Since leaving the phone company for a job that paid quite a bit less, I have refrained from buying Christmas gifts for the most part. This makes things easier for me, in one sense, but also more difficult.

The thing is, I LOVE to buy gifts for people. I think that my “love language” is giving gifts (for receiving, it’s acts of service). I delight in shopping and love to find the perfect item for someone. I am really GOOD at shopping.

But I also embrace any movement that shifts us back to less commercialism (if not more togetherness–I think I have enough togetherness, thank you!) and so there’s my dilemma. If I came into a lot of money, I think I would be eager to shower those I love with gifts, and yet, I have waged war with clutter and the last thing I want to do is to bog others down with non-useful stuff.

I don’t know that this will be a gift-less Christmas . . . but I hope that when I do choose to give a few gifts, that I will do it with wisdom and some semblance of restraint.

Even so, come, Lord Jesus.

So yes, it’s still my favorite movie, and yes, I am excited to see it on the big screen next month!

But I was reminded again today of how insidiously racism has been woven into the fabric of our nation . . . and how easy it is for us in the 21st century to remain ignorant of our nation’s history . . .

Here’s an excerpt from the book  1904 World’s Fair: The Filipino Experience by Jose D. Fermin:

A driving force behind the 1904 fair, as well as with other major U.S. expositions during this approximate period, was America’s belief in the racial superiority of whites over darker peoples. By publicizing the supposed backwardness of nonwhite races for all the world to see, the 1904 fair organizers were able to translate the United States’s national and global accomplishments into grounds for acknowledging the transcendance of Caucasian races over their “colored” counterparts. Fermin writes in his book that “In measuring their technological achievements and national progress against those of other nations, Americans laced the fairs with racism.” Hence, they “considered themselves above the nonwhite peoples of the world and regarded them with a negative and demeaning attitude.”

It’s true that these “expeditions” were meant to showcase the best of the USA, and to foster pride in our nation, but even admirable steps (like the film at the 1964 World’s Fair, To Be Alive!) were hardly enough to erase a few hundred years’ worth of negative stereotyping.

(Ah . . . interestingly, the 1964 fair in NY was not an “official” World’s Fair. who knew?! It also seems like it was bogged down by lots of bureaucracy. In NYC?! no way!!!)

So what do you think? Were you aware of the history behind the 1904 World’s Fair? Is there something else you learned in school that you have since learned was wrong? (hint: the answer to that last question is “yes”–and if it’s not, then you just haven’t explored enough just yet!)

Still doing the “lazy blogger” thing . . .

but I recommend that you watch this video . . . or this one.  (I can’t embed here, unfortunately.)

or if you want more information, you can read this.

So was any of this a surprise to you? thoughts?

Okay, I’m not going to add much commentary on this, but you should definitely read this.

You know how I get about non-blonde dolls in general, so of course I agree wholeheartedly with this blogger.

but I have been thinking a lot about gratitude lately. I suppose it would be more accurate to say that I have been TRYING to be grateful for what I have, rather than being bogged down by what I don’t have.

However, I’m pretty sure I’m not a natural optimist, and it’s hard to not pull a “the good news is . . . the bad news is . . . ” about everything in my life.

Let’s look at my job, for example.

The good news is . . . I have a job. It pays decently enough, too. Michigan is up to like a 15% unemployment rate or something insane like that, so I need to be grateful, right?

The less-than-good-news is that I am incredibly dissatisfied with my job . . . feel so “under-employed” and under-utilized . . . feel like I still haven’t figured out “what I’m going to be when I grow up”.

The good-ish news is that things are super-busy at work these days, which at least distracts me enough that it will make the next several months bearable.

The bad news is that when my boss returns from her maternity leave, I will go “backwards” in the sense that I will lose some of the autonomy that I have at the moment. I know that this is going to be difficult for me.

The other bad news is that my workload right now is almost unbearable, and I have less support in some ways than I would under “normal” circumstances.

The “not-sure-yet” news is that my boss has not made a final decision on whether she is returning to work at all. This could be Really Bad News, or “just news”, depending upon who is replacing her. Either way, it puts me in an uncomfortable position yet again.

