is an impractical fighting form–as a mixed martial arts fighter told me.
The following day, I picked up the choreographerof the group, Gesel Mason, from the hotel and transported her to Ballet Austin, where they were rehearsing and performing on Wednesday and Thursday. During the 15-minute drive, I learned that she was based in DC. I knew another Black female choreographer who was also based in DC, Aysha Upchurch. Certainly, I couldn’t resist asking Gesel if she knew Aysha. As this increasingly shrinking world would have it, Gesel and Aysha are very good friends. Gesel seemed blown away that I’d met Aysha when she conducted a dance workshop through the American Embassy in Tegucigalpa, Honduras, where I was a HS IB Biology teacher at a private school.
I confessed to Gesel that I’d wanted to kidnap her dancers the previous night and take them to my capoeira class since we had a drum workshop after the beginner’s capoeria class. I bragged that my capoeira group were a wonderful, friendly bunch and we did performances on a regular basis to the extent that most people associated me with my capoeira group rather than my book, which, as a self-published writer, I’m supposed to promote in every waking moment, especially since I’m on vacation. Yet, I explained that what I love doing is being sociable, volunteering, performing with my capoeira group; so I couldn’t see turning my writing into solitary drudgery.
She politely asked what my book was about and I proudly told her that it was about a sexually liberated woman who was looking for Mr. Right and attempting to be smart about it by watching how other women pick up men. Then, much to my surprise, she asked me to participate in her show: “Women, Sex and Desire: Sometimes You Feel Like a Ho, Sometimes You Don’t.” Given the content of my book and erotic poetry, this was truly a special honor. The show, which combines different media also encourages audience participation and Gesel normally invites up to five local people on stage.
I arrived an hour before showtime in order to participate in a mini workshop with Gesel, her five dancers and the other four local participants. The workshop started off with defining what a “ho” was. We actually had one man in the group, who suggested that a ho was someone who did something that he or she hated to do for money; in his opinion, the “something” didn’t have to be sexual. We agreed with that definition, but I felt that a “ho” was usually thought of being a sexually undiscriminating woman and that anytime someone wanted to insult a woman, they could toss that word out, just like “bitch” or any other of the numerous insulting words for women.
Most of us could not come up with a positive world to call a woman who was confident with her sexuality. “Diva” was suggested, but any positive word for a woman can always turn negative. Yet, as I sat on stage and intermittently participated in sex-related discussions, I felt both relieved that other women had made similar choices as I’d done and enlightened by other women’s choices and opinions when it came to sex.
On Friday, I attended the BAM Cafe, which was an evening of music, capoeira Angola (not my group) and South African short indy movies, which occurred with significant overlap. Once again, I thought I was volunteering, but found out later that I could just kick back and enjoy, which was what I had been doing prior to receiving the official word. I met the South African couple, Maganthrie and Dingi, whose films would be shown later on in the evening. After they gave me a brief synopsis of their films, I happily told them that I had visited some of my cousins who were living in Johanesburg during the time that I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Tanzania. I added, what I thought was an interesting tidbit: my cousin had married a former cricket player and the family had moved to Joburg so he could coach the cricket team there. Dingi gave me a peculiar look before asking if my cousin’s husband was from the Caribbean. Unbelievable! Once again, someone at the BAM fest knew someone from my past travels.
Just before the events began, I took a stroll around the beautiful grounds of the French Legation to see if I could make myself useful…OK, let me stop lying! I actually wanted a glass of red wine, but I didn’t want to be the first person there to have a glass of wine. The bartenders for the evening said that they were waiting for the arrival of a table cloth before they started pouring drinks. I didn’t make the connection between the two things, but figured that’s why they were the bartender volunteers and I wasn’t. Nonetheless, in order to do my part, I offered my multicolored cloth to put over the table. Then I walked away, saving my pursuit of red wine for after the movie presentation.
As I crossed the lawn, I saw the side profile of a Black woman with beautiful orangeblonde, waistlong dreads walking toward the movie screening area. I came up behind her and verbally got her attention. “Excuse me, did you use to teach African dance in Denver?” She corrected me by saying she used to teach AfroCaribbean dance. “And you’re also an indy filmmaker?” She agreed. I finally let her know that back around 2000, I’d taken several of her classes. We exchanged business cards and by this time, I firmly believed the BAM slogan: “A festival that feels more like a family reunion.”
