Travel | Henderson City Cemetery

Over the summer, I visited my parents in East Texas, where they have chosen to retire, a choice about which they never tire of complaining. While there, my father had to run an errand in Henderson, Texas, a small town about 30 minutes south of theirs, and I decided to go along for the ride.

In Dallas, a trip anywhere usually means driving over countless freeways and merging in and out of traffic, except, of course, when caught in traffic, where one might sit for more than an hour. Thank god for NPR.

A trip through East Texas, however, has a completely different meaning, as the route is a two-lane highway that curves through farm land and is bordered on both sides by forests of pine trees. The pine trees in East Texas never cease to thrill me, and I often feel as though they knowingly mock the city with their tall slender beauty, growing gracefully toward the sky.

“Take that, City Girl. Your high-rise buildings have nothing on us.”

And it’s true.

After my father finished his errand in Henderson, I asked him to drive me through town, hoping to glimpse a view of a small-town square and snap a few photos. The square was exactly as I’d envisioned, but it was a cemetery near the middle of town that caught my eye.

Like the pine trees in the surrounding forests, the grave stones, too, rose toward the heavens–beautiful marble statues directing those over whom they kept watch.

As my father waited patiently in his air conditioned car, I walked beneath a hot summer sun, dusting off graves to see the dates. Many stones revealed dates back to the early 1800s, and I tried to envision these early settlers of a small, East Texan town, wondering if any might be my own ancestors–my presence proof that their lives continue beyond the grave.

The grave I found most striking was a statue of Justitia, the Roman goddess of Justice, marking the grave of Judge William Wright Morris, for whom Morris County is named. Some of the smaller grave stones, however, had crumbled or fallen, perhaps a result of age or the boredom of young kids in a small town.

The Henderson City Cemetery, however, was well worth the brief half-hour I spent walking through 100-degree heat. New Orleans may boast one of the most striking cemeteries in the nation, but like the pine trees leading into town, this tiny cemetery, tucked so quietly away, is strikingly beautiful in a most subtle and graceful way.

Reflections | Mi Abuelita

A few weeks ago, my step-grandmother died. We were never close, and the loss I feel is for my aunt, whom she raised.  My Swedish grandmother died when my aunt was still a child, and my grandfather moved to Venezuela, where he met Carmen, who would become an American man’s wife, a step-mother, and years later, my step-grandmother.

I knew her as a small, fair woman with silver hair, but my mother has assured me how startlingly beautiful she was when she stepped off the plane in the United States, where she would marry my grandfather and raise two daughters who, by blood, were not her own–two American daughters who would grow up speaking Spanish, who called her Mother, and who would attend Mass every Sunday, under the guidance of their new Catholic madre.

It was the fervency with which my aunt attended Mass that caused my parents to eventually convert to Catholicism from Methodist, Episcopalian, or some form of Protestantism, practiced more in name than in deed.

My sister and I called my step-grandmother Grandmother Johnston, though it pleased her most when we called her Abuelita. We would visit her in the house she shared with her sister, Tia Laura–a house full of crystal and lace curtains, where we were not allowed to sit on beds and were told by our parents not to touch anything as not to break it.

There was a spare room, however, with a box of toys–nowhere close to as many toys as I had at home, but they weren’t my toys, so therefore, they were the best toys. This box of toys, the two schnauzers she and Tia Laura kept, and, on occasion, a step-cousin Elena, were enough to keep a young child happy for hours as my parents visited in her formal living room, drinking coffee or tea from china cups.

We would visit her and Tia Laura for an afternoon or so during Summer vacations, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and at each visit, Grandmother Johnston would always declare my father too fat or too thin but never just right. And as we bid goodbye in her formal entryway, always she would say with her beautiful Castilian accent, “You will not come see me, again. I know you will not. You will see me at my funeral.”

It’s a strange thing to have a step-grandmother from Venezuela who didn’t raise my father, who calls her Carmen, but who did raise my aunt, who calls her Mother. When I think of grandmother, it is the image of my maternal Nana that comes to mind–the woman who rocked me to sleep as a child, with whom I vacationed for months at a time, and whose house I will always call home.

