It’s a restless, uncomfortable evening for me and I can’t quite muster the focus to get anything done but sit in my pjs with a towel turban wrapped around my hair and handpick the red nail polish off my finger and toe nails while puddles form around my eyes and my upset tummy cramps, filled with an entire package of gummy bears.
Today and yesterday were easily my worst days in Jackson–– between getting lost on my way to two interviews, breaking up with Keith and realizing how much weight I've managed to pack on by not caring about what I eat or what physical activity I get. I've slept five of the last 48 hours. I want to fastforward through the next couple weeks and embrace mom, dad and Anna at PDX to kick off summer's grand finale!
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
My Modeling Foray
A flamboyant man named Dustin greeted me at 8 a.m. Friday and said, "Girl, we're gonna get you looking all hot and funky!" with an infectious giggle. Slightly overwhelmed, I stared at his penciled-in eyebrows and drank a huge glass of creamless coffee to keep myself conscious.
As he smeared bright turquoise pastels across my eyelids and penciled over my eyebrows with a thick brown pencil, Dustin and I recognized each other.
"You were the girl in the bright red dress at Chick Ball, weren't cha?" he asked, mischievously.
"Uh... Yes! How'd you know?"
"I was the one in the 6-inch-tall black and white heels with the long, red hair," he replied, and I remembered how fabulous he looked as one of the drag queens the previous Saturday.
Ah, how I love men who aren't afraid to wear make-up and cross-dress. I've been a Rocky Horror Picture Show aficionado since I first saw the cult classic during my senior year of high school.
Sage, our lovely and impeccably dressed assistant to the editor came in and out of the small [FLY] studio that she oversees and turned on some Girl Talk mashup as Dustin applied my make-up. I couldn't stop staring at my reflection with amusement and wondered why I was typecast as the wild girl for a JFP fashion shoot.
"Well, how did I get to be the '80s seductress?"
While my fellow fashionistas dressed in elegant, preppy outfits, I wore hot pink spandex pants with a bright blue short dress, gray high top shoes, a trucker hat and "bling-bling."
The tiny photographer with a colorful ponytail named Josh asked me to seductively sprawl on a library table at Millsaps, throw my leg in the air, and smack my hands down on a paper puncher. "Come on girl, show me your aggression!" he said in his high-pitched, sassy drawl. "Let's throw some papers in the air."
And so went my fashion shoot foray for the back-to-school issue of the JFP. In one pose, I looked hung-over, draped across a table lined with food, my eyes shut, pretending to drool.
In the last, I wore a bright green satin micro-mini dress with a jeweled neckline and super tall silver stilettos. Sage and Stephanie, our organizers, fretted that we would moisten the pits of our tops in our outdoor scene.
"Look nice but most importantly, remember not to sweat!" they said. "Not allowed!"
We three models jumped into a mess of shrubbery for the party shot and our heels dug deep into the mud. Luckily, they were protected by masking tape. "Come on ladies! Dance around!" Dustin told us as he blasted "Apple Bottom Jeans" from his cell phone and he and Sage shook their butts for inspiration.
"Let's see some booty dancing!" photo man Josh hollered. "Go craaaaazy."
"What the hell? I'm already in a ridiculously short dress and wearing a huge side pony tail," I thought to myself. I threw my arms up with gusto and humped the air front to back, side to side, shaking what our directors termed my "groove thang."
As he smeared bright turquoise pastels across my eyelids and penciled over my eyebrows with a thick brown pencil, Dustin and I recognized each other.
"You were the girl in the bright red dress at Chick Ball, weren't cha?" he asked, mischievously.
"Uh... Yes! How'd you know?"
"I was the one in the 6-inch-tall black and white heels with the long, red hair," he replied, and I remembered how fabulous he looked as one of the drag queens the previous Saturday.
Ah, how I love men who aren't afraid to wear make-up and cross-dress. I've been a Rocky Horror Picture Show aficionado since I first saw the cult classic during my senior year of high school.
Sage, our lovely and impeccably dressed assistant to the editor came in and out of the small [FLY] studio that she oversees and turned on some Girl Talk mashup as Dustin applied my make-up. I couldn't stop staring at my reflection with amusement and wondered why I was typecast as the wild girl for a JFP fashion shoot.
"Well, how did I get to be the '80s seductress?"
While my fellow fashionistas dressed in elegant, preppy outfits, I wore hot pink spandex pants with a bright blue short dress, gray high top shoes, a trucker hat and "bling-bling."
The tiny photographer with a colorful ponytail named Josh asked me to seductively sprawl on a library table at Millsaps, throw my leg in the air, and smack my hands down on a paper puncher. "Come on girl, show me your aggression!" he said in his high-pitched, sassy drawl. "Let's throw some papers in the air."
And so went my fashion shoot foray for the back-to-school issue of the JFP. In one pose, I looked hung-over, draped across a table lined with food, my eyes shut, pretending to drool.
In the last, I wore a bright green satin micro-mini dress with a jeweled neckline and super tall silver stilettos. Sage and Stephanie, our organizers, fretted that we would moisten the pits of our tops in our outdoor scene.
"Look nice but most importantly, remember not to sweat!" they said. "Not allowed!"
We three models jumped into a mess of shrubbery for the party shot and our heels dug deep into the mud. Luckily, they were protected by masking tape. "Come on ladies! Dance around!" Dustin told us as he blasted "Apple Bottom Jeans" from his cell phone and he and Sage shook their butts for inspiration.
"Let's see some booty dancing!" photo man Josh hollered. "Go craaaaazy."
"What the hell? I'm already in a ridiculously short dress and wearing a huge side pony tail," I thought to myself. I threw my arms up with gusto and humped the air front to back, side to side, shaking what our directors termed my "groove thang."
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
The Little Red Dress & Finding Chickdom in the City of Soul
Baseball and Guitar Hero
Somewhere between the fourth of July festivities and going to a Mississippi Braves baseball game on Wednesday, I've felt completely and totally immersed in the essence of summer.
– Devouring messy, succulent watermelon, drinking imported ice-cold beers and discussing politics with Jackson's finest progressives–
I'm exactly halfway through my internship. Part of me is homesick for the Willamette Valley and the people in it, and part of me feels wonderfully acclimated to Mississippi living and the South's soul.
The sticky humidity increases day by day here with the higher-than-90 degree temperatures and I cannot wait to go for a swim in the ___ _____ (insert white supremacist governor's name here) Reservoir or a community pool. If there's one thing I miss about previous summers, it's lounging around at the Tennis Club as a lifeguard, teaching swim lessons every morning in the chilly waters and jumping in for an evening dip after everyone's gone home, watching a picturesque sunset fall over west Albany.
I don't follow sports too much, but baseball has a sentimental feeling for me that I experienced Wednesday. I remember watching Cal Ripkin's last game (I think) with the Orioles (we were rooting for the Red Sox, of course) and Rollerblading past the San Francisco Giant's new field in 2002 with my dad. Baseball doesn't attract as many meatheads as football does, and I love how quintessential summer it seems with "Take me out to the Ball Game" and everyone wearing flip-flops and shorts. Our Braves, which include a Salem, Ore. native, lost, but I enjoyed the greasy boxed pizza, good company and totally random mix of game music, regardless.
My more technological, passionate-about-video-games friends than I will be proud to know that I've finally played Guitar Hero, thanks to Shannon and Alex. I've always made fun of video games, even though I'm a hypocrite and get horribly sucked into facebook.com and checking e-mail myself, but I'll admit that "playing" Santana's "Black Magic Woman" on a plastic black guitar is a pretty exhilarating, confidence-boosting experience. Who knows? Maybe I'll come back to Oregon a Wii Wizard. (Don't hold your breath...). At the very least, I want to pick up my real guitar again when I return.
JFP: Cedric & Freedom Riders
Outside of fun summer evenings, I've stayed really busy at the Jackson Free Press for being an unpaid intern. I appreciate how much I'm learning and experiencing, despite the frustrating moments when I feel stupid and have to ask for help with the microfilm spools at the Department of Archives or spend two straight hours making the same business calls for Jackpedia. I love our intern class best and especially enjoyed our special guest last week.
I had read the JFP's series about Cedric Willis, "Deepest Midnight," before I came to Mississippi and was incredibly touched by it. Seeing Cedric walk through the JFP classroom in a bright red T-shirt, loose jeans and snazzy Adidas shoes with a humble smile moved me, profoundly.
"How the hell could such a decent, warm human being have been imprisoned 12 years for crimes he clearly didn't commit?" I asked myself throughout the time he spent with us. Cedric could have spent a lifetime in jail and faced capital punishment.
In 1994, Cedric, then 19, was arrested for "aggravated assault, rape, robbery and the murder of Carl White." His son was a newborn then and Cedric, a proud dad, was making a name for himself in Jackson after his rough high school years. He was completely innocent––"I'll be back right away, don't worry," he told his family confidently as the police took him to jail to stand in a line of suspects–– but he sat in jail for 12 years until the state of Mississippi finally exonerated his charges in 2006.
During that time, Cedric's beloved grandmother passed, his son grew up, and he desperately missed what he calls "the free world." In prison, he witnessed horribly violent acts and grew to completely distrust the state's justice system. Rightfully so.
My adrenaline rushed as Donna and Cedric spoke and I felt infuriated by the terrible injustice Cedric's case represented. Cedric spent just 45 minutes or so with us interns, but in that time, I re-evaluated everything I take for granted. "I even love opening the refrigerator," Cedric told us.
The judge who freed Cedric told him, "Son, the wheels of justice don't spin fast, but they do spin." Those words resound in my mind, nearly a week later, and especially today, ironically and poignantly, as Mississippi puts to death by lethal injection a man who acted in a murder as an accomplice, but did not give the deadly blows.
Cedric represents hope. Friday I will interview him about his past two years spent in freedom. I'm incredibly honored to report on this piece and anxious to be dealing with a topic so profound.
Also during our intern class we talked about our Freedom Riders articles. I'm horribly bashful about my writing and get nervous for peer editing, even though I blog openly and have been a student journalist since high school. That's why I have such a procrastination problem: I want it to be perfect and I get writers' block trying to pump out something spectacular to show people. I always preface that my drafts are not as good as I want them to be and work right up until the last second to edit my articles. But, the feedback was valuable and with each editing session, I become more relaxed and open to how I can improve my writing.