So now, I approach each event with the expectation that I’ve got to meet as many people as possible since someone there HAS to either be someone who I used to know when I lived somewhere else or someone is good friends with a someone I’ve met in another country or state. I try to calm myself down and not attach anything mystical to these chance meetings, but even as I type this, I cannot coldly believe that there isn’t any significance to these “coincidences.”
My last day at school was this past Thursday and despite sitting through a “never-ending” full faculty meeting (something which hardly ever happens, given the size of our faculty), I managed to complete my checkout process after the meeting by 10:30. And just to show that I cannot stop being a teacher “cold turkey,” I’d already planned a full day for myself: swimming, grocery shopping, dancing.
My first postschool activity was somewhat thwarted since the branch of the gym where I normally swim only cleans the pool on Thursdays from 11 to 1. There was no way I was going to just hangout until after 1; so I went to another branch of the gym. Not my favorite location since there always seems to be robberies in the locker room, it has a smaller swimming pool and the facilities are not as clean. But I figured, what the hell, at least there’s a grocery store close by so I can kill two birds with one stone.
I ended up being the nearly killed bird! Even though the water looked a tad cloudy, I swam my usual 21 laps (3 sets of 7 different strokes) and as soon as I’d finished getting dressed, I had a sore throat. I was mildly concerned since I had a reading at BookWoman on Friday. The fantastic thing was I didn’t have to strain my voice doing something like teaching a full day of classes, for example.
I happily shopped at the closest grocery store to that gym, which I normally don’t go to, but the biggest treat was the vast selection of good chocolate. I found one of my favorites: dark chocolate with chilies! I got everything else on my list and started to feel a little more run down.
By the time I got home, my throat was dry and throbbing, prompting me to make my usual headcold/sorethroat remedy: I boiled fresh ginger and cloves, let it stew and then strained it into a mug of pure, local honey with freshly squeezed lime juice. The heat from both the temperature and the ginger made my throat feel instantly better. Despite taking a nap, I still felt too run down to go out dancing, but since I had a good movie on DVD to watch, I called it a night.
On Friday, I still felt sick, but figured bikram yoga would make me feel better. The sore throat was nearly gone, but my new issue was “progressive diarrhea.” I don’t know what the technical term for this brand of diarrhea was, but everytime I ate anything, I had to go soon after. I still blamed the cloudy pool water since inevitably, I swallow a bit of the pool water anytime I swim. As far as oral-fecal contamination is concerned, just a drop will do you in; so when I made myself lunch, I also prepared a margarita (fresh lime and tangelo juices, cream of coconut and two shots of tequila shaken over ice and strained) since I believe in the healing powers of tequila when it comes to digestive issues.
I took about an hour long nap, then got myself together to trek to BookWoman. The best part about that dreadful trip north on I-35 was that UT was out for the summer and I zipped and made it to BookWoman quite early. I set up my sound equipment, help set up chairs and chatted a bit with some customers who happen to be there.
The reading went well, considering how drained I felt. There’s something about performing that makes me rise to the occasion. Afterwards, a small group of us went to a Cuban restaurant. Although I was invited to go downtown, I wanted to take my equipment home. I also knew that I once I got home, I was in for the night. I slept so soundly that I know it was the right call.
I’m glad that my Saturday morning volunteer opportunity had fallen through since I just had a luxurious time painting the whole morning before being picked up by a friend later that day to listen to 5 bands play at a nearby “pool party” sponored at an apartment complex. Although some of the bands were good and others could definitely change their names to “Constant Headache,” I enjoyed the extended opportunity to people watch. I’d worn my bathing suit, but only sat on the edge, dangling my lower legs in.
I was just getting over a pool related illness. I knew I’d surely get something with all those little kids and increasingly drunk adults in the pool! Besides, I was busy studying everyone in order to use it in my current book. The more I can observe real, live people, the easier I can make my fictional characters seem real.
So tonight, 4 days after being on vacation, I’m finally going out dancing! I’ve even got two places lined up just in case the first one, which is a new venue for me, turns out to be a dud. I love vacation schedules.