I never met my Swedish grandmother, but I need only to look in the mirror to see her in my features.

When it comes to my step-grandmother, however, it has always been difficult to comprehend how we might be related to each other since we are not–neither by blood nor bond.

I pondered this as I walked out on my balcony earlier today, turning the doorknob on which hangs the rosary I made when I was four.

And there I stopped, realizing my relationship to Grandmother Johnston and what it is she has passed on to me: Catholic school; rites of passage; midnight Mass; books of saints; a crucifix and palms above the doorway of every family room; signs of the cross each time I’m afraid, habitual Hail Mary’s when I’m anxious, and an occasional a Dios mi.

Cultural and religious identity, brought from Venezuela to Texas, translated from Spanish to English, and passed on from my step-grandmother to my aunt, to my father and mother, and finally, to me.

I have never doubted that I am my Nana’s grandchild or my Swedish grandmother’s Svenska flika, but now I know how I am also my Abuelita’s nieta.

Vaya con Dios, Abuelita.

Neither you nor I may have realized it while you were living, but I realize now that I am, indeed, your granddaughter.

Photo | Trees at the DMA

“Trees are poems that earth writes upon the sky,
We fell them down and turn them into paper,
That we may record our emptiness.”

On Yoga | Back to the Mat

Some time ago, I came across a parable of sorts, wherein a man in prison receives a prayer rug from a friend, though what he actually sought was a way out. After days of repeating the Salaat, or daily prayers, he notices a pattern in the weave of the rug at the point where his head touches the ground. Upon meditating on the pattern, he discovers it is actually a diagram of the lock of his cell. Through his prayer and meditation, he is able to escape his prison.

I’ve always liked this metaphor and the idea that through prayer or meditation of some sort, regardless of one’s beliefs, one might find the truth one seeks or, sometimes, truth unsought.

I was reminded of this story during my yoga practice today. After an exhausting semester, I finally made my way back to the yoga mat, heavy with the weight of work, teaching, and grading, a daily grind that, though important to me, often removes me from a sense of my self.  Initially, it was difficult to let go of the running thoughts I’ve had over the past three weeks.

Did I grade fairly and unbiased? Did I meet the needs of my students? Did I submit grades correctly?

As I moved through the asanas, or postures, however, such thoughts gradually receded as my focus was narrowed only to movement and breath. The inner ‘to-do list’ was, for that moment, silenced.  Through the vinyasa, or flow of each connected movement, the weight of work and worry was lifted. With my forehead against the mat or my arms spread wide in warrior stance, like the man in the story,  I was able to see, without even searching, that which is truly important.

Out and About | Adventures at Big Lots

Because of the recent Texas chill, I’ve been in the market for an electric blanket. I checked out Target and Wal-Mart, but the electric blankets were $120, which is approximately half of my electric bill, and therefore overpriced in my book. Lola K suggested Big Lots for my endeavors, so on my lunch break today, I moseyed on over.

Unfortunately, Big Lots didn’t have any electric blankets, but I did find a box of Triscuits marked down to .75 and a caffe latte for $1.00. Who could say no? I gathered my selections, and headed to the register. Of course, there was only one register open, and about ten customers with baskets full waiting in line ahead of me. Just as I wondered whether my box of Triscuits was worth the wait, a cashier at another register announced, “I can help the next person in line.”

No one moved, so, naturally, I headed to his line. A lady with a giant body pillow who was about five people ahead of me followed my lead, rushing past me, and emphatically tossing her purchase on the register.

“You know,” she said to me, “Those people have been waiting an hour.”

“Well,” I replied, “If a shorter line opens, the intelligent thing to do is to move to that line.”

I usually avoid such confrontations, but today I am wearing my glasses, which I think bring out another side of my personality. And I really wanted a Triscuit. Glasses or sans glasses, the Pillow Lady wasn’t having any of it.