Chick weekend
Thursday evening JoAnne's "company" arrived. Since I came to stay with her, JoAnne has been mentioning that her friends were trying to set her up with a Floridian man. "I just don't know about these engineer types..." she has said, repeatedly. Allen, an inquisitive man with short receding gray hair and big brown eyes, and JoAnne hit it off, though, and spent the weekend together chatting on the porch swing about things political, philosophical and about everything else under the sun–– "Freud was a conceited fucker," I heard Allen say–– watching movies, and eating meals out.
Allen's a bit of a chatterbox and JoAnne had to periodically tell him her mind was too overloaded to hear more. I love her utter honesty. Monday, she took the day off to recoup from all of the chatting and constant hosting. Allen moved his luggage in Friday morning and stayed until Monday morning instead of crashing at his friends' place.
Friday I stayed in and prepared bean and cheese enchiladas and rice for the three of us–– Allen, JoAnne and me. We enjoyed watching a Youtube video of Joe Cocker singing while high at Woodstock. Later, Allen entertained me with his acid trip stories and we talked in-depth about dreams and his fears of a fascist takeover of the U.S. by the Republican party. I barely managed to get a word in, but he made me think, critically, and that felt good. Earlier, he walked in on me having a great conversation with Keith on Skype and waved, saying: "I'm staying with her crazy landlady this weekend!" I forgot Allen's name to introduce the two via webcam, and embarrassed, had to ask.
The JFP's Chickball highlighted last Saturday, besides Allen preparing us delicious mushroom and onion omelets and a discussion about effervescing pickles and cereal with secret red dye made to look like blood.
I envisioned a bunch of finely dressed Jacksonians listening to mesmerizing musical performances by female artists and dancing in a red-colored room with dim lighting while raising money for the Center Against Violence.
And that is exactly what the Chickball was like, plus a silent auction, delicious food from local eateries, "chicktinis," and drag queens. Rubber duckies with pink-feathered crowns lined the circular tables and sparkly lights illuminated the "red room," making a fun ambiance. Above all, it was an empowering evening, much akin to "Take Back the Night" and other celebrations of women's spirit and strength. We embraced our feminine sides,–– lipstick, curves, romance, fashion, hair-styling, and heels–– which can sometimes be challenging when you want to fight for gender equality, but it felt incredibly uplifting to assert our multiplicity as women.
I've always dreamed of finding a bright red ball gown to wear for special occasions. In high school, I wanted one for prom. I've even considered someday getting married in a bright red dress, as white dresses and veils seem Victorian and patriarchal. I found my dress–– a flowing, long, bright red number with diamond straps and a matching shawl–– for $12.99 at a consignment shop Friday and excitedly bought it for Chickball. I came home with it, immediately slipped it on and pranced about my bedroom in my matching red heels for at least 10 minutes, beaming. Saturday I returned to the "All About U" store and bought a dazzling pair of faux diamond clip-ons that made me feel like a movie star, especially when I smoothed my hair and styled it into loose curls.
Because of an emotionally painful high school dating experience and writing my public policy info hell topic about teen dating violence education, I feel compelled to someday work more extensively to eradicate domestic violence. I think I needed a little more distance from it to forge forward but now I want so much to make a difference, especially after hearing stories Saturday of two beautiful women, one a mother, who were murdered by their former lovers within a week of each other last September.
My eyes watered and my body quivered as I heard about Heather Spencer and Doris Shavers' brutal deaths and learned that their families and friends were among the Ball attendees. Helping on the Chickball set-up and throughout the evening made me feel like I played some part in the fight. We raised more than $14,000 for the Center Against Violence's "freedom van," which rescues victims and their children from abusive spouses, parents and family members and takes them to safe places. I loved the community synergy I sensed... all of the auction items, CD making, T-shirt designing, performances... everything was volunteer-based and made possible by donations. I could see myself going into public relations for non-profit organizations, especially ones that work to make the world a better place for endangered women.
The Little Red Dress
This may sound shallow, but I felt so fabulous in my red dress that night. The drag queens nominated me for best dressed, which was an honor, but I'm glad the sequin-mini dress clad girls with pink wigs and bright sunglasses won. They looked perfect for the "bling" theme. Just feeling good about myself–– on the inside and outside–– was an award-winning experience for me and now I get to leave Mississippi with my dream dress, a new curling iron and some hot purple eye shadow.
Accents, "Mamaloochi," & "Dark Knight"
Several people have commented in the last week about my "accent," which cracks me up. I never think about the fact that I have an accent in others' minds. I don't say "Wrashington," like some North Westerners, so I'm not convinced that my dialect is that distinct. "It's so crisp and pronounced. You speak beautifully and gracefully," Jackie, a feisty former lawyer 60-something told me, as we prepared Chickball donations. She also told me, "You clean up well!" I've never understood: Is that a compliment or a snide remark? I really love listening to Southern accents, especially Jackie's and JoAnne's. They're so full of character and energy. I kind of half-hoped I'd adopt a drawl, but it doesn't look like that will happen. Keith, I'm sure, is relieved as I already tend to go through phases of speaking with faux accents.
Sunday was boring–– work-filled and an hour-long, sweaty walk. Monday, Mr. Engineer returned home to his boa constrictor and cat and promised to send us photos from Chickball. JoAnne and I talked in the afternoon about her son Graham's adventures around the west coast. He rode a bus called the "Green Tortoise" and at one point, hung out with Babbs and Kesey, which highly impressed me and brought me back to my fascination with the Beatniks, Merry Pranksters and Hippies. She couldn't remember the name of the bus at first, so she called Graham to fact-check. "Heyyyy Graham! This is your mamaloochi!" JoAnne said in her message. She proceeded to light her cigarette on a oven burner.
"God! This woman is fantastic!" I thought.
I think the world of JoAnne, as a person and creative soul, as I do Donna. For a school publication, KD, I'm writing a feature article about JoAnne and taking photos of her on the front porch swing with the kitties.
Monday night Alex and I saw "Dark Knight" after I finished chatting with JoAnne and scrambled to get to the airport to renew my hot red focus for another four weeks. I've anticipated this movie not because I am particularly interested in super heroes and the Batman series, but because I have loved Heath Ledger since I was 13-year-old watching "Knight's Tale" and "10 Things I Hate About You." This is my last chance to admire his acting. His untimely death stunned me and I have never felt so affected by a star's passing in my life. I cried so hard back in late January when I heard that my heart throb was gone and I was so proud of Keith when he told me he was having a Heath Ledger movie night yesterday.
"Dark Knight" was absolutely fantastic and delves into moral complexity like I haven't seen a movie do in awhile. The Joker is both terrifying and bewildering. I couldn't fall asleep Monday thinking about his performance. Heath deserves a posthumous Oscar. Period.
Extraño el español y México
Last summer I studied abroad in Central Mex. I miss Queretaro and its people so much. I latch on to Latino students at UO, hoping that by connecting with them, I'll indirectly connect with last summer's adventures. During spring term, I tutored Spanish-speaking students earning their GEDs.
Gustavo was one of my favorites. He was always so sweet and eager to improve his work, even when it meant staying two hours after classes everyday to get help. He and I wrote timed essays together and I "helped" him with math, although I think he could teach me more about fractions and decimals than I could teach him. Gustavo's mother died in late May, right before he took his GED exams. He teared up talking to me at our tutoring sessions and I was so worried he wouldn't make it through the exams because of emotional stress.
Tuesday Gustavo called to tell me he had passed his tests with flying colors and wants to go to community college next. I felt flattered that he picked up the phone to notify me and was completely thrown off when some man was speaking Spanish to me. It's been awhile, and I'm a little rusty. In August and September, Gustavo and I agreed to tutor each other in Spanish and English. I look forward to delving back into a language that I love and hope with all my might that one day I may live abroad for a long time to become fluent.
Here's to Gustavo for his hard work and determination to make a new life for himself!
Somewhere between the fourth of July festivities and going to a Mississippi Braves baseball game on Wednesday, I've felt completely and totally immersed in the essence of summer.
– Devouring messy, succulent watermelon, drinking imported ice-cold beers and discussing politics with Jackson's finest progressives–
I'm exactly halfway through my internship. Part of me is homesick for the Willamette Valley and the people in it, and part of me feels wonderfully acclimated to Mississippi living and the South's soul.
The sticky humidity increases day by day here with the higher-than-90 degree temperatures and I cannot wait to go for a swim in the ___ _____ (insert white supremacist governor's name here) Reservoir or a community pool. If there's one thing I miss about previous summers, it's lounging around at the Tennis Club as a lifeguard, teaching swim lessons every morning in the chilly waters and jumping in for an evening dip after everyone's gone home, watching a picturesque sunset fall over west Albany.
I don't follow sports too much, but baseball has a sentimental feeling for me that I experienced Wednesday. I remember watching Cal Ripkin's last game (I think) with the Orioles (we were rooting for the Red Sox, of course) and Rollerblading past the San Francisco Giant's new field in 2002 with my dad. Baseball doesn't attract as many meatheads as football does, and I love how quintessential summer it seems with "Take me out to the Ball Game" and everyone wearing flip-flops and shorts. Our Braves, which include a Salem, Ore. native, lost, but I enjoyed the greasy boxed pizza, good company and totally random mix of game music, regardless.
My more technological, passionate-about-video-games friends than I will be proud to know that I've finally played Guitar Hero, thanks to Shannon and Alex. I've always made fun of video games, even though I'm a hypocrite and get horribly sucked into facebook.com and checking e-mail myself, but I'll admit that "playing" Santana's "Black Magic Woman" on a plastic black guitar is a pretty exhilarating, confidence-boosting experience. Who knows? Maybe I'll come back to Oregon a Wii Wizard. (Don't hold your breath...). At the very least, I want to pick up my real guitar again when I return.
JFP: Cedric & Freedom Riders
Outside of fun summer evenings, I've stayed really busy at the Jackson Free Press for being an unpaid intern. I appreciate how much I'm learning and experiencing, despite the frustrating moments when I feel stupid and have to ask for help with the microfilm spools at the Department of Archives or spend two straight hours making the same business calls for Jackpedia. I love our intern class best and especially enjoyed our special guest last week.
I had read the JFP's series about Cedric Willis, "Deepest Midnight," before I came to Mississippi and was incredibly touched by it. Seeing Cedric walk through the JFP classroom in a bright red T-shirt, loose jeans and snazzy Adidas shoes with a humble smile moved me, profoundly.
