Corners...

Have you ever felt that you were backed in a corner and the only way that you could get out is to fight your way out? That is how I have been feeling a couple of situations in my life. My husband and I lived with his parents for about two years and recently (in Feb.) moved out of their house into our “own” small apartment. We chose a location that was semi close to I-10 but also gave us easy access to the U of A since I am going to school there. I wanted it to be close enough that I could ride my bike or take the bus (without having a ride that takes more than 30 minutes). We were in heaven… for about 4.5 weeks.


Then other people in my life made choices. These choices were careless and selfish and had reverberating affects on many people. So, after talking with my husband and attempting to convince him that it is okay for us to be selfish in this aspect, I was overruled (he is the sweetest, most caring, generous person that I know). The day after my 27th birthday, my husband and I became the "helpers." Happy birthday to me. Not really. More like goodbye freedom. Hello cigarette smoke. Hello confinement. Hello craziness.

The problem is that we can't just give up on family, we must stick by them and be there even when it is hard and frustrating and we're hanging on to the knot we tied at the end of our rope of patience. But the other problem is that I am barely hanging on to that rope but I feel like there is nothing I can do about it. I have never been on this side of the situation (before it was my in-laws letting my husband and me stay with them while I was recovering from Vally Fever and then letting us stay a little longer while we caught up on bills that had accumulated from the treatment). So, being the one that is the "helper" is different for me. AND HARDER. Which explains why I feel backed into a corner!

Anyone been in this type of situation before? How did you cope?

Overreaction

I totally overreacted when I wrote about how I thought people were going to react to my new hair style. Everyone loves it (or they just used the ‘if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all’ rule!) Including the kids at my job. I was “amping” myself up thinking I was going to have to defend my sexuality or femininity and I didn’t have to. The only thing the kids asked was why I would cut all of my hair off. Then I had to explain to them that the braids were not my real hair, they were kind of like extensions (meaning that I attach them to my real hair, not that they are my real hair). They looked a little confused still, but a little later one of the kids asked what extensions are.

So I said,“ Remember in elementary school when you and your friends would get that string tied around your hair? It had all kinds of colors and you and your friends, or people you saw had it so that their hair was the same? It’s like that. The ‘extra’ hair is separate and I just attach it.”
For some reason, that explanation made much more sense. So if you’re ever in a position where you need to explain what braided extensions are, you can just use that example. I’m letting you have it and take all the credit for it… no charge.

I said all this to say that I got all worked about my hair for nothing. It’s been a pretty decent week.

Phenomenal Woman

So, I finally did it. I took out my braids and cut my hair. It feels so nice. And, surprisingly enough, Wes (my husband) likes it too. I can stand on my own two feet and am pretty confident that his dislike of my hair wouldn’t’ve changed how I see myself.

Though it may not be a big deal at all I will be honest and say that I am a little nervous about going to work and school tomorrow. I will notice the way that people look at me. I will more than likely assume they are sizing me up and maybe even judging me for the way that my hair looks. When I had my hair super short before, in high school, my older sister told me that I need to make sure to dress feminine and never, ever, EVER wear rainbows. Alhtough I love rainbows and the promise of God that they represent (that He would never flood the earth again) I stayed away. That was then and this is now.

I am preparing myself. And when I begin to feel the least bit self conscious, I will remember that I am wonderfully and fearfully made. I will also remember that poem by Maya Angelou:

Phenomenal Woman
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman.
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I’m a woman.
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
They say they still can’t see.
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman.
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman.
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
The palm of my hand,
The need for my care.
‘Cause I’m a woman.
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman.
That’s me.

Quitting

I recently came to the realization that I am totally failing my math class. And I am now fighting with myself so that I don’t quit. I am taking the class again in the summer, but I still have a couple of weeks left of this one. The problem is (that against my better judgment) I am throwing in the towel for the class that I am currently in. I feel like I am quitting. I know that I am quitting. I don’t want to quit.

I have worked really hard to understand the concepts but the results are not showing up when I take the exams. I’ve done all of the homework. I have joined a study group. I have swallowed my pride and asked my super smart husband for help (even though it kills me when he gives me that look that says “You should know this”); I have purchased “Calculus for Dummies” and “Calculus Know-It-All” books. I AM STILL FAILING!!!

I subscribe to this website that sends out weekly or biweekly inspirational quotes. Amazingly enough, all of the quotes this week were about refusing to quit.

“When you feel like giving up, remember why you held on so long in the first place.”
“Perseverance is a great element of success. If you knock long enough and loud enough at the gate, you are sure to wake up somebody.” – Rudy Ruettiger
“Never give up on something that you can’t go a day without thinking about.”

What Memory?

One Sunday a minister in a small, pious community decided to play hooky from church and go golfing instead. He was afraid of being caught, so he changed out of his Sunday clothes, put on sunglasses and a hat, and quietly slipped out the back door of the church.