“Well, it’s not the nice thing to do,” she smirked before calling out to a lady who was clutching a box of Quaker Oats bars marked down to $1.50 and a can of pink Metamucil. “Mamn. You were ahead of me. Would you like to move to this line?”

The Metamucil lady didn’t reply, but just stared ahead. It’s my belief that stores such as Big Lots and Wal-Mart slowly deplete human brain waves. The longer a person remains in the store, the fewer brain waves they have. The people in the long line were at the zombie stage. Fortunately, I had only been in there for fifteen minutes.

Perhaps offended by the Metamucil lady’s snub, Pillow Lady looked at me and said, “You are a line cutter.”

She must be a Catholic school teacher because before I could reply, she said to the cashier, “Well, she’ll be last in the line to Heaven.”

I, however, was once a good Catholic school girl, and quickly replied, “That’s OK. Jesus said ‘The one who is last shall be first.’ ”

Pillow lady didn’t reply to my retort. How could she? Jesus did say that. And if it turns out not to be true, well, I’ll just cut.

Pop Quiz | To eat or not to eat, that is the question…

Situation:
You are an instructor at a local college, have an hour for lunch, and are craving a samosa. Fortunately, you work in a city where samosas are sold on every corner of every street. At noon, you head to your favorite Indian grocery store, where the owner’s wife bakes samosas daily for very satisfied customers such as yourself. Upon greeting the owner, you request a samosa, pay, are given your samosa in a plastic bag, and return back to work in great anticipation.

However, upon opening the aforementioned plastic bag, you find that instead of a samosa, the owner has given you a yellow cabbage dish in Tuperware with five pieces of naan bread. At this point, you realize the owner has accidentally given you his lunch.

Visuals:

Exhibit A. You expected the following:

Exhibit B. Instead, you received the following:

If all the statements in the passage are true, which of the following responses best resolves the situation:

A) Return to the grocery store and give the man his lunch for your samosa.
B) Place the man’s meal in the refrigerator of the breakroom to return later.
C) Eat another man’s lunch.

Answer:
Option A is incorrect. You will not have time to drive back to the grocery store and return for the next class you are teaching. Option B is also incorrect because refrigerators in break rooms are never safe; you will never see your food again, especially if you work for a Liberal Arts department. Therefore, the only correct answer is C) Eat another man’s lunch. You will greatly enjoy a homemade meal, will satisfy your hunger, and will only feel slight remorse at the thought of the man’s disappointment when he opens his lunch bag to find only a samosa.

Images: A)herbivoracious.com; B)zedomax.com

Literature | The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

A few weeks ago, I was having an existential crisis.

“I’m having an existential crisis,” I told a friend. “I feel like I’m stuck in a Woody Allen film on repeat, being played by Woody Allen. I think it’s because of facebook.”

“Your existential crisis is because of facebook?” my friend humored me.

“Maybe. Think about it. Constant externalization of self instead of internalization of reality; existence pending upon recognition by others through wall posts; one’s actions reduced to meaninglessness by clicking “clear” on status updates. It just all yields this unbearable lightness of being. So, yes–facebook.”

At which point my friend suggested I set aside my glass of Pinot. A few days later, my well-meaning friend produced a dog-eared copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

My first response was a sneer as I was thrown back through the recesses of time and memory to my freshman year in college. At one particular party, a young man with wild eyes raved about The Hitchhiker’s Guide before a paranoid look crossed his face as he nervously proclaimed that my pizza resembled a dead goat. I wasn’t eating pizza, and have, since then, written off The Guide as the psychedelic-addict’s book of choice.

And perhaps it is.

My friend, however, insisted that The Guide is not only brilliant but brilliantly funny, and I reluctantly acquiesced. It’s either this, I thought, or keep waiting for Godot.

I don’t mind being wrong if it’s in my favor, and deliciously wrong I was. I’ve devoured the five volumes like a black hole devouring time and space. Indeed, it is brilliant. And oh-so-funny.

As we travel with the hero, Arthur Dent, through the infinite crooks-and-crannies of the universe, we realize that perhaps we can’t escape our human condition or the question of the meaning of life. Gift or curse as it may be, it’s a sign of intelligent life.