"How the hell could such a decent, warm human being have been imprisoned 12 years for crimes he clearly didn't commit?" I asked myself throughout the time he spent with us. Cedric could have spent a lifetime in jail and faced capital punishment.
In 1994, Cedric, then 19, was arrested for "aggravated assault, rape, robbery and the murder of Carl White." His son was a newborn then and Cedric, a proud dad, was making a name for himself in Jackson after his rough high school years. He was completely innocent––"I'll be back right away, don't worry," he told his family confidently as the police took him to jail to stand in a line of suspects–– but he sat in jail for 12 years until the state of Mississippi finally exonerated his charges in 2006.
During that time, Cedric's beloved grandmother passed, his son grew up, and he desperately missed what he calls "the free world." In prison, he witnessed horribly violent acts and grew to completely distrust the state's justice system. Rightfully so.
My adrenaline rushed as Donna and Cedric spoke and I felt infuriated by the terrible injustice Cedric's case represented. Cedric spent just 45 minutes or so with us interns, but in that time, I re-evaluated everything I take for granted. "I even love opening the refrigerator," Cedric told us.
The judge who freed Cedric told him, "Son, the wheels of justice don't spin fast, but they do spin." Those words resound in my mind, nearly a week later, and especially today, ironically and poignantly, as Mississippi puts to death by lethal injection a man who acted in a murder as an accomplice, but did not give the deadly blows.
Cedric represents hope. Friday I will interview him about his past two years spent in freedom. I'm incredibly honored to report on this piece and anxious to be dealing with a topic so profound.
Also during our intern class we talked about our Freedom Riders articles. I'm horribly bashful about my writing and get nervous for peer editing, even though I blog openly and have been a student journalist since high school. That's why I have such a procrastination problem: I want it to be perfect and I get writers' block trying to pump out something spectacular to show people. I always preface that my drafts are not as good as I want them to be and work right up until the last second to edit my articles. But, the feedback was valuable and with each editing session, I become more relaxed and open to how I can improve my writing.
Chick weekend
Thursday evening JoAnne's "company" arrived. Since I came to stay with her, JoAnne has been mentioning that her friends were trying to set her up with a Floridian man. "I just don't know about these engineer types..." she has said, repeatedly. Allen, an inquisitive man with short receding gray hair and big brown eyes, and JoAnne hit it off, though, and spent the weekend together chatting on the porch swing about things political, philosophical and about everything else under the sun–– "Freud was a conceited fucker," I heard Allen say–– watching movies, and eating meals out.
Allen's a bit of a chatterbox and JoAnne had to periodically tell him her mind was too overloaded to hear more. I love her utter honesty. Monday, she took the day off to recoup from all of the chatting and constant hosting. Allen moved his luggage in Friday morning and stayed until Monday morning instead of crashing at his friends' place.
Friday I stayed in and prepared bean and cheese enchiladas and rice for the three of us–– Allen, JoAnne and me. We enjoyed watching a Youtube video of Joe Cocker singing while high at Woodstock. Later, Allen entertained me with his acid trip stories and we talked in-depth about dreams and his fears of a fascist takeover of the U.S. by the Republican party. I barely managed to get a word in, but he made me think, critically, and that felt good. Earlier, he walked in on me having a great conversation with Keith on Skype and waved, saying: "I'm staying with her crazy landlady this weekend!" I forgot Allen's name to introduce the two via webcam, and embarrassed, had to ask.
The JFP's Chickball highlighted last Saturday, besides Allen preparing us delicious mushroom and onion omelets and a discussion about effervescing pickles and cereal with secret red dye made to look like blood.
I envisioned a bunch of finely dressed Jacksonians listening to mesmerizing musical performances by female artists and dancing in a red-colored room with dim lighting while raising money for the Center Against Violence.
And that is exactly what the Chickball was like, plus a silent auction, delicious food from local eateries, "chicktinis," and drag queens. Rubber duckies with pink-feathered crowns lined the circular tables and sparkly lights illuminated the "red room," making a fun ambiance. Above all, it was an empowering evening, much akin to "Take Back the Night" and other celebrations of women's spirit and strength. We embraced our feminine sides,–– lipstick, curves, romance, fashion, hair-styling, and heels–– which can sometimes be challenging when you want to fight for gender equality, but it felt incredibly uplifting to assert our multiplicity as women.
I've always dreamed of finding a bright red ball gown to wear for special occasions. In high school, I wanted one for prom. I've even considered someday getting married in a bright red dress, as white dresses and veils seem Victorian and patriarchal. I found my dress–– a flowing, long, bright red number with diamond straps and a matching shawl–– for $12.99 at a consignment shop Friday and excitedly bought it for Chickball. I came home with it, immediately slipped it on and pranced about my bedroom in my matching red heels for at least 10 minutes, beaming. Saturday I returned to the "All About U" store and bought a dazzling pair of faux diamond clip-ons that made me feel like a movie star, especially when I smoothed my hair and styled it into loose curls.
Because of an emotionally painful high school dating experience and writing my public policy info hell topic about teen dating violence education, I feel compelled to someday work more extensively to eradicate domestic violence. I think I needed a little more distance from it to forge forward but now I want so much to make a difference, especially after hearing stories Saturday of two beautiful women, one a mother, who were murdered by their former lovers within a week of each other last September.
My eyes watered and my body quivered as I heard about Heather Spencer and Doris Shavers' brutal deaths and learned that their families and friends were among the Ball attendees. Helping on the Chickball set-up and throughout the evening made me feel like I played some part in the fight. We raised more than $14,000 for the Center Against Violence's "freedom van," which rescues victims and their children from abusive spouses, parents and family members and takes them to safe places. I loved the community synergy I sensed... all of the auction items, CD making, T-shirt designing, performances... everything was volunteer-based and made possible by donations. I could see myself going into public relations for non-profit organizations, especially ones that work to make the world a better place for endangered women.
The Little Red Dress
This may sound shallow, but I felt so fabulous in my red dress that night. The drag queens nominated me for best dressed, which was an honor, but I'm glad the sequin-mini dress clad girls with pink wigs and bright sunglasses won. They looked perfect for the "bling" theme. Just feeling good about myself–– on the inside and outside–– was an award-winning experience for me and now I get to leave Mississippi with my dream dress, a new curling iron and some hot purple eye shadow.
Accents, "Mamaloochi," & "Dark Knight"
Several people have commented in the last week about my "accent," which cracks me up. I never think about the fact that I have an accent in others' minds. I don't say "Wrashington," like some North Westerners, so I'm not convinced that my dialect is that distinct. "It's so crisp and pronounced. You speak beautifully and gracefully," Jackie, a feisty former lawyer 60-something told me, as we prepared Chickball donations. She also told me, "You clean up well!" I've never understood: Is that a compliment or a snide remark? I really love listening to Southern accents, especially Jackie's and JoAnne's. They're so full of character and energy. I kind of half-hoped I'd adopt a drawl, but it doesn't look like that will happen. Keith, I'm sure, is relieved as I already tend to go through phases of speaking with faux accents.
Sunday was boring–– work-filled and an hour-long, sweaty walk. Monday, Mr. Engineer returned home to his boa constrictor and cat and promised to send us photos from Chickball. JoAnne and I talked in the afternoon about her son Graham's adventures around the west coast. He rode a bus called the "Green Tortoise" and at one point, hung out with Babbs and Kesey, which highly impressed me and brought me back to my fascination with the Beatniks, Merry Pranksters and Hippies. She couldn't remember the name of the bus at first, so she called Graham to fact-check. "Heyyyy Graham! This is your mamaloochi!" JoAnne said in her message. She proceeded to light her cigarette on a oven burner.
"God! This woman is fantastic!" I thought.
I think the world of JoAnne, as a person and creative soul, as I do Donna. For a school publication, KD, I'm writing a feature article about JoAnne and taking photos of her on the front porch swing with the kitties.
Monday night Alex and I saw "Dark Knight" after I finished chatting with JoAnne and scrambled to get to the airport to renew my hot red focus for another four weeks. I've anticipated this movie not because I am particularly interested in super heroes and the Batman series, but because I have loved Heath Ledger since I was 13-year-old watching "Knight's Tale" and "10 Things I Hate About You." This is my last chance to admire his acting. His untimely death stunned me and I have never felt so affected by a star's passing in my life. I cried so hard back in late January when I heard that my heart throb was gone and I was so proud of Keith when he told me he was having a Heath Ledger movie night yesterday.
"Dark Knight" was absolutely fantastic and delves into moral complexity like I haven't seen a movie do in awhile. The Joker is both terrifying and bewildering. I couldn't fall asleep Monday thinking about his performance. Heath deserves a posthumous Oscar. Period.
Extraño el español y México
Last summer I studied abroad in Central Mex. I miss Queretaro and its people so much. I latch on to Latino students at UO, hoping that by connecting with them, I'll indirectly connect with last summer's adventures. During spring term, I tutored Spanish-speaking students earning their GEDs.
Gustavo was one of my favorites. He was always so sweet and eager to improve his work, even when it meant staying two hours after classes everyday to get help. He and I wrote timed essays together and I "helped" him with math, although I think he could teach me more about fractions and decimals than I could teach him. Gustavo's mother died in late May, right before he took his GED exams. He teared up talking to me at our tutoring sessions and I was so worried he wouldn't make it through the exams because of emotional stress.
Tuesday Gustavo called to tell me he had passed his tests with flying colors and wants to go to community college next. I felt flattered that he picked up the phone to notify me and was completely thrown off when some man was speaking Spanish to me. It's been awhile, and I'm a little rusty. In August and September, Gustavo and I agreed to tutor each other in Spanish and English. I look forward to delving back into a language that I love and hope with all my might that one day I may live abroad for a long time to become fluent.
Here's to Gustavo for his hard work and determination to make a new life for himself!
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Sweet Release
Mosquitoes usually love my blood, but I don’t think I’ve ever had this many bites in my life. I have to refrain in public from itching just below my butt and along my inner-thigh where those blasted insects preyed upon me while I sat outside late into the evening in my little black dress. Damn! It’s uncomfortable. Layered over my bites–– which extend to my ankles and neck–– is a light pink sunburn from a road trip to Yazoo City with JoAnne Sunday. I stupidly forgot to wear sunscreen under the blazing 100* rays.