Fire drill pranks…food fights…final exams. Yes, this school year’s coming to an end. I was so anxious to be over and done with this school year, that I took it upon myself to write the final exams for both the science subjects that I teach–much to the surprise of the other teachers since we were supposed to divide up the work and all write a part of the final. At times like these, I remind myself that if Moses was a committee, then the slaves would still be in Egypt.
Even though I’m bringing the 15th school year of my teaching career to a close, I still become giddy with anticipation of nearly 3 months of unstructured time. I have big plans of finishing my second novel’s rough draft, exercising more, promoting my first novel through readings and business-card dropping and reading even more than I already do.
Beside my nightstand, I have a pile of books and magazines that I read through every day. I no longer have the patience to simply have a pile of books that I’m going to get to. Actually, I still have THAT pile on my desk, but I’m referring to the pile of reading material that I’m actually reading through on a daily rotation. I’m sure there’s some neurosis that describes people who do that, but I like to humor myself as an eclectic reader who enjoys reading a wide variety of stuff on a daily basis. At least I always have something interesting to talk about. Even if it’s the fact that for the past 6 weeks or so, my pile of reading material consists of the Bible at the bottom and another enlightening book called Cunt on the top. My ritual is to transfer the intact pile from my nightstand to my bed and as I read a little from each, I then place them back onto the nightstand. I always start with the Bible, which is never taken out of rotation no matter how many times I read it.
Two things that are being temporarily taken out of rotation are my Spanish conversational and tango classes. I love those classes, but the flip side of taking classes is that that time is always obligated to those activities. So part of my stay-cation is doing some different things that I couldn’t do before since I was in those classes. I’m so glad that I have a good Spanish grammar book, which is going in the reading pile (as if you couldn’t see that one coming!) and I’m at the point in my tango dancing abilities that I can dance competently at a milonga, which I plan to attend on a regular basis so my skills won’t languish. One insightful thing I learned in my over-a-year studying of tango is the alternative interpretation of “it takes two to tango.”
At first blush, one thinks of two people, the leader and the follower. Recently, I went to tango class after drinking a margarita and a glass of wine and danced very well. So, I now think: it takes two (drinks) to tango.
Another useful piece of tango advice I heard while doing a grueling 3-day, 5-hour tango workshop was: “The man will be the king when the woman becomes the queen.” Again, at first glance, tango appears to be the most chauvinistic social dance, but as all men, whether beginner or advanced, realize, he cannot accomplish anything without the woman’s cooperation. And as in life, women are much more cooperative to the point of bending over backwards in sexy clothing and stylish shoes if she’s happy. When’s the last time you heard a group of men talking about how easy it is to make a woman happy? Such is life and so is tango. When it’s all the man’s responsibility to do something, then he gets all the blame when anything goes wrong.
The two classes I’m continuing are bikram yoga and capoeira. As a matter of fact, now that I’m going to have 3 months of mostly unstructured time, I’ll have the chance to do yoga at least twice a week rather than just once as my busy, school’s-in-session schedule would allow. I marvel at people who are my age and older who don’t do yoga. I don’t know how they manage to walk upright without constant back pain.
Now it may seem contadictory to practice capoeira if I’m concerned with back pain, but I love how capoeira keeps me in shape, especially my legs and butt although other women tend to notice my arms. I’ve heard from male friends that they notice too, but they claim they are not generally free to compliment a woman on her body since they run the risk of being slapped. I think something’s definitely wrong with the world since we have so many bad words to refer to a woman, but hardly ever receive a compliment since a man is afraid of bodily harm. Why isn’t the opposite the norm?
Fortunately, I’ll have plenty of time to contemplate that along with a host of many other questions I’ve not even thought of yet after Thursday! I officially kick off my vacation with a reading. Afterwards, who knows?
Single, sexy, powerful women unite. In new author Teresa Y. Roberson’s outrageously naughty debut, Tribe of One, the band gets together to sing a common refrain. Yes, where have all the good men gone? For anyone who loves a saucy and daring tale of female espionage and uncanny spy tactics with great sex scenes, this is a book that shows how one woman exacted a smart model to find Mr. Right only to discover that romantic happiness cannot be reduced to a formula.
