Out On A Limb

One of the prompts for the third of our four essays due in writing class, was to write about where you're from and who you are, and to answer questions such as:

How one perceives oneself within and outside of a community and culture. How have you dealt with assumptions about each culture? What assumptions do people have about you? How have you handled these situations?  To what extent have you embraced or resisted stereotypes?

Well, it's kind of a no-brainer, this prompt.  Obviously, I could write about being a black gay girl in a straight white world--but I really didn't want to.  I desperately wanted to write about something 'more upbeat.'  On the day that we spent time in class brainstorming our topics, I made the mistake of mentioning my dilemma to a classmate:

As I attempted to express my frustration with the demographic make up of my home town, my classmate hastened to reassure me by saying how much worse things were in her home town in the Midwest, where 'the N word' can still be heard on a regular basis.  I took a deep breath, and tried to explain to her, the subtle forms of racism which are not necessarily any easier to deal with, precisely because they can be so hard to pin down. “You know, I've heard that from other people,” she replied.
    I ended the conversation at that point, before I officially became the 'angry black girl.'  Her response was a red flag to me that those 'other people' were most likely people of color.  It is common for people in a dominant group to not actually hear something that is said about their privilege, unless it is coming from someone in their group.  If my classmate had actually internalized what those 'other people' had told her, perhaps she would not now be responding to my experience by telling me how grateful I should be that things are 'so good in Portland,' compared to where she is from.  As if Portland had figured it all out, despite having a history of racist laws in the Oregon constitution until 1959.  Her comment was completely inappropriate, for the same reason it would be unseemly to suggest to a paraplegic  that they should be grateful they're not a quadriplegic. 

Well, after that, I really felt like I had to write it, if only to give her a clue, and deal with my frustration.  But now I was pissed off, defensive and wary.  The next class, Joan, the teacher, asked us to go around and share our topics.  I didn't really feel like talking about it at that point, so I just said something vague about 'not fitting in.'

"Oh yes, there's a whole area of research on that," Joan said excitedly. "Outsider/insider syndrome."  She then went on with some story about going to a little town to do research and how she experienced the same thing.  But I wasn't in the mood for "I know just how you feel!" coming from a straight, white, middle class woman just then.  She felt me too, because at the break, she ran right over to me.  "I just wanted to check in--I don't feel like I answered your question."

"I wasn't asking a question." I told her that I was feeling guarded about my topic, and that I wasn't going to workshop it in class.  She panicked then, thinking she'd done something to offend me, so I had to reassure her that it wasn't her. 

I worked on it over the weekend, starting over completely three days before it was due, because the first one had just turned into a rant about everything that had ever pissed me off.  Not very useful.  When I was done, I sent it to my WBPs (Weird Black People's) and they all wrote back with virtual head-nods that yes, I'd gotten it right.

The next class, I pulled S (my new metro straight, white boy-friend who loves the lesbos), and L (the other lesbo in class) into the hall and gave it to them.  "You're the first ones to see this in this class," I told them.

"You're gonna give it to us crackers eh?" S joked.  I wasn't worried though and we ended up meeting after class at Cup and Saucer and they gave me some good grammar feedback, and generally said they loved it.  L kept saying how she wished I was in her diversity class the year before, where all the black people were straight and all the gay people were white.  And one of the black women basically had the attitude of, 'let's take care of us (black folks) and then we'll get to you.'  Yeah, that strategy wouldn't really work for me.

"You need a hotline," I told L, "so you can dial it up when you need a queer person of color to come and call bullshit on everybody.  I'm envisioning a nice outfit with a cape of some sort.  Maybe an invisible plane.  You could have different extensions depending on which race you need."

Before I left, I said, "Now watch, we'll get them back next week and Joan will ask me to read it in class." 

Fast forward to this morning.  I walked in late, and Joan was giving a lecture about run-on sentences.  I guess the latest crop of essays wasn't quite up to snuff in the grammar department.  That got me worried.  Grammar isn't really my best thing, and doing things last-minute doesn't help.  But after her diatribe, she came over and handed me my essay and a quick scan revealed all 4's--her grading system is three numbers from 1-4 for concept, development of idea, and execution.  "Beautiful essay," was her comment.

Well, good, I hadn't twisted my guts out for nothing at least.  But the best was yet to come. 

"I would love to have Dean and Kronda read parts of their essays, if you're willing." She looked at me.

I debated.  S and L, sitting next to me, knew better than to offer advice.  Of course it would suck to sit there and read my angry black girl manifesto to a room full of unknown white people.  But really, why had I written it, if not for this very moment, to call out my well meaning, but clueless classmate and make her listen?  I said yes.

I let Dean go first, enjoying his letter to his 'maybe, someday' child.  Then it was my turn. 