Week four of my Southern summer adventures begins. I’m making no money, have minimal belongings here, accidentally give my neighbors to the left a peep show by periodically forgetting to close my curtains, creep on some pounds from beer and lack of rigorous exercise, and look like a wet, pouffy dog whenever I stay outside and move around for prolonged periods of time.
It’s been a fantastic summer, and I wouldn’t change a thing.
Thursday I attended my first JFP “lounge” at the Sal & Mookie’s bar. I have always thought of a salon as a hairstylist’s terrain, but after Donna mentioned it in passing, I did a Wikipedia check and realized the more common, overarching definition for it is “a gathering of men and women to participate in formal and informal discussion centered around a specific topic. A salonnière, the woman who ran the salon, decided upon its central preoccupation which may include politics, literature, art, fashion or business.”
A Jackson Free Press lounge is basically a monthly, less formal salon at a local restaurant with complimentary food and cocktails for penniless, hard-working interns (and staff). Besides enjoying the lounge, one other experience last week lingered with me–– in an unsettling way.
To mix things up on either Wednesday or Thursday, I pulled out my new snazzy red heels and wore them with a funky black and white patterned skirt. I go through phases of dressing fabulously (in my mind) with a hint of allure and looking like a schmuck. Right now, I’m somewhere in the middle.
I went to run errands that day in that outfit and a white man gave me the up-down and a whistle. I scowled and thought, “What a meathead asshole!” Just a few minutes later, though, when black man said “Hey baby!” with the same animalistic eye gesture, I smiled awkwardly. I felt dumbfounded that I couldn’t muster even a frown.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve tried to be overly nice to black people as an apology for our ugly history. Sadly, I don't have many black friends, nor the opportunity to encounter black people much at all back home. When that black man said “Hey baby,” all I could think about was the Emmett Till case–– how a black boy was murdered for innocently flirting with a white woman, calling her “baby” in the 1950s. And so, I didn’t feel entitled to get pissed at him--the black man who checked me out. At the same time, my feminist spirit raged with frustration that I couldn’t express my dissatisfaction with someone for degrading me as a woman.
There are not many black people in Oregon. Let’s face it: there’s not much racial diversity at all. I used to say that race did not define diversity–– that it was enough that the University of Oregon had students who spanned the spectrum of religious, philosophical and political leanings. But, it’s decidedly not, as I've learned living in the South.
In RA class during the spring of ’06, I naively agreed with those who said that we are all Ducks and we can all live harmoniously and find common ground between various racial identities easily. That’s Pollyanna thinking. At that time, I had never felt what it’s like to be the only white person in a room of black people.
It takes a lot more work than “counting yourself in” as a part of the universal humanity to transcend the unspoken chasms between racial groups and come to true understanding and mutual respect. Racial and ethnic idiosyncrasies are complicated and potentially divisive. Living in Mississippi has forced me to think about race on a daily basis and often feeling in the minority humbles me. When I return to Eugene, I think I'll be able to add more voice to conversations surrounding race. I vow to be a more active participant in these conversations.
On an aside, I dreamed Thursday night that I spent the afternoon with Obama strolling through Central Park :) I was crushed to wake up late Friday, covered in a layer of sticky sweat with Spotty hanging over my face.
Which leads me to an article I'm writing about an incredibly woman who is awed to see Barack Obama as our future President.
I interviewed a Freedom Rider named Helen Singleton in the afternoon and felt inspired the rest of the day, as I feel inspired by Obama every time I hear him speak. The only black women on her ride, Mrs. Singleton was separated from the others and listened to a rat trying to break through the pipes into her trash-ladden cell her first night in prison. She risked her life with her husband, Bob, to ignite racial integration in public transportation.
As I sat in that night to do some self introspection and watched the film “Freedom Writers” about inner-city kids infiltrated with violence who transform when a passionate teacher ignites their hunger for learning, I felt further uplifted from my afternoon interview. I continue to unravel what I’ve learned and realized here as I go. And, I’ve gotten a good taste of Jackson by learning these things here.
Saturday, world-class dancers visited for an International Ballet Competition Reunion Gala. A very generous man whom I interviewed gave me two fifth row seats to the performance and I took JoAnne as my date. We both donned our little black dresses and colorful accessories to the fancy affair at the Thalia Mara Hall. As usual, we arrived late–– we have similar habits that way––and had to make our way down the expansive hall just as the lights dimmed.
“Oh I think I remember him! He was good!” JoAnne excitedly announced in a loud whisper during the second performance. She reminded me of some family members (cough, DAD, cough) who play by their own social rules and don’t inhibit their natural curiosity even in more sophisticated, proper settings. I was especially amused when she tried to sneak a Coke behind a program into the auditorium at intermission and the usher caught her and told her she wasn’t allowed to have beverages in there.
Brooklyn Mack was the dancer JoAnne remembered. He fuses ballet with hip-hop and the results are spectacular. I enjoy classical ballet just fine, although some of the pieces like “Giselle” with the tutu-ed ballerina princesses put me in the first act head bob lull. The contemporary pieces captivated me and JoAnne, especially “I’m your Man” and “Bumpin’ me Against the Wall.” You see these sculpted bodies moving in such artful, lyrical ways and you wish you could move as beautifully, gracefully and magically.
A gorgeous, young couple with exquisite physical chemistry danced “I’m your Man.” Adrienne Canterna wore this bright red risqué number and her husband, Rasta Thomas, looked studly in a tight black T-shirt, black slacks and a fedora lined with a silk red scarf. The duo had a baby together just within the past year, but Adrienne looks incredibly svelte. They masterfully combined ballet with night club pizzaz and a touch of sexiness. Their piece reminded me of “Dirty Dancing.”
JoAnne and I spent more time together Sunday when we road tripped. On our way, we stopped at Poore’s plants for some flowers to place on Willie’s grave at the Yazoo City cemetery. A skinny old man with leathered tan skin and chicken stick legs greeted us. “Aftanoon, ladies,” he said, revealing a toothless grin under his fisherman’s hat. Bob or Bill or whatever his name was, remembered JoAnne as Willie’s girl and got chatty with us. “I needta be careful out heah. I got heat stroke last year and lost 40 pounds.”
Mr. Poore gave JoAnne a deal on four Lazy Susans and let us use his hair-covered bathroom (what kind of hair, I do not wish to know) in his nasty little shed house- work space. Before we left, Mr. Poore admitted to voting for Bush twice and wished us well. JoAnne’s eyes widened and she smirked at me as we pulled out onto the gravel road and headed toward one of her and Willie’s favorite, intriguing places. Mr. Poore told me I was a pretty little girl, and I laughed to myself.
Yazoo City looked just as I’d imagined it while reading “North Toward Home.” I looked to the left on the drive in JoAnne’s gray Camry and saw the old curvey highway lined with kudzu. The town hearkens to the 1950s to me and has a quaint Southern charm like the places you see in movies. I could see why JoAnne wanted to write a book about Yazoo back in the 1970s as a Humanities teacher at the high school. She delved into every archive she could get her hands on and with her friend Harriet, exhausted every word they could pump out about Yazoo’s history before they ran out of time and had to cut off the years they were able to cover. My butt stuck to the seat of JoAnne’s car and as she told these wonderful stories, I felt terrible that I drown in and out of the conversation, lulled by the drive and by staying up until 4a.m. the night before.
The cemetery where Willie rests combines old graves and new, black graves and white, Protestant graves and Catholic, rich graves and poor. It’s a serene, calming place filled with folklore and spirit. Under the beating sun, sweltering, we wandered to the Witch’s grave and paced 13 steps to Willie’s beautiful tombstone made out of a special, sparkling rock that lies under Manhattan. Bright orange flowers abounded from the root of his stone and we looked forward to brightening it up even more.
“I forgot my shovel!” JoAnne said with a hint of disappointment but determination to plant those Lazy Susans. We trudged to a disheveled shed and flower dumping ground where we found a shovel missing half its stick and goudered hoses with red ant hills underneath.
On our way back to plant, a kind man named Charlie called out to us and offered some assistance. I thought he was a cemetery maintenance man, but as it turned out, he was just out visiting his dad who had died four years earlier. He graduated from Yazoo High around the time JoAnne taught and they tossed names back and forth. Charlie attended high school in the early 70s just as the schools integrated there.
The ratty hoses and disabled shovel worked well. We splattered ourselves with water, muddied our hands and drank from the hose to rehydrate.
After spending a solid two or so hours in the cemetery, JoAnne traipsed me through the "delta land," hoping to show me cotton fields. We saw none. Instead, soy beans and corn grew for miles. Still, we drove through swamp land where grayish moss mysteriously hangs from trees and you can imagine alligators lurking.
We took a detour onto an old , rural road and seven miles later ran into a potbellied man wearing a short T-shirt that showed part of his tummy and tight fitting pants. “What’re y’all lookin’ for out here?” he asked, laughing deeply. Fugitives would love the area where this man lives. Abandoned shotgun-ish houses serve as the perfect refuge for those on the run.
In Bentonia, we stopped at the Blues Front Cafe. I was disappointed to hear that 930 Blues isn’t quite the entire, real deal blues joint. It “caters to white people’s money” and isn’t quite as folksy as the Bentonia place. There we met Duck, a dark black man who wears a Jesus shirt while interchangeably chain smoking and strumming freestyle blues ballads on his “geetar.” We sat outside at a dirty plastic white table in metal chairs, drinking Budweisers, eating fritos and “shootin the shit.” Flies swarmed around us and I felt like an overheated, lazy dog.
For dinner, we ate at a strange place with a tee pee attached to a log building called Big D’s BBQ. A nerdy man with circular glasses and a deep Southern accent prepared JoAnne and me sandwiches. “You ladeez haave yo-self a goood night!” he said with a quirkly smile.
In Jackson, seeing Medgar Evers ‘mint green ranch style house gave me the chills. I saw where Byron De La Beckwith hid before and after the assassination and was reminded that he was not brought to justice until 30 years after the crime. When Rob Reiner directed Ghosts of Mississippi, he reconstructed the story’s scenes with poignant and eery accuracy, even showing Evers' murder. Willie chronicled the movie's filming with "Ghost of Medgar Evers: A Tale of Race, Murder, Mississippi and Hollywood."