Another sign, however, is a sense of humor. Examining the weight of existence through comedy, then, is often the panacea to counteract the heavy volumes lining one’s bookshelves. And what else but brilliance could be expected from an author hailing from the country that gave us Monty Python, the original Office, and other comedic examinations of our human condition?

Why it took me so long to stumble upon The Hitchhiker’s Guide, I know not, but I don’t want to ponder the timing of circumstance. For now, I’ll just thank the author and my friend for the gentle reminder that sometimes it’s necessary to lay aside the tomes of philosophy, look the Absurdity of Existence in the face, and laugh.

Perhaps all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds, and really, there’s no need to panic.

Opinion | In Defense of the Princess

Today I saw the preview for Disney’s new animation The Princess and the Frog, a movie that is already all the buzz in cyberspace. Some writers and bloggers are discussing Disney’s first black Princess, either applauding a new role-model or critiquing Disney’s representation of race, ethnicity, and culture–not at all a new criticism of Disney films.

Others, however, are complaining about Princesses in general, arguing that Princesses, particularly Disney’s, promote a negative stereotype for young girls to look up to. It is this view of Princesses that I aim to address. While I understand such views, I feel the writers are overlooking something of utmost importance–Disney films are based on fairy-tales, a most ancient form of story-telling, and one which embodies universal archetypes and symbols.

The point of a fairy-tale is to provide a narrative by which to understand the world and what it means to be human. These narratives resonate with innate themes–the quest, transformation, conflict–and the characters serve as symbols of values held in high esteem–honor, justice, virtue. Passed down through generations, our fairy-tales share commonalities across cultures, languages, and time. Disney, then, has only adapted universal stories, themes, and archetypes.

A few of the articles I’ve read argue that Princesses within Disney movies promote negative qualities such as reliance upon a prince. True, in some films, particularly earlier ones, the Princess does await her Prince, but this is a classical script to illustrate a theme, such as the quest. All of the characters, not only the women, are flat and undeveloped because they are archetypes and symbols. In later films–Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin, The Little Mermaid–characters, both male and female, are more developed, undergo transformations, and represent desirable or undesirable traits and values.

Regarding desirable values, Disney’s Princesses are not lacking. Jasmine is strong-willed, wanting only sincerity and humility over money and grandeur; Ariel is independent, taking control of what she wants; Belle is a kind, caring, and empathetic bookworm, not afraid of standing out from the crowd.

To suggest that Princesses are negative representations of women is to overlook these positive values. One writer worried because her young daughter wants to be a Princess when she grows up as opposed to a doctor or president. Another contemplated removing Disney films from his home to ensure his daughter grows up independent and successful. True, the characters within fairy-tales are not career women, but children have little concept of “careers” and to make a character a doctor or president would be to strip the fairy-tale of the imaginative qualities through which a young child can make sense of the world around her.

I do not have children nor do I know many. But I do know women who used to be children, all of whom watched Disney movies and read fairy-tales as young girls. These women did not grow up yearning for men to save them but rather became successful and independent lawyers, journalists, vice-presidents, teachers, and mothers with strong values and virtue. And their success continues regardless if they have found their “prince” or are still looking.

Rather than worry about a young girl wanting to be a Princess waiting for her prince, one might fare better aiming to raise a confident, balanced, and intelligent girl who can distinguish, for herself, the difference between myth and reality. In the meantime, leave the Princesses and fairy-tales alone and a child to her childhood.

Musings | Dreams for an Insomniac

I often listen to NPR and BBC when I sleep at night. As a result, the news streams often influence my dreams. Last night, for instance, I dreamt of Manderley Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. I was his interior designer, and for the entire duration of the dream he was dressed in a maroon, velour Puma tracksuit.

I don’t know what Freud might say about such dreams, though I do know that no matter how far our economy might dive, I wouldn’t take that job in real life in a million years.