Join Teresa to hear excerpts from her book along with other make-you-want-to-blush poetry and short stories.
Friday, June 3rd 7 to 8:30 pm
BOOKWOMAN
5501 North Lamar #A-105, Austin, TX 78751
(East side of Lamar between North Loop and Koenig Lane)
This past Thursday, my students started asking me if I believed that the world would end on Saturday. As a way to comfort them, I said that this was about the fourth or fifth time that the world was allegedly going to end; so I was quite confident that an earthquake wouldn’t hit at 6 pm on Saturday; therefore, they could continue studying for their final exams. I still warned them that if a religious person offered them a free glass of Kool-aid not to drink it!
As even the most secular Christian such as myself knows, NO ONE can predict when and how the world is going to end, which religious fantatics should know if they read the Bible as much as they claim to do. I suspect Christian fanatics use their leather bound Bibles to hit people over the heads rather than as reading material.
Speaking of being beat over the head, I went to a double birthday party for two capoeiristas in my group on Friday night at a downtown club, which advertised a variety of Latin music. I’d never been nor was this was one of the clubs that the usual Austin salsero suspects even talk about; so I was intrigued to check it out.
Since it was a special occasion, my friends had the upstairs inside balcony reserved, which turned out to be a safe haven for me and pretty much the only reason I stayed for as long as I did. The tiny wooden dance floor could comfortably accomodate about 20 serious dancing couples. So, in the beginning, I danced bachata with the birthday boy, the birthday girl danced with her boyfriend and other people in our group joined in. For that part of the night the dance floor was fun. Yet around midnight, the place swelled and reggaeton dominated the mix. There was so much bumping and grinding, I’m impressed a scantily clad woman didn’t circulate through the crowd to sell condoms.
Whenever I retreated upstairs to sit down and wait out the reggaeton mix, I entertained myself by looking down at the urban human version of mating season in the Serengeti. Small groups of women would push themselves onto the dance floor, pretending that they’re so into dancing that they don’t notice that they’re purposely dancing into everyone. And the most vicious of the group was inevitably the shortest woman in the bunch–reminded me of a club I used to go to in Tegus.
On the sidelines were the progressively drunken single men who became bolder as both the night and alcohol wore on. At the tipping point of inebriation, a borracho would grind against a woman on the peripheral. Most times, that was a successful maneuver–at least for the duration of the song. In the meantime, I was so happy that I had a collection of muscle-bound capoeira friends who I could dance with.
What finally convinced me to stay upstairs and dance for the rest of the night was one truly drunk and belligerent guy who had taken his shirt off, started yelling and the next thing I know, he lunged forward at someone. I was never clear if the situation actually came to blows, but two guys were onto him quickly and he was escorted out the back. Fortunately, no one in my capoeira group was involved and we survived the night unscathed, which is always fantastic, especially if the world was to end in less than 24 hours.
I got home around 5 am since half of us went to breakfast. Even wearing a slumber mask only allowed me 2 more hours of sleep longer than my usual 7:30-ish “sleeping in”. (Normally, I wake up around 6:30 and never have to hear my 7 am alarm for work.) My only saving grace was the fact that I don’t drink alcohol when I go out dancing, especially at a shitty bump n grind meat market dance club. So, I had enough energy to do what I’d planned for the day, but apparently I was too tired to pack my day bag for what I’d planned to do.
I made it to my afternoon intermediate tango class a little late, which is saying something since that class ALWAYS starts late, thanks to Argentine time–not that I’m complaining! From there, I made a beeline to the Pachanga Fest at Fiesta Gardens. I was amazed how far away from the entrance that I had to park. I remember thinking that the walk wouldn’t be too bad since I’d only have to make it twice. HA!
As soon as I got to the gate and saw the $25 entrance fee, I wanted to kick myself for only bringing $40. Plus, I’d left my purse in the car so I wouldn’t have to carry it around. Nonetheless, I figured that $15 would be enough to buy food with and in that heat, there was no way I was going to buy any alcohol.