It’s 2a.m. Wednesday morning, and I’ve managed, in typical Lisa form, to procrastinate on two projects by getting caught up in other things, such as chronicling my week in blog. I can say, though, that after three weeks of interning and being an honorary Mississippian, I’m learning to release my fears and inhibitions while living in Jackson and it’s incredibly freeing. I no longer have any hesitations about picking up the phone, even to call the coroner’s office or incredible civil rights leaders, and feel enlivened every time I step out of my comfort zone or thumb through JoAnne’s home library books. One woman at the Eudora Welty Library told me this week that some people come here to Mississippi intending to stay temporarily and end up staying for years. “There’s this spirit and heart that draws them in,” she said. I can understand why.
But Oregon, I think you hold my heart, still.
Week four of my Southern summer adventures begins. I’m making no money, have minimal belongings here, accidentally give my neighbors to the left a peep show by periodically forgetting to close my curtains, creep on some pounds from beer and lack of rigorous exercise, and look like a wet, pouffy dog whenever I stay outside and move around for prolonged periods of time.
It’s been a fantastic summer, and I wouldn’t change a thing.
Thursday I attended my first JFP “lounge” at the Sal & Mookie’s bar. I have always thought of a salon as a hairstylist’s terrain, but after Donna mentioned it in passing, I did a Wikipedia check and realized the more common, overarching definition for it is “a gathering of men and women to participate in formal and informal discussion centered around a specific topic. A salonnière, the woman who ran the salon, decided upon its central preoccupation which may include politics, literature, art, fashion or business.”
A Jackson Free Press lounge is basically a monthly, less formal salon at a local restaurant with complimentary food and cocktails for penniless, hard-working interns (and staff). Besides enjoying the lounge, one other experience last week lingered with me–– in an unsettling way.
To mix things up on either Wednesday or Thursday, I pulled out my new snazzy red heels and wore them with a funky black and white patterned skirt. I go through phases of dressing fabulously (in my mind) with a hint of allure and looking like a schmuck. Right now, I’m somewhere in the middle.
I went to run errands that day in that outfit and a white man gave me the up-down and a whistle. I scowled and thought, “What a meathead asshole!” Just a few minutes later, though, when black man said “Hey baby!” with the same animalistic eye gesture, I smiled awkwardly. I felt dumbfounded that I couldn’t muster even a frown.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve tried to be overly nice to black people as an apology for our ugly history. Sadly, I don't have many black friends, nor the opportunity to encounter black people much at all back home. When that black man said “Hey baby,” all I could think about was the Emmett Till case–– how a black boy was murdered for innocently flirting with a white woman, calling her “baby” in the 1950s. And so, I didn’t feel entitled to get pissed at him--the black man who checked me out. At the same time, my feminist spirit raged with frustration that I couldn’t express my dissatisfaction with someone for degrading me as a woman.
There are not many black people in Oregon. Let’s face it: there’s not much racial diversity at all. I used to say that race did not define diversity–– that it was enough that the University of Oregon had students who spanned the spectrum of religious, philosophical and political leanings. But, it’s decidedly not, as I've learned living in the South.
In RA class during the spring of ’06, I naively agreed with those who said that we are all Ducks and we can all live harmoniously and find common ground between various racial identities easily. That’s Pollyanna thinking. At that time, I had never felt what it’s like to be the only white person in a room of black people.
It takes a lot more work than “counting yourself in” as a part of the universal humanity to transcend the unspoken chasms between racial groups and come to true understanding and mutual respect. Racial and ethnic idiosyncrasies are complicated and potentially divisive. Living in Mississippi has forced me to think about race on a daily basis and often feeling in the minority humbles me. When I return to Eugene, I think I'll be able to add more voice to conversations surrounding race. I vow to be a more active participant in these conversations.
On an aside, I dreamed Thursday night that I spent the afternoon with Obama strolling through Central Park :) I was crushed to wake up late Friday, covered in a layer of sticky sweat with Spotty hanging over my face.
Which leads me to an article I'm writing about an incredibly woman who is awed to see Barack Obama as our future President.
I interviewed a Freedom Rider named Helen Singleton in the afternoon and felt inspired the rest of the day, as I feel inspired by Obama every time I hear him speak. The only black women on her ride, Mrs. Singleton was separated from the others and listened to a rat trying to break through the pipes into her trash-ladden cell her first night in prison. She risked her life with her husband, Bob, to ignite racial integration in public transportation.
As I sat in that night to do some self introspection and watched the film “Freedom Writers” about inner-city kids infiltrated with violence who transform when a passionate teacher ignites their hunger for learning, I felt further uplifted from my afternoon interview. I continue to unravel what I’ve learned and realized here as I go. And, I’ve gotten a good taste of Jackson by learning these things here.
Saturday, world-class dancers visited for an International Ballet Competition Reunion Gala. A very generous man whom I interviewed gave me two fifth row seats to the performance and I took JoAnne as my date. We both donned our little black dresses and colorful accessories to the fancy affair at the Thalia Mara Hall. As usual, we arrived late–– we have similar habits that way––and had to make our way down the expansive hall just as the lights dimmed.
“Oh I think I remember him! He was good!” JoAnne excitedly announced in a loud whisper during the second performance. She reminded me of some family members (cough, DAD, cough) who play by their own social rules and don’t inhibit their natural curiosity even in more sophisticated, proper settings. I was especially amused when she tried to sneak a Coke behind a program into the auditorium at intermission and the usher caught her and told her she wasn’t allowed to have beverages in there.
Brooklyn Mack was the dancer JoAnne remembered. He fuses ballet with hip-hop and the results are spectacular. I enjoy classical ballet just fine, although some of the pieces like “Giselle” with the tutu-ed ballerina princesses put me in the first act head bob lull. The contemporary pieces captivated me and JoAnne, especially “I’m your Man” and “Bumpin’ me Against the Wall.” You see these sculpted bodies moving in such artful, lyrical ways and you wish you could move as beautifully, gracefully and magically.
A gorgeous, young couple with exquisite physical chemistry danced “I’m your Man.” Adrienne Canterna wore this bright red risqué number and her husband, Rasta Thomas, looked studly in a tight black T-shirt, black slacks and a fedora lined with a silk red scarf. The duo had a baby together just within the past year, but Adrienne looks incredibly svelte. They masterfully combined ballet with night club pizzaz and a touch of sexiness. Their piece reminded me of “Dirty Dancing.”
JoAnne and I spent more time together Sunday when we road tripped. On our way, we stopped at Poore’s plants for some flowers to place on Willie’s grave at the Yazoo City cemetery. A skinny old man with leathered tan skin and chicken stick legs greeted us. “Aftanoon, ladies,” he said, revealing a toothless grin under his fisherman’s hat. Bob or Bill or whatever his name was, remembered JoAnne as Willie’s girl and got chatty with us. “I needta be careful out heah. I got heat stroke last year and lost 40 pounds.”
Mr. Poore gave JoAnne a deal on four Lazy Susans and let us use his hair-covered bathroom (what kind of hair, I do not wish to know) in his nasty little shed house- work space. Before we left, Mr. Poore admitted to voting for Bush twice and wished us well. JoAnne’s eyes widened and she smirked at me as we pulled out onto the gravel road and headed toward one of her and Willie’s favorite, intriguing places. Mr. Poore told me I was a pretty little girl, and I laughed to myself.
Yazoo City looked just as I’d imagined it while reading “North Toward Home.” I looked to the left on the drive in JoAnne’s gray Camry and saw the old curvey highway lined with kudzu. The town hearkens to the 1950s to me and has a quaint Southern charm like the places you see in movies. I could see why JoAnne wanted to write a book about Yazoo back in the 1970s as a Humanities teacher at the high school. She delved into every archive she could get her hands on and with her friend Harriet, exhausted every word they could pump out about Yazoo’s history before they ran out of time and had to cut off the years they were able to cover. My butt stuck to the seat of JoAnne’s car and as she told these wonderful stories, I felt terrible that I drown in and out of the conversation, lulled by the drive and by staying up until 4a.m. the night before.
The cemetery where Willie rests combines old graves and new, black graves and white, Protestant graves and Catholic, rich graves and poor. It’s a serene, calming place filled with folklore and spirit. Under the beating sun, sweltering, we wandered to the Witch’s grave and paced 13 steps to Willie’s beautiful tombstone made out of a special, sparkling rock that lies under Manhattan. Bright orange flowers abounded from the root of his stone and we looked forward to brightening it up even more.
“I forgot my shovel!” JoAnne said with a hint of disappointment but determination to plant those Lazy Susans. We trudged to a disheveled shed and flower dumping ground where we found a shovel missing half its stick and goudered hoses with red ant hills underneath.
On our way back to plant, a kind man named Charlie called out to us and offered some assistance. I thought he was a cemetery maintenance man, but as it turned out, he was just out visiting his dad who had died four years earlier. He graduated from Yazoo High around the time JoAnne taught and they tossed names back and forth. Charlie attended high school in the early 70s just as the schools integrated there.
The ratty hoses and disabled shovel worked well. We splattered ourselves with water, muddied our hands and drank from the hose to rehydrate.
After spending a solid two or so hours in the cemetery, JoAnne traipsed me through the "delta land," hoping to show me cotton fields. We saw none. Instead, soy beans and corn grew for miles. Still, we drove through swamp land where grayish moss mysteriously hangs from trees and you can imagine alligators lurking.
We took a detour onto an old , rural road and seven miles later ran into a potbellied man wearing a short T-shirt that showed part of his tummy and tight fitting pants. “What’re y’all lookin’ for out here?” he asked, laughing deeply. Fugitives would love the area where this man lives. Abandoned shotgun-ish houses serve as the perfect refuge for those on the run.
In Bentonia, we stopped at the Blues Front Cafe. I was disappointed to hear that 930 Blues isn’t quite the entire, real deal blues joint. It “caters to white people’s money” and isn’t quite as folksy as the Bentonia place. There we met Duck, a dark black man who wears a Jesus shirt while interchangeably chain smoking and strumming freestyle blues ballads on his “geetar.” We sat outside at a dirty plastic white table in metal chairs, drinking Budweisers, eating fritos and “shootin the shit.” Flies swarmed around us and I felt like an overheated, lazy dog.
For dinner, we ate at a strange place with a tee pee attached to a log building called Big D’s BBQ. A nerdy man with circular glasses and a deep Southern accent prepared JoAnne and me sandwiches. “You ladeez haave yo-self a goood night!” he said with a quirkly smile.
