beginnings

My parents were both born in 1952 in north Mississippi-- Dad in Booneville, a town so small it had a negative population count, sustained only by the small junior college it held. Mom was born in... well, I don't know where. New Albany I think. They moved around a lot: New Albany, Memphis, Tupelo, etc. I know she graduated from high school in New Albany, the kind of place that has one main street downtown, with one jewelry store, one clothing store, one dry goods store, where people still park their cars on the double yellow line in the middle because that's where the horse hitching posts used to be. She had a segregated prom-- that was the last year before her high school was integrated. It's about thirty minutes from Booneville down a windy dirt road. There's an ostrich and emu farm on that road, now paved, and we used to beg to take that route when we would travel from New Albany, where my dad's grandmother lived until her death at age 97, to Booneville where my dad's mom lived until she remarried in her 70s. They met at that small junior college-- he played trumpet in the band and she twirled a riffle. They came to Ole Miss together too, and married right after graduation. 

My roots are here. I got interested in genealogy this summer and traced both sides back as far as I could. We moved to Mississippi early on, with most of my ancestors arriving here in the late 1700s and early 1800s. Too poor to care about the civil war for the most part, we were farmers in Kosciusko, Tallahatchie, New Albany, Greenwood. There's only so much you can tell from a name, place, and a couple dates in a census record. I want to know why those people chose this place, what kept them here, what their dreams and goals were, if they would be proud or ashamed of the prosperous yet disconnected life we seem to lead now. There's something to be said for working the earth, putting your heart and soul and blood into farming, growing your own sustenance, living for only yourself and your family. I think of them as if they lived in a Faulkner novel. He wrote about this area, grew up about 10 miles from here. Dirty, shoeless, full of fire and life, hard working and street (or dirt road) smart. Is that really the way they were? 

My dad's grandparents eloped to Blue Mountain and got married in the road in the middle of the night. His family didn't like her family; she had money and he didn't. But it was love, and they stayed together over 50 years until he died two years after my birth. She lived 20 more and died a few weeks before her 98th birthday. She was a strong, fiery, fearless, and brave woman; she told you exactly what she thought and made it known who was in charge. But she was kind too. And boy could she cook. She had a hard life, losing one of her children very early, struggling to make it during the Depression years. My great-grandfather was a spitfire kind of guy too, so I hear, a small man with a big personality. I imagine that they were a lot like the ancestors I try to imagine. Country, uneducated but smart nonetheless, industrious and vivacious, ready to take on the challenges thrown their way and knowing how to celebrate the victories or mourn the losses while keeping their feet firmly on the dirt. I try to remember my granny and try to emulate her in the difficult points in my life. There are only maybe 6 people who really had a hand in making me who I am today, and she's one of them. 

birdfeeder

They always say, "write about what you know." What do I know? I know my life. But my life has to be boring to other people. Nothing interesting happens. Any insights I gain are gone the second after I realize them-- my brain is too active and too forgetful. (See, I lost my train of thought right then too.) I can write about what goes on in my head. How does an introverted, quiet, emotional person like me end up with so many stories playing out in my brain at once and yet find myself completely unable to get them out? At least out entirely. Bits and pieces spill out all the time. 

Today I'm thinking about my new fence. And I'm thinking about the shoes I ordered not showing up yet, and I'm thinking about how my coworker may have just won a sweepstakes (seriously) and about how I say seriously entirely too much now and I blame that on Grey's Anatomy. And about how I'm a different person every day, that when yesterday or last week or last year plays out in my head, I see myself from the outside, from a third person perspective, like I'm watching myself do things that I actually did. Do other people do this? It makes me feel like I was never actually myself except in this very moment. Otherwise I live in the air somewhere above and behind my head. I have pretty hair. 

I had a point to this post, but I've long ago lost it. 

There were some pretty birds on my bird feeder this morning. I'm kind of scared of birds, but I enjoy watching them from the safety of my breakfast room window. There was a Carolina Chickadee, cute bandit-masked little birds that always come in pairs or threes and hop around on my deck like happy little puffs of feathers. 

And there was a Tufted Titmouse, which are my favorite and not just because of their name. Grey clingers, with a funny grey crest (or tuft) on the top of their heads, they attach themselves sideways to the feeder pole and quickly dart their heads back and forth, shaking the tuft all around. 

There was a new one today. I couldn't tell if it was a Pine Warbler or a Goldfinch with its duller winter plumage. It ate its fill, sitting in one spot on the feeder for at least ten minutes, nibbling and pecking away. This is a goldfinch in winter.