If subconscious desires came true, however, I’d love to sport a maroon, velour Puma tracksuit. Oh, how a girl dreams.

Entomology | The Itsy, Bitsy Spider and Other Darling Creatures

Not only do Texans have the luxury of a summer similar to Dante’s ninth circle of Hell, our summer also offers opportunity to meet rather dashing insects. While playing golf, my sister discovered this gentleman on the eighth hole:

Not only did she take a picture, she gathered “Spidey” in a Styrofoam cup and gave the Golf Pro quite a scare before releasing the eight-legged gent back onto the golf course. Perfect par for her fearless endeavor. I, on the other hand, would not have handled such a meeting with her admirable calm reserve.

On Tuesday evening, for example, as I was watching Flight of the Conchords, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

Looking through the peephole, I was met only by darkness though the knocking continued. Thinking it a cat, or at worst a spirit, I slowly opened the door. Not a cat and worse than any ghostly apparition, the largest insect I have ever seen darted, stumbled, and fell into my home. A giant creature, it had huge wings and popping eyes. And it was screaming.

There was no time to take a picture, but suffice it to say my new friend was a Giant Cicada. While I enjoy the sounds of cicadas during the summer months, a Giant Cicada screaming in my living room is far from pleasant, and I reacted in a fashion similar to my guest, screaming back at him and running to my bedroom.

Luckily, my friend Mr Sunday trapped the uninvited beast in a cup and tossed him back into the wild. Hats off to Mr Sunday’s heroic bravery. Had he not come to my rescue, I would still be in my bedroom listening to the screaming insect from behind closed doors.

Musings | The Round Table

Sunday evening, I had the opportunity to host two international visitors in my home for dinner. I invited two friends, threw the linens on the table, and awaited the arrival of our guests.

Around 6 o’clock, three all-American girls sat at the dinner table with our two international guests. In one sense, our daily lives as young women could not be more different. Our guests live in an occupied territory where they teach children, some of whom live in refugee camps and all of whom are too familiar with the realities of war. We discussed the difficulties they endure, what our guests are doing to give the children the opportunities all children deserve, and their great hope for peace in their region.

Five girls cannot gather together, however, without the gift of gab, and our conversation moved rapidly from one topic to another. Obama, politics, and global issues. Marriage, fashion, and decorating. Full-time jobs, bad habits, and college studies. As we chatted, we consistently found ourselves noting how similar we are––as communities and as individuals. Several times we proclaimed, “Yes, yes. It’s the same.”

Herein is the power of conversation to strengthen human connections and foster understanding. Keeping abreast of CNN and BBC can only go so far in allotting the understanding of human experiences beyond one’s home country. Being able to sit together and share stories creates a bridge that no engineer can build, one that joins distances far greater than the Atlantic or Pacific. It was through our conversation on Sunday that our guests and we were not only able to better understand each others’ lives but also able to connect through the commonalities we share.

At one point, one of my guests noted how grateful she was to visit the States and meet American individuals, pointing out the importance of creating a dialogue, regardless of topic or opinions. The significance lies in mutual understanding and the realization that we truly are all the same. Across countries and continents, cultures and languages, we all have the same desires for peace, love, and happiness. It is a matter of getting our ideas on the table for discussion and establishing respect through dialogue.

As a graduate student, I studied the concept of “the other” in early-twentieth century Western literature, art, and film. While such academic pursuits are valuable in deconstructing such dangerous notions, one need not delve into literary theory. One need only to turn off CNN for a while and share dinner and stories with new friends from around the world.

Deltiology | Can’t (Ku)wait to Visit

I adore snail mail. No, not the bills or the letters  from alumni associations but rather the genuine, “How are   you, I’m good, please visit me soon” Crane & CO. snail mail, stamped and all.

It’s far and in between that I receive such tidings, so I was quite thrilled to receive, in my mailbox, two postcards from a friend in Kuwait. The first shows the popularity of falconry in the Middle East and the second showcases the famous Towers of Kuwait.

So, my strange quest continues.

One more country down.

More than 200 countries to go.