Good thing I didn’t go back to my car for my credit card or I might have missed my friend’s band altogether. Afterwards, I walked to the other end of festival where the food vendors were. Thank God the lines were short and the food was very reasonably priced–so was the jewerly. Of course, anytime I’m strapped for cash, that’s the time there’s a slew of teacher priced interesting jewelry.
I finished eating, made a mad dash to my car to get my credit card, still ticked off at myself for not bringing enough money from home. I contemplated how high the ATM fee would be when I locked the door, closed it and then checked my pocket for the key…too late. Shining in the afternoon sun laid my car keys in the back seat. And the spare key was also locked safely in the car inside my purse .
I was miserable for a few minutes before remembering that I had my smart phone. I looked up a locksmith, gave my information and made another mad dash back to the festival. I withdrew $100, bought the jewelry set I wanted and returned to my car, waiting for the locksmith who rolled up 20 minutes later. As I excitedly watched him safely open my car and unlock it, I jokingly asked him how his last day on Earth was going. He didn’t realize that there had been a doomsday prediction, but wisely quoted the Bible about God returning like a thief in the night, which no one can predict. Besides, it was 5 after 6 and so far the only doom-like thing was how much I had to pay to get my car keys back. The moral of that experience would be: “Stupidity always costs more money.” I know there’s a cliche about a fool and his money parting, but I like making up my own sayings.
I rejoined my friends at one of the four concert stages and put the bad feeling behind me. My late night from the previous outing prevented me from staying at Pachanga Fest until the end. Besides, I was long past due for a shower. Sometimes, I feel ridiculous taking a shower on Saturday night since I go to bikram yoga on Sunday mornings, but this one was justified.
I started off strongly in bikram and could even go deeper into some positions…until it hit. I slowly became hot. Much hotter than I normally feel in that hot yoga class. I looked at my face in the mirror and it was more flush than usual. Was I about to faint? Was I getting my first hot flash? (Didn’t dawn on me at the time that I’m not menopausal yet!) Was THIS the rapture? No to all the above. The bikram instructor just had the room a little too hot and had slightly cooked all of us.
My two minute shower afterwards felt divine. My Sunday post-bikram routine is to go straight home, do laundry, clean my apartment, eat and then blog. The first thing that threw things off was my washing machine acted up. It made a sound that I’d never heard before. Of course, I turned the knob, pulled it, pushed it, turned it some more, pulled it, pushed it until I was satisfied that I tried everything I knew to get the washing machine to work.
Again, just like the previous day when I’d locked my keys in the car, I walked away, counseling myself not to let it ruin my day. I figured I could still clean my apartment. I tossed my yoga mat into the tub to rinse it off and no water came out of the faucet. Well, that certainly solved the mystery of the “broken” washing machine, but now I had post yoga funk on me and was supposed to meet a friend in 2 hours to watch a dance presentation and go to dinner afterwards.
I grabbed my swim bag, threw in the dress I was going to wear, my new jewelry I’d bought the day before and hit the gym to take a shower. Things went smoothly until I got there. I’d stripped down, took my toiletry bag out of the gym bag when I realized that I forgot to pack a towel. I was geniunely surprised since I always have a towel in my swim bag. I redressed and went to the front desk to rent a towel, which I assumed would be about 50 cents to a dollar at the most.
I nearly fell back when the woman told me that renting a hand towel would cost me $3! I could buy a beach towel for that price. She asked me to hold on while she finished helping the guy in front of me. Yeah, I held on all right. Onto my money, that is. I returned to the locker room, stripped down and used the clothes that I came in as towels. I was determined not to spend anymore money on my stupidity. I got the feeling that it was my cosmic turn to be the stupid one, but I could get around literally paying for that one.
I made it to the show just in time. I briefly wondered if my car would get towed or something since my luck was running that poorly, but I quickly forgot all about my stupidity enhanced misfortune and enjoyed the high energy dance performance. Afterwards, we went out to dinner, had a lovely time catching up and it was as if things were back on track.
On the way home, I picked up a big container of distilled water just in case. I always had stored water in my apartment when I lived outside the States, but am quite vulnerable when the water goes out now since I don’t buy bottled water. That doesn’t even make sense to me since tap water’s potable in this country. Now that I have my water stash, it’ll probably never cut out again.