I can't wait for spring, when we get even brighter birds among the titmice and chickadees, like Summer Tanagers and Bluebirds. Yesterday was 75 outside, today is 45. February is hard, like living on the cusp of happiness.

One of my favorite songs here, seems to always make me cry when he talks about his conversation with his dad, and the lyrics that start "once in a while, when it's good..."-- used to feel that way, good, when my grandfather was still alive, but now it never feels quite right. It's hard to feel like everything is ok when he's gone and grandmom is in a nursing home and doesn't always remember us. I feel like I'm living a different life now, like there was this line drawn between Then and Now, That and This, and I don't remember it being drawn and yet there it is, not letting me get back to Then and That. I'm afraid that bigger and bigger lines will be drawn as time passes. I can't seem to reconcile that in my head, that I was the same person then, that I will always be me and this will be my life even without my grandfather, without my parents, without my husband. I need a constant and I'm not enough.

Anyway, enjoy the song. He's an amazing writer and musician, very undervalued I think.

I'm in an argument right now, and frankly I'm mad. I don't do confrontation well. In fact, I tend to avoid it, even if it means walking three blocks out of the way or smiling through gritted teeth and causing myself TMJ pains. My husband is an arguer, a devil's advocate born and raised, but he knows not to mess with me (I cry, and he hates that), so it's not with him I'm arguing.

Someone told me that America and Americans suck, that we're all arrogantly insisting on some sort of extravagant lifestyle, the rest of the world be damned, and that we should expect the rest of the world to hate us as long as we're like this. 

First of all, those sort of all-or-nothing statements are rarely if ever true, especially not with a population of 300 million. All Americans are not all anything. We're as diverse as the population of the whole world.

My point was that I shouldn't be judged for the action of my country, that I should only be judged for my personal actions and choices. This seems very rational and logical to me. Does it not?

I can't help where I was born. I love America and the advantages and privileges it has given me. But I've very conscious of those, and I try my hardest to spread my blessings around. That's all anyone can ask of one person I think-- to live a thoughtful, charitable, and peaceful life. If we all did that, think of how the world would be.

I guess her point is that America is a terrible place full of self-absorbed people, which if all you have to go by is tv would appear true. But once you get in here and meet real people, I don't see how you could still think that. Yes, America has made a lot of mistakes (A LOT), but I can't fix past mistakes, and I can't right past moral wrongs, and I can't change the minds of an entire 300-million country full of folks. So I live my life to the best of my ability. It seems to me like that should be enough.

Food in the workplace is a bad thing. If someone brings homemade cupcakes, how can you not eat one? You can't say, "Oh, I don't like cupcakes" because who doesn't like cupcakes?? And I've already well-established my love for chocolate, so I can't pull that one. I can't say "oh, I'm watching my weight" because then I get the "but you're thin and perfect" and "look at me, I should be watching MY weight" and "just one won't hurt, they're really good...." No, I'm not trying to diet, I'm just trying not to add. I had mexican for lunch. I love cheese, it's a terrible affliction. So I've sinned for the day. Now I've got homemade chocolate cupcakes with sprinkles staring me in the face, and coworkers ohhing and awwing about how yummy they are, tempting me to eat one, devour one, smother myself in one, bathe in one... I love chocolate. Did I mention that already?

There were donuts here yesterday, and store bought things are just as bad as homemade, because then not only did someone put thought into bringing something nice into the office, they put hard-earned money into it too. I managed to only eat half a donut and threw the rest away while no one was looking. That's a lie, I ate 2/3rds. Or 3/4ths. But not the whole thing!

I should bring something healthy in, something like carrots and humus. I don't think I'd get quite the same reaction as chocolate cupcakes and donuts though.

The office has declared me the Queen of Bullshit, by the way. I end up doing a lot of the emailing to our clients, so I often have to side-step sensitive issues, dance around the real questions, and be vague while at the same time direct. I'm pretty good at it. So good, in fact, that I do it to myself when I lie about how much of a donut I ate. It was all but a bite. Like that last bite was really going to matter.

Fuck it, I'm eating a cupcake. I'll just go for a walk. Or I may be bullshitting, you'll never know. And neither will I.

I love listening to NPR. It's the only station programmed in my car other than one easy listening station to which I tune when I need a little pick me up after a particularly sad story. On All Things Considered they've recently asked people to write essays on personal beliefs called "This I Believe." No, I didn't write one. I feel like my blog is a continual "this I believe" statement. But the other night they read one that really connected with me, and surprisingly (or not) it was written by a fellow Southerner, a community college teacher from Selma, Alabama. It could have been written by me. It's not exactly positive or uplifting. There is no flowery language or sugar coating. I want to find this woman and thank her, especially for the words about her father raging against the dying of the light, because that's what my grandfather did as well. And my grandfather taught me steeliness too, which helps me get through the tough days. 