On Teaching | National Teacher’s Day

A holiday not celebrated enough is National Teacher’s Day. I actually teach but had no idea such a day existed until I drove through my local fast-food establishment and received a coupon that looked something like this:

In full anticipation, I wore my Sunday’s best to class, fully prepared for a few apples on my desk. No acknowledgment was made, however, and class continued as usual. Because Chick-fil-A seemed to be the the only means of appreciation, I drove through after class for my free 3-piece chicken meal. They didn’t even ask me for identification, which was completely disappointing. Either I look like a teacher or anyone could have gotten a free meal. I think I prefer the latter.

As I sat at home, enjoying a glass of wine and free Chick-fil-A, I started thinking about all the teachers I’ve had, among whom Mr. Haynes, my Honors English teacher stands out. He gave me a voice as a sophomore, encouraged me to write as a junior, and wrote my college letter-of-recommendation as a senior. When writing that letter, he asked what I wanted to major in.

“English Lit, of course,” was my reply and another classmate agreed. “Is there anything else worth studying?”

Mr. Haynes sighed. “All our best ending up as English teachers.”

“Oh, no.” I retorted. “I’m going to law school after undergrad.”

Mr. Haynes looked relieved. Little does he know, however, that here I sit, enjoying my Chick-fil-a on National Teacher’s Day, quite relived myself, that I’m not a lawyer and didn’t have to pose as a teacher to eat for free.

On Writing | Back in the Blogosphere

After a vacation from blogging, one which lasted much longer than I’d anticipated, I’ve decided to come out of retirement and make my mark, once again, in cyber-space.

Whether or not I have readers left, I know not. Whether or not I was missed, I cannot say. I can say, however, that I missed cyber-space. I missed reading my favorite blogs. I missed keeping up with the musings of my favorite bloggers. And most of all, I missed Writing.

Which brings me to a question often asked by my non-blogging friends. What is the point of a blog? For those who are not fans, a blog is a mirror for a Narcissist who thinks the world actually cares about the mundane events of her daily grind. Well, this is partially true, at least for me.

But in all actuality, I think people blog because they must. Many a writer has been quoted as saying “I write because I have to.” It’s not about money (there isn’t any), nor is it about publicity (most writers reach fame posthumously). It’s more so about the innate need to write. As a thirsty man reaches for a glass of water, a writer reaches for a pen.

I’ve been writing since I learned the alphabet. Every now and then, my mother comes across a poem or short story I wrote in first grade, fifth grade, or high school and sends it on my way. Looking over the unsophisticated prose of my juvenile musings, I sometimes cringe at my poor rhymes or hyperbolic metaphors, but overall I recognize an unrelenting quest for meaning whether through a poem about a junior high crush, a short story about a homeless man, or a satire about the students in my AP English class. And the quest continues.

I’ll not be the judge as to whether what I’ve written is worth reading, but regardless of readership, I can’t stop writing. And thus, this blog is back, and as for now, I’m not planning another vacation anytime soon.

Musings | Autumn Prelude

Hurricane winds herded coastal clouds across the sky today like buffalo across the plains; all sorts of billowing shapes slowly and arrogantly traversed through Dallas with nonchalance, and their presence against the blue, purple, and pink skies, along with the wind whisking across my body and through my hair, and the light rain shower around noon, made this the most perfect prelude into Fall.
The striking fellow pictured here was among my favorites; robust and swollen, looming, brooding, he is surely Gustav himself, or at least he feigns to be. His secret is kept safe in Dallas, however, a city of great pretenders.
Sitting on my balcony at dark, I can still see smaller clouds moving calmly across the night sky, watching the rushing traffic below with smug amusement. It seems that the wind, too, has conspired with the sky to scorn the city, as the sound of it rushing through the trees easily outplays the sounds of rushing highways below.
Days and evenings such as this are surely what Wordsworth and Baudelaire are made of, and it seems shameful to sleep knowing that upon waking the scorching sun of Texas will have returned to cruelly postpone our Autumn, but still, what a beautiful, beautiful day.