The “jury is still out” news is that if she doesn’t come back, her job will then be posted. Not a job I ever thought I’d want, but since there are so few openings that come up in my organization, I should at least consider it.

The bad news is that it’s entirely possible that my employer has so little confidence in me that they would never even consider me for the position.

That’s the work realm–I could go on, but hopefully you get the idea.

And then there’s my car . . .

The good news:

My car has lasted this long, against all odds. (I have a loose “control arm” right now . . . when the other one went, it sort of snapped–with me being one-legged, I know that it is only by the grace of God that it has held out as long as it has.)

I “just about” have the money right now to get it fixed.

The bad news:

This poor, beat-up vehicle is not going to last forever. This repair makes sense, at least for now, but if more things break down on the car, it’s going to be less and less worth repairing. And I can’t afford a car payment.

The “it’s probably my own fault” news:

The poor car is dented, scratched, and bruised in a variety of places . . . mostly due to my carelessness. So do I have a right to be unhappy about the state my car is in when it’s my own “fault” that the car is in the shape it is?

And couldn’t it be said that most of my life is “my own fault”, in a sense?

But back to the gratitude thing . . . I guess . . . that I am trying to see the bright side of things, to count my blessings, to not focus so much on the negative. But the fact remains that my life just kind of sucks, and that it’s been a long time since I’ve seen any real changes in the opposite direction.

I’m known for throwing myself lavish pity parties, and so I try to fight against that. But couldn’t it just be possible that I’m merely stating facts, that my life truly DOES kind of suck?

really, I am . . . I am constantly blogging inside my head . . . in traffic, in the shower, as I go about my day, while I’m watching Little House on the Prairie (not kidding about that last one!) . . .

but somehow, these entries don’t make it to the screen, or they are doomed to live out their days as a draft, waiting to be perfected before I hit “publish”.

Blogging was supposed to help me with my chronic lack of discipline when it comes to writing, and it worked for a while, but then . . . I don’t know. Life happened. I’ve been wrestling with sickness both in my body and my soul. The words are there, but they refuse to break forth . . .

but I need to do something about this. because can I really call myself a writer if I never write?

(I am participating in Project 2996. Follow the link to find other stories, or to help out with a tribute.)

It is right that we remember those who lost their lives on this day. Their death has had a huge impact on so many of us. But when I heard about this project, I felt strongly compelled to write about the “other” victims–better labelled as “survivors” . . . because they outnumber those we’ve lost, and yet we seem to sometimes forget about the ones that still live in the shadow of that day.

A friend of mine has posted several reflections on his experiences on and after that day. You can find his story here. I should warn you that it is NOT light reading, but maybe after reading it, you will better understand my frustration with those who seek to appropriate this day, with patriotic song-fests instead of solemn vigils, and with no-clue tourists who see “Ground Zero” as just another site on their list of  ”things to do in NYC”.

(I know, I know . . . not every person who didn’t live in close proximity to NYC,  DC, or PA on that day deserves the “no-clue tourists” label–but there are some that do, and it is in large part for those people that I am writing this post.)

My friend Ken’s story is just one of thousands upon thousands. I have other friends whose lives were profoundly shaken by what they witnessed on that day,  and know others still who waited in vain for someone (or several someones, or MANY someones) they loved to come home.

If *I* (and I consider myself “lucky” to have experienced relatively few losses on that day) wince at commercials for a movie that “opens September 11th!”, and shy away from hosting a Tupperware party on this date because somehow that level of enthusiasm seemed horribly disrespectful to me (let alone the people in 2005 who chose that as their WEDDING date), then what do these reminders, myriad and subtle, do to someone who lost loved ones on this day eight years ago?

What does it feel like to those who walked down 84 or 52 or 12 or 112 flights of stairs and whose lives were spared, to those who made their way home through clouds of smoke and stench, or who watched, helpless and numb, from across the river as the towers fell?

Or what does it feel like to be the main character in one of those wonderful-yet-horrible stories of  ”fate/luck” survival . . . like the friend-of-a-friend who overslept and was late to his job (at Cantor Fitzgerald) because he had attended a Michael Jackson concert the night before?