I'm going to post the whole text here, as well as link to it, because I want to know that I have this somewhere saved so I can read it again even if NPR takes it down and the link is broken. So here it is:

By Kendra Jones, How to Survive Life's Tests: This I Believe

"I believe in toughness, steeliness and even meanness.

I learned these traits from my father. Toughness came first. I am the first-born and the son he never had. I'm the one he took to the gym, the one who could run faster than the boys, the one who played all day with a broken collarbone. I'm the one who thought my daddy was the toughest man around — and I wanted to be just like him. He never missed a day of school, worked as a dishwasher to pay his college tuition, and toiled as an accountant by day and attended law school at night.

My dad also taught me steeliness, an unwillingness to surrender. Steeliness kept me from being raped once. I fought my attacker. I left an imprint of my phone on his face. I memorized details of his face and clothing. Determined to keep other women from being violated, I identified him, testified against him and made sure he went to jail.

Sometimes even toughness and steeliness aren't enough. I also believe in meanness.

I am not a large woman; petite, in fact. I cannot command respect with my presence and stature. As a community college English instructor in a tough town, I teach people who aren't always eager to learn. I'm the mean teacher. I like to push students harder than they want to be pushed. Some of them don't like me at the time, but they usually end up appreciating me later on. "Hate me now, love me later" is my motto.

I'm even mean with myself. Sometimes it's meanness that gets me out of bed in the morning, like after a night of drinking too much. I'm not nice to myself — I don't give myself permission to stay home. Some of my best teaching days have been the result of my refusal to make others suffer for my poor self-discipline. Meanness with myself keeps me accountable.

That tough and steely will my father gave me helps me bear the loss of him. I watched him die of cancer, but he never gave up on wanting to live. Perhaps it would have been easier on both him and the family had he given in to death, had he not fought to the absolute last breath. Although I do not have him in my life anymore, I got to see him as himself to the very end of his. I understand the poet Dylan Thomas, who pleads with his own father to "rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Women are usually encouraged to be gentle. But when life has tested me the most, I believe it's my toughness, my steeliness and even my meanness that get me through."

Independently produced for All Things Considered by Jay Allison and Dan Gediman with John Gregory and Viki Merrick.

boycott

I hate Valentine's Day. I think it's a stupid, consumer-driven, Hallmark-created, pointless "holiday" where people who are single feel lonely and depressed, people who are unhappily coupled feel even worse than usual, and those of us who are happily coupled experience performance pressure and the need to buy crap. 

I'm boycotting Valentine's Day, because every day should be Valentine's-- we should always tell those we love how we feel, and we should always strive to do special things for the important people in our lives. But I'm also boycotting because all the years I spent single and alone and all the years I spent with someone and yet still somehow alone on this "day of love" aren't made up for by the happy ones I have now. They still exist in my memory, as spotty as it is sometimes. 

Well, I bought a card for my husband. I'm not a very good boycotter, even though I try to boycott a lot of things. I'm only even a pesco-vegetarian, couldn't even go all the way there. Oh well. 

I don't know why I'm ranting about this. I actually don't care very much. Just left-over disappointments trying to bubble up to the surface and sabotage me. I'm feeling very loved lately. I have an amazing husband who still adores me even after living with me for over three years, but it's not that cheesy buy-me-roses-and-chocolates and rub-my-feet adoring kind of love. It's subtle, like the way I catch him smiling at me for 

no reason, the way he always remembers to kiss me goodbye, and the way he emails me a couple times a day, even if he has nothing important to say.

If I had to pick a feeling right now to write down as My Feeling for Monday, February 9th, 2009, it would be Loved. That's pretty nice, isn't it? 

The weeks seem to go by so quickly now, quicker than I ever remember, and I used to worry about that, that time seemed to be speeding up as I aged, but for some reason lately I'm not worried about it, not as much, and I actually feel this urge to push time on, like I'm reaching for something, impatiently waiting for something to happen, something good, maybe something that will make it stop or at least slow down again, or something worth pushing past all this time at least. Baseball season? Warmer weather? Summer? something out there is making me want to push through days, one after the other, hardly noticing that they're there until they've passed, Mondays melting into Wednesdays melting into Sundays, all striving towards some unknown and probably unreachable goal. I'm fully conscious of this and how silly it is, that I'm wasting this time moving blindly towards something, I don't even know what, and that I should be savoring each day the way I savor small pieces of bittersweet chocolate. But I still do it, unconsciously I think until at least 5 pm, when I leave work, and I realize that I haven't actually said hello to my day yet, not really, that most of it is gone without me even realizing it was there.