I usually don’t have such a concentration of mishaps like the past 48 hours. Maybe that was the rapture. I’m glad I survived it and am alive to enjoy all the beautiful, wondrous things life has in store.
I’m not a gadget person. I don’t rush out to buy the latest geegaw. On the other hand, I don’t have to be dragged kicking and screaming to the latest technology. Something just has to breakdown. That alone is enough to motivate me to toss my technological dinosaur into the tar pit (acutally the proper recycling bin) and get the latest evolved gadget that I can afford, knowing that it’s probably outdated when I walk out of the store, but at least it works.
Within a three-week window, I made two important upgrades. The first was my phone. I knew the contract was about to expire and so was the phone itself. Nowadays, things aren’t “Teresa proof” since my seemingly tame lifestyle demands more things that can withstand being dropped. Even though my cell is usually turned off while I’m at school, it’s still a high frequency used item and subject to many mechanical stresses, riding around in my form-fitting, but not grossly tight pants is the gentlest of the stressors.
I happily upgraded my cell for a sleeker, thinner model that replaced the arthritic trackball with a neat, raised square touch pad. The vendor even hooked me up with a cheaper calling plan since I didn’t use nearly as many minutes as I’d paid for and I wasn’t previously getting the teacher discount. Technically, I wasn’t a teacher when I bought my cell two years ago since I was unemployed at the time despite the fact that I’d been teaching for thirteen years .
I dashed away from the store after the guy finally finished transfering all my contact information from the old phone to the new phone. My palate demanded a glass of red wine, but I delayed gratification in order to charge my phone first, which only had 15% battery. Tearing opening the box and avoiding the contamination of touching the instructions, I got the cable to charge the battery. I astutely noticed that one end connected to the phone and the other connected to a computer. So, I grabbed the accompanying CD to load the software onto my computer.
Tech problem #1: my netbook doesn’t have a place for a CD. For the sake of smallness, the CD drive was eliminated. No problem, I’ll just get my attachable floppy disk drive, I thought through a haze of food and wine deprived logic. I plugged it into the USB port and thrice attempted to put that circular CD into the square floppy disk drive before realizing with maniacal laughter the stupidity of my attempt.
After securing a glass of red wine, I then took my work laptop out of its case, inserted the CD into the proper drive and charged my phone. About 5 days passed before I found the time in my busy life to read the basic instructions, including the wonderful feature that the USB end of the cable can be inserted into an AC adapter–a technological innovation that eliminates the need for two separate cables. DUH!
The following week, my capoeira group performed for an event at my school. I handed my camera to a friend, who enthusiastically took many pictures–none of which could later be downloaded onto my computer, tech problem #2. This was truly baffling since I’d used that camera, memory card and card reader many times before. Overuse in the form of “corrupt files” was probably the problem.
First, I took the memory card in and had the files transfered to a USB. Well, the USB didn’t have enough space for all the pictures (#3). So, I bought a new memory card although the person didn’t think that the old one was corrupted. When I got home, I put the new memory card into the card reader and it still didn’t work(#4).
So, the second trip I took to the camera place, I took the new memory card and the card reader. Another guy helped me. Not only could he not see the pictures on the new memory card, but he didn’t think the card reader had any problems(#5).
Today, I’m taking in both old and new memory cards, the card reader and the netbook. I’m not taking any chances this time. I’ve learned my lesson: never presume where the technological breakdown is occurring.
This past Thursday morning, we had a tornado drill and I had to usher all my students into the hallway. I grabbed my personal possessions, including to my work-issued laptop that could connect to the internet wirelessly. I figured even if a tornado came, I’d still have to write my finals, right?
I braced myself psychologically for the internet going down. I planned to work on my finals while babysitting my students out in the hallway with the other teachers and their classes. Miraculously, the tornado never hit us and the internet never went down. After teaching in Tegucigalpa, Honduras for three years, where the internet went down more often than a $20 hooker, I superstitously believe that any change in weather will interrupt service.
Once the tornado drill was over and we returned to the classroom, I had the brilliant insight that technological problems where like tornadoes in that you never can predict where and when one was going to hit. All you could do was brace yourself and bravely see it through.