I was expecting it to be challenging, but I hadn't bargained on just how hard it was.  I started crying in the middle of page two and didn't stop until class was over.  Oh, so it's going to be like that eh? Crap. The worst part was when I got to the conversation (quoted above).  I was crying too hard to make sentences anymore and had to stop for a long moment.  I didn't look up, but I could imaging how much discomfort I was causing in the room.  Well, why should I be the only one? I heard Joan start to say something, but I ignored her and continued.  Wow, I guess that really got to me.  I wasn't trying to be a drama queen, and I certainly don't like crying in front of a big group of people staring at me, but it wasn't the first time and it would be over soon. If showing these strangers my pain helped make my point (and got a certain person to listen), then it was worth it.

I settled into an acceptable level of crying that would still allow me to speak, and kept going.  All was well until the very end, when I started choking up again.  Come on, you've only got three sentences, suck it up!  Another long deep breath, and I was done.  I felt like I'd just finished biking up Larch Mountain.

I sat and wiped my face on my sleeve, grateful it was cool enough to warrant long sleeves today.

M, chimed in first.  She was in the workshop group when I refused to talk about it.  But they pestered me, so I told them a little bit, to which she and B (from Forest Grove, a suburb about 30 miles from Portland) replied, "Wow, we never thought of that." Yeah, why would they?  I don't remember exactly what she said, except that it was sweet, that she was thankful that I shared, considering I didn't even want to talk to three people about it, and now I had dismantled myself for the whole class--and she said that "anyone with ears should hear this," which is possibly the nicest compliment on my writing, ever.

Another woman (name forgotten) chimed in with more nice words and said she hopes I find a way to get it published (general consensus).  And Dean, Irish, forceful, loud, all-about-me Dean, complimented the 'quality of the writing' and said my tone was 'just right.'

Joan, who admits she spends hours trying to find just the right words for everything, was amazed that I had written the whole thing in a week (less, really).  "I can't do that.  You have a rare gift."

But the best comment was the one that didn't come: my classmate was silent, and looking *very* pensive, which is exactly what I hoped for.  Maybe she actually listened.  Maybe she'll think twice before she says something stupid to the next black person she meets.  Maybe she finally heard me.  If that's true, then I'll take, 'slicing your heart open and bleeding all over your sleeve,' for the win.

Sylvia Beach Hotel: Day 2

I wish I could wake up every morning and have a buffet and hot breakfast waiting for me downstairs with an ocean view. Perhaps I should hire some elves and borrow Tessa's Endless Beach video.

Despite wanting to get away, it's been very hard for me to unplug completely. Hence I made the mistake of listening to uncle J's belated birthday message and replying by text, after which he immediately called me back. I guess he didn't take my voice mail seriously, in which I specifically say I'm on vacation and won't be returning calls until Wednesday. And why should he, when I'm so clearly chained to the outside world? I guess I need a few more trips here so I can get the hang of it. Of course my girlfriend is exempt from the rules, which is why I even had my phone out in the first place. Next time I go to the beach, she will be with me and then the phone is going into a deep suitcase pocket, never to be seen until check out.

It's funny that with less obligations than ever, I'm also harder to get a hold of than ever. But I'm just so drained from having to be in charge and take care of people and so I've just drawn into a shell to keep away from the people who want things from me.

I've been paper journaling during my stay here at the hotel and I really like it. My hand gets tired, but I need to start doing it again on a regular basis, especially considering my penchant for blank books. I bought another moleskin book, a calendar with notebook pages included for each week. I thought it would be a good paper memory, to make notes about the details of my day, which I tend to forget as soon as a night has passed. The dates will already be in there if I need to remember something about a particular day. We'll see if this new habit can be solidified for the long haul. And maybe it will also keep my frustration level down when I don't have time to write in excruciating detail as I so love to do.

UPDATED, late afternoon:

I was expecting a call from Jess on her lunch break, so I happened to have my phone on again and picked up a text message from my cousin: Aunt Mickey gravely ill, call me or dad. I had a few moments of confusion. Why was my cousin in Portland texting me about my Aunt Mickey in Texas? Reflexively, I hit speed dial and called her. It wasn't until I was on the phone that I figured out that she meant her aunt Mickey...who is my grandmother on my dad's side.

Lee Lee had taken Moms, as we call her, for a routine colonoscopy that morning. Sometime during the procedure, a nurse came out and said that there'd been a complication and they needed to get her to the hospital right away. At the hospital, they found a hole in her colon and it was leaking feces into her abdomen and causing infection. Though the people at the clinic didn't admit to it, it pretty much sounds like they poked a hole in her colon during the procedure and had to rush her to the hospital to fix their mistake.

They were about to take her into surgery but she was unconscious and the prognosis wasn't good. I talked to my dad and he sounded pretty good considering. At least I had time to get used to the idea. I told him we'd be back tomorrow and come to the hospital and he promised to keep me updated.

When we got back to the hotel, I took a quick walk over to Illingsworth Gifts, but they didn't have the stationary I was looking for. They did have truffles so I bought one for each of us in case of midnight chocolate cravings. Then I settled back into the green chair in the library and wrote some more. I meant to plant myself there for the evening, but the sun streaming through the window worked it's magic on me and I decided a short nap might be in order. The only alarm I had was my phone so I went without and hoped I wouldn't sleep the night away.