In Jackson, seeing Medgar Evers ‘mint green ranch style house gave me the chills. I saw where Byron De La Beckwith hid before and after the assassination and was reminded that he was not brought to justice until 30 years after the crime. When Rob Reiner directed Ghosts of Mississippi, he reconstructed the story’s scenes with poignant and eery accuracy, even showing Evers' murder. Willie chronicled the movie's filming with "Ghost of Medgar Evers: A Tale of Race, Murder, Mississippi and Hollywood."
It’s 2a.m. Wednesday morning, and I’ve managed, in typical Lisa form, to procrastinate on two projects by getting caught up in other things, such as chronicling my week in blog. I can say, though, that after three weeks of interning and being an honorary Mississippian, I’m learning to release my fears and inhibitions while living in Jackson and it’s incredibly freeing. I no longer have any hesitations about picking up the phone, even to call the coroner’s office or incredible civil rights leaders, and feel enlivened every time I step out of my comfort zone or thumb through JoAnne’s home library books. One woman at the Eudora Welty Library told me this week that some people come here to Mississippi intending to stay temporarily and end up staying for years. “There’s this spirit and heart that draws them in,” she said. I can understand why.
But Oregon, I think you hold my heart, still.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Roadtrippin' boiled peanuts, car watering, 930 Blues & self-improvement
She crawls into my lap and begs for my attention. "Come on, sweetie, I'm trying to write!" I tell her as politely as possible as I attempt to plow ahead with my self-imposed work. I ask her to stop rubbing against my leg and chatting with me, but she insists on preoccupying my time, on getting her needs satisfied. She walks in on me while I'm changing, meanders through my room while I'm trying to sleep, and develops an attitude problem when I don't focus solely on her. And, sometimes, she brings me presents, like lizards and plastic balls.
I love Spotty and her fellow felines, Mister and Buddy, that rule JoAnne's house. They remind a lot of my beloved childhood cat Licorice with their quirky, curious spirit. Spotty, especially, with her beautiful black coat, tuxedo markings and mannerisms just like our old boy evokes nostalgia whenever she comes around. Right now though, I'm having a tough time typing as Spotty perpetually walks across my chest, from the left side of the red couch to the right and back with her butt in my face and tail swagging . Oh, cats.
930 Blues Cafe made every ounce my soul feel alive. I've never experienced live music so profoundly in a venue with such personality, at least not for a long time. The smoke-ladden, folksy bar with deep blue and red hued walls, sparkly lights and cramped quarters beckons you to climb its narrow staircase, grab a drink, listen to hours of blues that hearken to the Mo-town days, and move out on that tiny dance floor. You’ll find yourself singing along to song after song almost in a daze, unaware of how much you’re getting into the music, swinging your hips and imagining you’re just rhythmic and smooth as those musicians in front of you.
Maybe I’m exaggerating, which I tend to do when I find experiences to be amazing and hang on highs, but the musicians, many of whom I would guess were self-taught in their younger years, enchanted me as they performed some of my favorite classics like “When a Man Loves a Woman,” “Foxey Lady” and “Sittin’ by the Dock of the Bay.” That is, minus the creepy singer with greased back hair and a black, silk jumpsuit who pelvic thrusted and sang blatantly about sex.
The 60 or 70 something- looking guitarist, though, had an endurance to his playing that reminded me of Santana when he gets in his zone. At several points I lost track of my surroundings I was so into the music and looked over to see a bitchy-looking stereotypical sorority sisterish girl smoking a cig and laughing at me while I lip-synched and head-bobbed to “Whiter Shade of Pale.” I’m usually a self-conscious person, but you know what? I really don’t obsess anymore about what people think of me anymore.
“Guuuuurllll! Who you lookin’ at?” I wanted to reply, with a sassy finger snap. That, however, would have been heinously awkward coming from my mouth. I turned around and smiled, returning to the entertainment.
Despite my wanting to dance, I sat out most of the evening until the very end. Once Bryan hopped up there and good-naturedly danced with an intoxicated middle-aged black woman, I followed suite and danced with some crazy-tall and skinny red-head from Kentucky who asked me to come up. Being out there, even for a few minutes, reminded me of Anna’s birthday party in 2007 when we cleared the living room and danced our hearts out to “Dancing in the Moonlight.” I emerged from the bar reeking of smoke, hair stuck to my neck like a wet dog, sticky from the proximity to everyone, and incredibly satiated.
I’m elated from Thursday, still, and hope to return this week to 930 Blues, if my weakling, quasi-asthmatic lungs can handle a little more smoke coating. I love being 21 and getting into all of these cool venues. That probably sounds like a naive thing to state, but at least I’m not blasé in my 20s. Being here is almost as exciting as was being in a foreign country last summer.
Saturday was exhilarating in an adventurous and investigative reporting way–– its own right. I have vivid memories of following my dad around to interviews and events as a child. Once when we went out to Halsey for some meeting he needed to cover, he stopped the car and told me that he and my “mom had decided to move to the country with me and Anna to take up farming.” I think I almost cried and was certainly ready to jump out of the car and run away from him. Besides that experience, I fondly recall how fun and exciting it was to follow Dad around and stop in the newsroom to make countless drawings on scrap paper that he kindly hung around his desk.
Saturday I relived that same sort of childlike feeling of adventure but as an adult following Donna on one of her reporting expeditions. Now, because her story hasn’t come out yet, I can’t reveal exactly what we were doing, but basically we sought photos of a recently executed man (under the death penalty) from his mother.
For two hours, Donna and I followed the Natchez Trace road in my faithful and beautiful fire-red Focus that I’m never going to want to return, steeping into a drowsy lull that made us yawn constantly. Just as we pulled into Mantee, a tiny dot on the map in Northeast Miss., we decided to stop for some snacks so that we wouldn’t fall asleep at Mrs. Berry’s house.
Usually convenience stores across the board have a pretty decent selection of junk food, alcohol, candy, energy drinks, soda, and various other staple items but this place, with its disheveled aisles, lack of somewhat-decent food items and run-down appearance was the most po-dunk store I’ve seen, even in comparison to some of the Mexican shack stores. Donna and I bought the most disgustingly unhealthy collections of food and devoured it in the store’s parking lot we were so hungry. We downed sugary fruit drinks and cracked boiled peanuts in our laps, continually moving our hands from the peanut container to our mouths. On top of that, I ate a 1/2 can of Pringles and a package of m&ms.
Donna directed me to Mrs. Berry’s. And now, I can’t write more until further notice but I’ll just say that I learned a lot about reporting in tough situations and journalism ethics. After we finished at Mrs. Berry’s, we followed a dusty gravel road to Earl Berry’s (the son) grave. As the road continued further and further, ominous scenarios ran through my mind about what could happen to me and Donna. I was comforted by her idea that “we can’t live in a fear-based world.” As we stopped in front of a pink church with a well that sat in front of the cemetery, I grabbed my keys and stuck the biggest between my 2nd and 3rd fingers for good measure.
I watched Donna take notes about the grave and I snapped photos. Earl was buried next to his father in late May, just two months after James Berry died of cancer. Both graves are marked only by cheap, plastic things and Earl’s brother engraved a rock with his date of birth and death. Plastic flowers abound from the Berrys’ resting place, in looms of colors and styles.
As we wound our way back to Mantee and returned to the Natchez Trace, I felt glad to experience something more deep, dark and profound while reporting. If I’m going to be a writer, I’m going to do it right and try to work for change and meaning instead of writing stupid things no one cares about except me because I get a byline and blah clip.
On a side detour, Donna took me through her college town in Starkville (Mississippi State University). I thought campus was beautiful–– open, lots of modern brick buildings, a huge pond, beautiful and elegant maroon signs. Famished despite our afternoon feast at the po-dung store, Donna and I ate an overpriced Italian chain with fatty servings of overfilled manicotti. I enjoyed listening to her stories, just like I enjoy JoAnne’s. Donna and I think similarly about green living, vegetarianism, simplifying and supporting Obama this fall.
I love that she is an extremely talented, professional and incredible investigative journalist and alternative weekly newspaper editor, but she’s not closed about her political leanings or beliefs. She is both ethical and fair, but up front about her biases and as active a community member as they come. I appreciate how she gives interns so much room to explore what they’re interested in and cut their teeth at the JFP.
Sunday morning I meant to wake up at 8a.m. but after hitting the snooze button repeatedly for three hours, I rolled out of bed in my multicolor striped PJ pants and equally colorful tank top and walked to the porch after hearing commotion from the front yard. When I looked out and saw JoAnne’s car filled with greenery and her watering it, I thought I was going to pee my pants I laughed so hard.
She explained that she had to go out early that morning to collect greens from random yards and other public spots because she didn’t have enough of her own to decorate a space for a Eudora Welty teachers conference at Belhaven College. Beyond the greenery, she had 50 roses, a collection of vases, and other flowers in her car. I realized that she had the greens in vases and wasn’t directly watering the car, which was good. Still though, that initial imagery of her hosing the ferns inside the car put me in stitches.
Yesterday afternoon and evening, I walked for an hour in Spandex pants, which is something I’ve never done. I looked like a spectacle with my bright blue T-shirt, crazy frizzy hair, I-Pod, handful of carry-alongs, and book in tow–– I read while I walk to double task–– but I figured that while I’m down here I might as well do as much as I can out of my comfort zone and wearing Spandex in public is just that.
I jokingly tell people that my I-Pod holds some random songs, some of which are pretty stupid, sappy or overplayed but the more I listen to my mix, the more I appreciate my eclectic taste. Who else can say they have Disney Princess music, Carole King, Ben Harper, Ludacris and the Hairspray soundtrack all on the same playlist? I have crazy lioness hair that I don’t brush enough, wear clothes from Goodwill, eat too much chocolate, procrastinate my ass off, lack rhythm, and get shy at the most inopportune moments.
And, I’m learning to revel in and capitalize on my eccentricities instead of negating them and striving to be someone else. I’m all about self-improvement–– physically, emotionally, mentally, professionally, and spiritually–– but I’m also all about being true to one’s inner core and letting our freak flags fly, tride and true. It’s funny that as I’m least in my element–– in a totally different place–– I’m becoming most in synch with myself.
And that’s a freeing feeling.