I live for Sundays now. It's my I-don't-have-to-run-day, a la the Bangles, the day that I get to spend on the couch with my husband falling asleep to movies and having someone else bring me food. They're warm and comfortable, like a pair of thick cashmere socks, while weekdays are like hard leather work shoes-- heels even. 

I'm not stressed and yet I display physical signs of stress-- clenched jaw, painful shoulders, cramped hands. I'll have carpal tunnel by age 30 at this rate. I try deep breathing and yoga but once I'm back in this black pleather chair in front of this screen, my jaw tightens like a vice around my tongue, it telling me to stay focused on my work, forcing me to keep my head turned this way and my words in my mouth. 

The voice inside my head still has a British accent sometimes, especially when I'm sleepy, even though I haven't been in London in over two years now. And sometimes the voice in my head is Lewis Black-- not his voice, but his style, his rants, humor, sarcasm, dejection. That's the voice I don't let make that trip from my brain to my tongue, lest others know the craziness that lives inside my head, a ranting Queens-English speaking wild woman who wants nothing more than for everyone to leave her alone and let everyday be Sunday.

At least I recognized today. Thursday exists today.

busy

Been a busy week. But there isn't a whole lot going on. I feel like I've been in sixth grade again and my English teacher handed the class a stack of worksheets, the kind with no real benefit but that keep the class quiet, in their seats, and busy. I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever see the end of it. I just gave up a minute ago-- I'm done for the day.

Meanwhile my coworker is dealing with a particularly difficult client-- difficult in the sense that they seem to need a lot of hand-holding, lots of direction, and loads of help in making decisions. We're in the process of creating a new logo for their company and are now on the 11th (yes, that's 11th) round of revisions. Our designer is having a bit of a melt-down right now, and she's in there trying to calm him. We usually only have 3 or 4 revisions before we can move on to the website. It's been two months of font choices and color selections and "should that be more orange" and "can we move that there" and "no, back over there." We're all a little fed up. 

We walk a fine line here between client and designer, client and customer, client and webmaster. We're go-betweens. Some things can be said to some and not to others. Everyone has a different style. Which is partly why I tend to stick to the office managing duties-- less contact with the outside world. That can get a little boring sometimes though.

I think we might go bowling this weekend. There's a humane society fundraiser Friday night, an art auction, that should be fun. And we got our taxes done today and are looking at a pretty sizable return. Should pay for half our new backyard fence anyway. So all in all, things are going well.

pressure

I have a charity ball on Valentine's Day, two weeks from yesterday. It's black tie, and I have a dress to wear, a hot little mermaid-green satin number, sweetheart neckline, pencil skirt style bottom. Satin shows EVERYTHING. And being bigger on the bottom than the top by at least a size, I ended up buying the size that fit my chest, thinking I could stretch out the bottom or shrink a couple pounds in time for the party.

Why do women do this to themselves? There's been so much hype lately over Jessica Simpson and her weight-gain. At first I thought, (and I'm being honest here, so don't judge me) "Ugh, how did she let herself blow up like that, gross." And then I cried, angry with myself for thinking that, for that being my first reaction instead of defending her, feeling solidarity, or at least being sympathetic to how hard "staying thin" is. We are SO hard on each other, us women, and so hard on ourselves. 

I hope she stays that size. Looking again, I think she looks healthier than she ever did before. And you know Marilyn Monroe wore a size 14. And she was gorgeous! It was hard to grow up in the eighties, post-Twiggy, supermodels like Cindy Crawford just starting their reign, so much for us to live up to. And it's only harder now, with Lindsey Lohan and Keira Knightley and all the rail-thin celebrities out there. I  mean at least Cindy had boobs. I hope Jessica uses her new beautiful body to inspire young girls to just be themselves, be happy and HEALTHY, not just thin. Thin is not always the best way to be and is not always healthy. 

I wish she could inspire me. But I'm probably going to continue eating less than usual for the next two weeks anyway. Why? My husband loves me no matter what, and he says I'm the most beautiful naked, completely free of any and all help I could get from clothing. It's about feeling sexy though, and I haven't felt that way lately. It's internal. I don't know how to fix that. I'm not starving myself, not by any means. But I did have a few less fries with my veggie burger last night than I really wanted. I can't decide if that's a bad thing or not, if it's anti-feminist or anti-me. But at least I'm conscious that it could be. Being conscious of it keeps me from slipping further into that eating disorder cycle, which let's face it, is so readily encouraged by our media and society today, despite the claims that it's not.