Or what is this day like for those who are watching their family members and fellow employees who are succumbing to  illnesses that are clearly related to their rescue work at the site? How do they feel about people coming and gawking at the empty hole where their own lives started to end?

Yes, I am willing to acknowledge that we were all changed on that day, but for some, this day is only sad in the way a celebrity’s death is sad . . . when you hear it on the news, you feel that sadness for a moment, but then you move on. For others, though, it is embedded deep within them, as if the smells and sights and sounds of that day have been embedded into their psyche.

It is these survivors that I want to pay tribute to today.

Yes, life goes on, and I don’t mean to suggest that we should curl up in a ball and stop living . . . those who have survived that day certainly haven’t done that, though they would have every reason to.

I just ask that we remember those whose hearts are raw today in a way that those of us who haven’t lived it can’t understand, and that those of us who are hundreds or thousands of miles away from the eye of this storm stop to remember and to reflect upon the damage that this storm left in its wake.

To do so is to honor the memory of those who live on, as well as those who were lost on this day.

Add this to the list of things that I was oblivious to in the past, but am becoming painfully aware of now . . .

I absolutely LOVED this movie when it first came out. From the amazing, Lorraine-esque skirt that she wears in the opening scene, to the fabulous blues club scene, to my favorite line ever, “Don’t F$#% with the babysitter!“, it has always been a favorite of mine.

But in watching it (okay, I confess, twice in the last couple of weeks), I am now looking at it afresh, and seeing a cautionary tale of what happens when “civilized” suburban kids venture out into the big, bad city . . . where they finally end up seeing more black folks in one night than they’ve probably seen in their entire lifetime in suburban paradise . . .

And although one of the “good” bad guys is black, and (as people in the comments responding to this excellent dissection of the film’s racism point out) the head of the car theft ring is actually a white man (which I think only reinforces my argument, because after all, who is it that is doing the bulk of the work, and who is most benefiting from it?), I still can see now that this movie perpetuated assumptions and stereotypes that my 17-year-old self wouldn’t have known to have questioned.

But I’m not ready to talk about Tyler Perry just yet, okay?!

(and yeah, I know that I fell off the face of the earth. trying to get back into gear at last.)

I was begged to NOT blog about Michael Jackson’s death . . . so I’ll keep this short.

First, a disclaimer: I have barely watched any of the TV coverage about this. I think I saw about twenty minutes of news people talking stupidly about whether his daughter should have been “allowed” to speak at his memorial service. And with that, I’d had about enough.

But I will say that I think that his death, and everything surrounding it, is a different experience for black folks than it is for white folks. And I also think that most white folks would tell me that I’m crazy for making such an assertion. After all, black celebrities are, and always have been, ours to appropriate the culture of as we have seen fit.

But yeah. Michael Jackson’s life and death tell us something about whiteness and blackness in this color, even beyond the late-night talk show one-liners. I am not sure I can articulate it as completely as I would like, though, so I will leave it at that.

The saying below is from one of my favorite movies, 28 Days.

Sandra Bullock’s character has been sentenced to 28 days in rehab, and as part of her treatment, she is given a sign to wear around her neck that says “Confront me if I don’t ask for help”.

This phrase is one that resonates with me, and yet it’s one that I balk at. I hate admitting that I need help with anything. I hate feeling dependent on anybody.

But now, I have to move.

Moving is the time when you find out who your real friends are. It is a true test of friendship in its own, unique way.  Maybe people who don’t despise physical labor will not understand this, but for me, it is the supreme act of sacrifice that a person can make.  Moving sucks. It requires lifting heavy things, going up and down stairs, staying for one more trip or ten more boxes when you had hoped to be done hours earlier and your mind and body are both at the breaking point.

I hate everything about moving, and every time I move, I repeat a particular mantra . . . “NEXT TIME, I’m hiring movers”. But “next time” comes along, and there I stand . . . still broke . . . still in need of assistance.

For a long time, I tried to only own things that I was able to carry on my own. However, it is not as simp, le as one might think to make this happen. Possessions multiply in our wasteful society, and sooner or later, I find myself owning something that is just too big for me to carry alone. And in these moments, I am left with no choice but to ask for help.