I love Spotty and her fellow felines, Mister and Buddy, that rule JoAnne's house. They remind a lot of my beloved childhood cat Licorice with their quirky, curious spirit. Spotty, especially, with her beautiful black coat, tuxedo markings and mannerisms just like our old boy evokes nostalgia whenever she comes around. Right now though, I'm having a tough time typing as Spotty perpetually walks across my chest, from the left side of the red couch to the right and back with her butt in my face and tail swagging . Oh, cats.
930 Blues Cafe made every ounce my soul feel alive. I've never experienced live music so profoundly in a venue with such personality, at least not for a long time. The smoke-ladden, folksy bar with deep blue and red hued walls, sparkly lights and cramped quarters beckons you to climb its narrow staircase, grab a drink, listen to hours of blues that hearken to the Mo-town days, and move out on that tiny dance floor. You’ll find yourself singing along to song after song almost in a daze, unaware of how much you’re getting into the music, swinging your hips and imagining you’re just rhythmic and smooth as those musicians in front of you.
Maybe I’m exaggerating, which I tend to do when I find experiences to be amazing and hang on highs, but the musicians, many of whom I would guess were self-taught in their younger years, enchanted me as they performed some of my favorite classics like “When a Man Loves a Woman,” “Foxey Lady” and “Sittin’ by the Dock of the Bay.” That is, minus the creepy singer with greased back hair and a black, silk jumpsuit who pelvic thrusted and sang blatantly about sex.
The 60 or 70 something- looking guitarist, though, had an endurance to his playing that reminded me of Santana when he gets in his zone. At several points I lost track of my surroundings I was so into the music and looked over to see a bitchy-looking stereotypical sorority sisterish girl smoking a cig and laughing at me while I lip-synched and head-bobbed to “Whiter Shade of Pale.” I’m usually a self-conscious person, but you know what? I really don’t obsess anymore about what people think of me anymore.
“Guuuuurllll! Who you lookin’ at?” I wanted to reply, with a sassy finger snap. That, however, would have been heinously awkward coming from my mouth. I turned around and smiled, returning to the entertainment.
Despite my wanting to dance, I sat out most of the evening until the very end. Once Bryan hopped up there and good-naturedly danced with an intoxicated middle-aged black woman, I followed suite and danced with some crazy-tall and skinny red-head from Kentucky who asked me to come up. Being out there, even for a few minutes, reminded me of Anna’s birthday party in 2007 when we cleared the living room and danced our hearts out to “Dancing in the Moonlight.” I emerged from the bar reeking of smoke, hair stuck to my neck like a wet dog, sticky from the proximity to everyone, and incredibly satiated.
I’m elated from Thursday, still, and hope to return this week to 930 Blues, if my weakling, quasi-asthmatic lungs can handle a little more smoke coating. I love being 21 and getting into all of these cool venues. That probably sounds like a naive thing to state, but at least I’m not blasé in my 20s. Being here is almost as exciting as was being in a foreign country last summer.
Saturday was exhilarating in an adventurous and investigative reporting way–– its own right. I have vivid memories of following my dad around to interviews and events as a child. Once when we went out to Halsey for some meeting he needed to cover, he stopped the car and told me that he and my “mom had decided to move to the country with me and Anna to take up farming.” I think I almost cried and was certainly ready to jump out of the car and run away from him. Besides that experience, I fondly recall how fun and exciting it was to follow Dad around and stop in the newsroom to make countless drawings on scrap paper that he kindly hung around his desk.
Saturday I relived that same sort of childlike feeling of adventure but as an adult following Donna on one of her reporting expeditions. Now, because her story hasn’t come out yet, I can’t reveal exactly what we were doing, but basically we sought photos of a recently executed man (under the death penalty) from his mother.
For two hours, Donna and I followed the Natchez Trace road in my faithful and beautiful fire-red Focus that I’m never going to want to return, steeping into a drowsy lull that made us yawn constantly. Just as we pulled into Mantee, a tiny dot on the map in Northeast Miss., we decided to stop for some snacks so that we wouldn’t fall asleep at Mrs. Berry’s house.
Usually convenience stores across the board have a pretty decent selection of junk food, alcohol, candy, energy drinks, soda, and various other staple items but this place, with its disheveled aisles, lack of somewhat-decent food items and run-down appearance was the most po-dunk store I’ve seen, even in comparison to some of the Mexican shack stores. Donna and I bought the most disgustingly unhealthy collections of food and devoured it in the store’s parking lot we were so hungry. We downed sugary fruit drinks and cracked boiled peanuts in our laps, continually moving our hands from the peanut container to our mouths. On top of that, I ate a 1/2 can of Pringles and a package of m&ms.
Donna directed me to Mrs. Berry’s. And now, I can’t write more until further notice but I’ll just say that I learned a lot about reporting in tough situations and journalism ethics. After we finished at Mrs. Berry’s, we followed a dusty gravel road to Earl Berry’s (the son) grave. As the road continued further and further, ominous scenarios ran through my mind about what could happen to me and Donna. I was comforted by her idea that “we can’t live in a fear-based world.” As we stopped in front of a pink church with a well that sat in front of the cemetery, I grabbed my keys and stuck the biggest between my 2nd and 3rd fingers for good measure.
I watched Donna take notes about the grave and I snapped photos. Earl was buried next to his father in late May, just two months after James Berry died of cancer. Both graves are marked only by cheap, plastic things and Earl’s brother engraved a rock with his date of birth and death. Plastic flowers abound from the Berrys’ resting place, in looms of colors and styles.
As we wound our way back to Mantee and returned to the Natchez Trace, I felt glad to experience something more deep, dark and profound while reporting. If I’m going to be a writer, I’m going to do it right and try to work for change and meaning instead of writing stupid things no one cares about except me because I get a byline and blah clip.
On a side detour, Donna took me through her college town in Starkville (Mississippi State University). I thought campus was beautiful–– open, lots of modern brick buildings, a huge pond, beautiful and elegant maroon signs. Famished despite our afternoon feast at the po-dung store, Donna and I ate an overpriced Italian chain with fatty servings of overfilled manicotti. I enjoyed listening to her stories, just like I enjoy JoAnne’s. Donna and I think similarly about green living, vegetarianism, simplifying and supporting Obama this fall.
I love that she is an extremely talented, professional and incredible investigative journalist and alternative weekly newspaper editor, but she’s not closed about her political leanings or beliefs. She is both ethical and fair, but up front about her biases and as active a community member as they come. I appreciate how she gives interns so much room to explore what they’re interested in and cut their teeth at the JFP.
Sunday morning I meant to wake up at 8a.m. but after hitting the snooze button repeatedly for three hours, I rolled out of bed in my multicolor striped PJ pants and equally colorful tank top and walked to the porch after hearing commotion from the front yard. When I looked out and saw JoAnne’s car filled with greenery and her watering it, I thought I was going to pee my pants I laughed so hard.
She explained that she had to go out early that morning to collect greens from random yards and other public spots because she didn’t have enough of her own to decorate a space for a Eudora Welty teachers conference at Belhaven College. Beyond the greenery, she had 50 roses, a collection of vases, and other flowers in her car. I realized that she had the greens in vases and wasn’t directly watering the car, which was good. Still though, that initial imagery of her hosing the ferns inside the car put me in stitches.
Yesterday afternoon and evening, I walked for an hour in Spandex pants, which is something I’ve never done. I looked like a spectacle with my bright blue T-shirt, crazy frizzy hair, I-Pod, handful of carry-alongs, and book in tow–– I read while I walk to double task–– but I figured that while I’m down here I might as well do as much as I can out of my comfort zone and wearing Spandex in public is just that.
I jokingly tell people that my I-Pod holds some random songs, some of which are pretty stupid, sappy or overplayed but the more I listen to my mix, the more I appreciate my eclectic taste. Who else can say they have Disney Princess music, Carole King, Ben Harper, Ludacris and the Hairspray soundtrack all on the same playlist? I have crazy lioness hair that I don’t brush enough, wear clothes from Goodwill, eat too much chocolate, procrastinate my ass off, lack rhythm, and get shy at the most inopportune moments.
And, I’m learning to revel in and capitalize on my eccentricities instead of negating them and striving to be someone else. I’m all about self-improvement–– physically, emotionally, mentally, professionally, and spiritually–– but I’m also all about being true to one’s inner core and letting our freak flags fly, tride and true. It’s funny that as I’m least in my element–– in a totally different place–– I’m becoming most in synch with myself.
And that’s a freeing feeling.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
"Sail Away from the Safe Harbor, Catch the Tradewinds in Your Sails"
I lazed about on the fourth of the July, and felt relieved to slow down and let myself realign after going, going, going for two fun and amazing but jam-packed weeks. JoAnne left for New Orleans Thursday, so the house was quiet and I slept until 1p.m. Friday. Donna was correct when she said that JoAnne's house is perfect for relaxing and catching up on good books. I love the cozy, comfy ambiance it offers and the creativity it invokes. I also love how refreshingly chilly she keeps it. When I returned dripping in sweat and ready to pass out from an hour-long walk in the afternoon, I plodded through the front door and collapsed into her red couch, savoring the rigid air conditioning.
Donna and Todd invited me to a 4th party, so between my sleeping in late and going to bed at 10:30p.m., I slipped in some socializing and celebrating. I usually don't give a rat's ass about independence day but I feel more patriotic knowing that Bush will be gone within the year and Obama will revolutionize this country with some radical, sweet CHANGE. I can't even acknowledge the fact that McCain could win. That would just be beyond my realm of comprehension and I will undoubtedly cry huge crocodile tears of utter disgust and angst if we elect George McCain.
I'm glad I went to the party, despite my lack of interest in celebrating our country. July 4 is a good excuse to eat delicious food, be around wonderful people and let off some fireworks. We did all of these things except the fireworks because they are not legal–– even the small ones–– within Jackson. And, I suppose there are some great liberties we have to be thankful for here. Women's rights (to a degree) and a democratic system stand out to me, especially in light of Mugabe's recent reinstatement of power in Zimbabwe.
The group encompassed the most progressive, liberal community members plus a few random Republicans. I love being around these people, but I'm beginning to wonder if I'm not getting a full taste of Jackson since I have yet to meet a conservative. Actually, I take that back. JoAnne introduced me to her lawyer neighbor then said "She's a Republican but I forgive her. She doesn't know any better." But, I have yet to become friends with any conservatives.