I woke when I heard Carmen come back to the room. It was just before 7:00. I went back out to my chair and resumed writing. Then Traci came back and she and Carmen started another puzzle, this time a 750 piece panorama of Times Square.

I couldn't resist. Before you could say, “pass me that edge piece,” I was fully sucked into the puzzle madness. In fact I ended up in charge of the top and side edges, while Carmen searched obsessively for the faces of Beyonce and Jessica Alba and Traci put together the words 'Times Square” and a description of the photo on the bottom.

We only stopped because we had to go get dinner before the restaurants closed. The desk attendant had recommended Local Ocean seafood as a good place that was near but just beyond the main tourist drag. Our waitress was slow but eager and friendly (in fact her slowness stemmed in part from her friendliness) and the crab cakes were excellent.

Back at home, Carmen bailed out of the puzzle about midway and then Traci abandoned me near the end. I should have stopped and gone back to writing but I was too close to finishing. The last sections were mostly a sea of almost solid black that proved tricky but I developed a system of separating all the pieces by shape and pulling from the appropriate shape pile in turn. I finished around midnight with three pieces missing, but still satisfied.

I went to put on my pajamas before I went back to writing and was informed by Traci that we had a visitor. Dickens the cat had taken residence on my bed. I was thrilled. I went back to my library chair but when I turned in around 2:00am, he was still there, curled at the end of my bunk. I carefully pried the covers back just enough to shove myself in. There was room for one leg to straighten out against the wall and the other I tucked up against my chest. After about 10 minutes of kneading my leg, he settled back down and went to sleep. Squishing myself around to accommodate an arrogant cat...it felt just like home.

Sylvia Beach Hotel: Day 1

Back at the Sylvia Beach Hotel for some uninterrupted writing time. We got out of town a little after noon today. We had to take my car, but Traci came along unexpectedly so I made her drive while I could finish my book (Blood Bound, by Patricia Higgins). It's been almost physically painful not just being able to finish it in one long session. I miss the days when I could just put everything off but eating and sleeping until I was finished with a good book. I got through Fried Green Tomatoes in one day that way, the same day I saw the movie and found out there even was a book. The book was better of course.

We grabbed some lunch at the Chowder Bowl one block over from the hotel. It's nice being out with meat eaters and not having to think too much about the restaurants we go to. I ordered Slumgolian Chowder, which doesn't sound like anything you should ever put in your mouth, but is really just chowder with a bunch of baby shrimp in it. The waitress couldn't tell me why it's named that though. It didn't matter because it came out piled with shrimp and a pat of butter on top! What could be better?

UPDATED 12:41am:

We had a fabulous dinner tonight with MUCH better company than the last time I was here with Jess. Carmen opted out of dinner for tonight so Traci and I went together. At our table was a couple who lived just up the street, Jim and Pam. They appeared to be in their 60's at least and seemed like a really happy, very romantic couple. His parents had gotten them a gift certificate for dinner. Gay (yes, that was really her name) and John were a mother/son pair from Portland. John is a theatre director who helped start the NW Children's Theatre and then went his separate way to start something new more recently. Because the theatre community is so tiny, he knew my friend Adrienne, who now runs the Interstate Firehouse Cultural Center. John also asked about the last production I saw Adrienne in at the Coho theater, written by Dan, another high school friend who is now living and writing plays in New York. I couldn't remember the name of the play to save my life (until 30 minutes later, when I suddenly blurted "Jingle Spree!" into a conversational pause, causing John and my sister to look at me at first, oddly and then with knowing expressions), but after a brief plot synopsis, John remembered the play.

Randi is a judge from Cleveland who was visiting with her mother Rita. They're staying in the Agatha Christie room and found SBH through the booklet on 1000 places to see before you die. Everyone seemed very nice and told interesting stories. Rita and Traci found quite a few favorite Columbus restaurants they had in common, proving once again that it's a small world.

Most of our table was game for the two truths and a lie game and we had a lot of fun once we got going. Pam was especially good at grilling people with pointed questions that made me sweat when it was my turn. I started to ramble out of nervousness and was sure I'd given myself away but I fooled a couple of people. My statements were that I rode my bike from Seattle to Portland twice, I performed on stage with Ani Difranco and that I had bungee jumped from a hot air balloon. Pam asked me how the balloon was anchored, which was one of the questions that got me in trouble. I have been bungee jumping, just not from a hot air balloon, though I've heard it's been done.

Other people were quite clever with their lies and it was fun questioning them. I was kind of jealous that everyone at the table seemed to still have parents, or at least the parent they liked best to travel with. I wonder what it would have been like to still have a mom in my 60's. I'm trying not to dwell on how many long years I'm going to be without a mom—assuming I live that long. Sometimes, I still can't believe she left us.