As he drove to the golf course, the voice of God spoke to him. God warned the minister that if he played golf on the Sabbath he’d be cursed. But the minister had made up his mind and went anyway.

The minister got his first hole and hit the ball. It sailed all the way to the green and bounced in for a hole-in-one.

“Incredible!” shouted the minister.
He went to the next hole and hit another hole-in-one.
“Fantastic!” cried the minister.

The exact same thing happened on all eighteen holes. “A perfect game!” the minister shouted. As he carried his clubs back to his car he looked to heaven and said, “God, I thought you said you were going to curse me. Instead I shot the best game in history!”

Yes,” replied God. “But who are you going to tell?”

Ever felt this way? I read this short little joke in a novel that I’ve been reading -“Grace” by Richard Paul Evans- and I’ve been trying to think of a time that I’ve felt this way. Blank. That’s what keeps happening in my mind when I try to jog my memory. What the frickin’ heck?

27

I’ve told a few stories about the kids at the school I work at being surprised that my husband is white but yesterday, a couple of kids were surprised that I was married at all! So, we were talking about how the choices we make affect us long after we do the thing that we wanted to do. That we have to “suffer” the consequences whether good or bad (we were having a really good talk if you ask me).

Then, inevitably, the conversation took a downward spiral to the topic of drugs and the way they can make a person feel. Alcohol and how it burns all the way down.

“Mrs. Sam, what’s your favorite drink?” asks the student.
“None of them. I hate the way that alcohol tastes.”
“What?! You just haven’t had the right ones. You have to get a fruity drink.”
“Ya. But I can still smell the alcohol, which means that I can still taste the alcohol. I personally prefer to do things that I like to do so since I don’t like the taste of alcohol, there is no reason for me to keep trying.” I say.
“So, then, your first experience was sex was good one?” asks the student, “Wait, you have had sex before, right Mrs. Sam?”
“I’m married.”
“You’re married? How can you be married when you’re only a few years older than me?” What the heck?
“Ummm. I’m 27. So I am more than a few years older than you.”

I think that the students sometimes think that I am younger than I really am because when I tell them that I have never smoked a cigarette- or anything else for that matter- and that I have never been drunk, they just assume that I must be younger than my years since everyone gets drunk on their 21st birthday! And since they don’t have anyone in their lives who chooses to be above the influence of drugs and alcohol, they assume that people don’t truly live sober lives- that’s just a lie that grown-ups tell them so the teens won’t have any fun.

Makes me sad…

Why?!

Okay, so I have to get off topic for just a minute. Why is it that women, no matter the size, feel the need to wear short shorts and skirts as soon as the temperature begins to creep up? I’m not just talking about us bigger girls either.

Today, while I was out with my husband I witnessed two atrocities: the first one was a bigger girl with booty shorts on (and yes, I saw her booty). The other was a skinny girl with short shorts on but this girl had more cellulite than the bigger girl! All I could ask is, “Why?”

Obviously these females were proud of what they have- or what they think they have. But what about the rest of us who have no desire to see all of that? Are they really that selfish?

I have a rule that I don’t even wear shorts because of a strange “creeper” phenomenon: they creep up into the crotch further and further with each step the perpetrator takes. So, I decided that since I can’t wear them the right way, I just won’t wear them at all. I don’t know a better way to address this issue. I am concerned for these women who have no sense of modesty or decency to know that some stuff should be covered when you walk out the house.

My grandma gave me a good piece of advice to tell the kids at school: When you walk out the house, make sure that you’ve covered the three Bs- your Boobs, your Butt and your Belly! And if it doesn’t bother you, at least think about the rest of us!!!

Don't Be a Fool...

I was having a discussion with someone from one of my classes when she asked me an important question. Do I think that someone saying to another person that so and so is my nigga is offensive? My response, “Heck yes!”

Why? Because in my own opinion, calling someone a nigga or nigger or beaner or wetback- or any of those other words that can be heard flying around throughout the day- is a bash on their character, intelligence and who these people are in general. I am not sure that I know the connotations of the words beaner and wetback, but I do know that nigger is a word that was used in the slave days to dehumanize the Africans that were brought to America and sold as slaves. The slave holders did whatever they could to make it seem like these people were not people. There were laws that stated a slave only counted as 2/3 of a person. This mindset allowed slave owners to treat Africans like animals without thinking twice!

So, for someone to call me their nigga, I’m forced to “let them have it.” I am not ignorant. I know who I am. I know Webster’s definition of the word. And I refuse to be called the ‘n’ word. In response to my classmate’s question: Yes, that word is offensive. And yes, I do consider it to be a form of racism.

Note: Think twice when you are talking to make sure that you are not perpetuating ignorance by the mere act of opening your mouth and allowing unintelligent words and generalizations to spring forth.