Barbecue dishes, casseroles, dips, chips, brownies, and lemon bars lined the table in the dining room. The exquisite house, located in a "Leave it to Beaver" style neighborhood, bustled with guests of all ages. Patriotic marching band music moved me to hysterics and I was refreshed to hear some '60s classics like "American Pie." I enjoyed three "fancy" beers (imported from Europe and Latin America) and several helpings of dessert after devouring my Bocca burger. Everyone looked festive in bright red, blue and while ensembles and I felt like I was in the essence of summer with the ice-cold beers, summer foods, laid-back conversations, and dusk's cool breeze. I enjoyed speaking to the youngest daughter, Elizabeth, who recently graduated from a small liberal arts MA college and plans to attend med school in the fall of '09. She was one of those down-to-earth, brilliant people who you knew was way too modest about her accomplishments and intellect.
She and her friend told me about debutante balls, which are social "coming out" celebrations for 19-year-old women in country club families. Basically, they said, it's an old-fashioned but fun tradition–– a good excuse to wear ridiculous clothing and get drunk. Beauty pageants here are over-the-top in comparison to anything I've heard of in the Northwest. As Elizabeth's friend said, "Mississippi has the most beautiful women in the country because they're all so vain." I'm tempted to bring a weekly or monthly publication home that highlights the young beauties here. "Haley May ______ , 18, is a 4.0 student, three sport athlete, volunteer for the shut-in elderly," blah, blah, blah. Another intern, Natalie and I laughed so hard when we read through some of the descriptions while working on the media literary project last week. I make fun of this cultural phenomenon, but I have to admit that I was thrilled to be on prom court in high school and even more thrilled to be crowned queen. There's something enchanting about it all.
Wednesday and Thursday this week I stayed busy at the Jackson Free Press. I had the opportunity to interview a phenomenal Latina women who worked to bring a multicultural business conference to Jackson. She came to the United States as a college student to learn English without any prior knowledge of the language. As a kid, she lived in various Latin American countries including Peru, Colombia and Chile. She chose to study at Southern Mississippi University because there she would be completely out of her comfort zone, away from the familiarness of a large city with many immigrants and in the heart of the South. There, she met the love of her life and married him right out of college. The young duo moved to the Middle East amid the war in Iraq and worked on the Dubai hotels. Now, she works at the visitor and convention bureau. I know this is silly to say, but I love being around Latinos. They remind me of my magical summer in Mexico and my amazing host family, who I miss tremendously.
One stupid thing I did was forget the CF card for Paola's "photo shoot." GRRR I hate forgetting camera equipment. Later that day, I went for an evening stroll and listened to my I-Pod comfort songs that include "Don't Wanna Close My Eyes" and "Wonderful Tonight." I've committed myself to going on at least one 30 minute walk per day so that I don't get a pot belly from drinking beer more often than usual and trying Southern delicacies. I do miss my bike, rollerblades and the hiking trails at home. Walking in stuffy, sticky air isn't quite the same. Then again, Oregon has held temperatures in the 100s this week during the track and field Olympic Trials.
Wednesday night I drank my first Mississippi mudslide in Mississippi and watched a Braves game with Alex at a cool Irish pub called Fenian's. It reminded me a lot of Renny's, which then spurred memories from my birthday and APO's rendezvous. Thursday was like a Friday, which felt good since I haven't had Friday classes for two terms. JoAnne drove me out to pick up some New York Times for Donna's intern class and I went on another "scenic tour" of Jackson afterward. Seriously, I need a sense of direction inserted into my brain. I cannot imagine what will happen when I'm old and senile.
Work Thursday went wonderfully, although I've been frustrated trying to contact a Freedom Rider for my feature article. I've been working on Jessie Harris, who supposedly lives in the area. One woman said that I had the right Jessie Harris, the Freedom Rider Jessie Harris, but preceded to tell me he had "gone to be with Jesus more than a year ago." My co-intern Marquez, however, knows another Freedom Rider who says Jessie was out playing golf Thursday...
Maha and I went out to do street talk in the afternoon. Basically, we ask random people random questions and take their photos. I loved using the Canon SLR once again. It feels so familiar and I have grown to really enjoy photojournalism since I took a course last term. Our question was about the new smoking ban in restaurants. To be honest, I don't completely understand what all the ban includes, but we got some interesting responses.
I was thrilled to receive an e-mail in the afternoon from the International Ballet Competition public relations director. She gave me two tickets to next week's reunion gala. Luckily, I can accept the tickets without an ethics code breach because I wrote my IBC article before she offered me the tickets. I invited JoAnne to be my "date" for the evening and am so excited to experience something that's so significant to Jackson.
Donna prepared all the 21 and older JFPers margaritas. We sat around in the ad room, sipping our drinks and eating chips. I love the JFP. The people. The critical thought. The mentality. The in-depth coverage. The quirky personalities. The charisma. Everything. Especially in contrast to my last job as an RA, I'm in a much happier place interning for a newspaper and leading a more creative, open lifestyle.
After I finished at the office and let my margarita settle, I drove to the library to see if Bryan needed help on his day-long library work session for the media literacy project. I'm so glad I stopped by because afterward, I joined him and his long-time friend, Derrick, for dinner at a place with falafel (yum!) and experienced the most soul-filled music venue I've encountered. Wow, is all I have to say. 930 Blues Cafe gets an A plus in my book and more to come on that once I transcribe the notes I took.
Today marks the beginning of my third week in Mississippi. I feel a sense of belonging here, especially while I read one of Willie's classics, "'North Toward Home" and am introduced to deep Southern traditions, like blues music and July 4 festivities. As I learn what makes the South special for its people, I feel called to ponder what makes Oregon special for me, what I value in a place. I feel this unrelentless urge to be immersed in my twenties and not let anything hold me back from experiencing the world and stretching out of my comfort zone. The quote that my mom penned on my most recent birthday card, sticks in my mind.
"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the tradewinds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." -attributed to Mark Twain
Donna and Todd invited me to a 4th party, so between my sleeping in late and going to bed at 10:30p.m., I slipped in some socializing and celebrating. I usually don't give a rat's ass about independence day but I feel more patriotic knowing that Bush will be gone within the year and Obama will revolutionize this country with some radical, sweet CHANGE. I can't even acknowledge the fact that McCain could win. That would just be beyond my realm of comprehension and I will undoubtedly cry huge crocodile tears of utter disgust and angst if we elect George McCain.
I'm glad I went to the party, despite my lack of interest in celebrating our country. July 4 is a good excuse to eat delicious food, be around wonderful people and let off some fireworks. We did all of these things except the fireworks because they are not legal–– even the small ones–– within Jackson. And, I suppose there are some great liberties we have to be thankful for here. Women's rights (to a degree) and a democratic system stand out to me, especially in light of Mugabe's recent reinstatement of power in Zimbabwe.
The group encompassed the most progressive, liberal community members plus a few random Republicans. I love being around these people, but I'm beginning to wonder if I'm not getting a full taste of Jackson since I have yet to meet a conservative. Actually, I take that back. JoAnne introduced me to her lawyer neighbor then said "She's a Republican but I forgive her. She doesn't know any better." But, I have yet to become friends with any conservatives.
Barbecue dishes, casseroles, dips, chips, brownies, and lemon bars lined the table in the dining room. The exquisite house, located in a "Leave it to Beaver" style neighborhood, bustled with guests of all ages. Patriotic marching band music moved me to hysterics and I was refreshed to hear some '60s classics like "American Pie." I enjoyed three "fancy" beers (imported from Europe and Latin America) and several helpings of dessert after devouring my Bocca burger. Everyone looked festive in bright red, blue and while ensembles and I felt like I was in the essence of summer with the ice-cold beers, summer foods, laid-back conversations, and dusk's cool breeze. I enjoyed speaking to the youngest daughter, Elizabeth, who recently graduated from a small liberal arts MA college and plans to attend med school in the fall of '09. She was one of those down-to-earth, brilliant people who you knew was way too modest about her accomplishments and intellect.
She and her friend told me about debutante balls, which are social "coming out" celebrations for 19-year-old women in country club families. Basically, they said, it's an old-fashioned but fun tradition–– a good excuse to wear ridiculous clothing and get drunk. Beauty pageants here are over-the-top in comparison to anything I've heard of in the Northwest. As Elizabeth's friend said, "Mississippi has the most beautiful women in the country because they're all so vain." I'm tempted to bring a weekly or monthly publication home that highlights the young beauties here. "Haley May ______ , 18, is a 4.0 student, three sport athlete, volunteer for the shut-in elderly," blah, blah, blah. Another intern, Natalie and I laughed so hard when we read through some of the descriptions while working on the media literary project last week. I make fun of this cultural phenomenon, but I have to admit that I was thrilled to be on prom court in high school and even more thrilled to be crowned queen. There's something enchanting about it all.
Wednesday and Thursday this week I stayed busy at the Jackson Free Press. I had the opportunity to interview a phenomenal Latina women who worked to bring a multicultural business conference to Jackson. She came to the United States as a college student to learn English without any prior knowledge of the language. As a kid, she lived in various Latin American countries including Peru, Colombia and Chile. She chose to study at Southern Mississippi University because there she would be completely out of her comfort zone, away from the familiarness of a large city with many immigrants and in the heart of the South. There, she met the love of her life and married him right out of college. The young duo moved to the Middle East amid the war in Iraq and worked on the Dubai hotels. Now, she works at the visitor and convention bureau. I know this is silly to say, but I love being around Latinos. They remind me of my magical summer in Mexico and my amazing host family, who I miss tremendously.
One stupid thing I did was forget the CF card for Paola's "photo shoot." GRRR I hate forgetting camera equipment. Later that day, I went for an evening stroll and listened to my I-Pod comfort songs that include "Don't Wanna Close My Eyes" and "Wonderful Tonight." I've committed myself to going on at least one 30 minute walk per day so that I don't get a pot belly from drinking beer more often than usual and trying Southern delicacies. I do miss my bike, rollerblades and the hiking trails at home. Walking in stuffy, sticky air isn't quite the same. Then again, Oregon has held temperatures in the 100s this week during the track and field Olympic Trials.
Wednesday night I drank my first Mississippi mudslide in Mississippi and watched a Braves game with Alex at a cool Irish pub called Fenian's. It reminded me a lot of Renny's, which then spurred memories from my birthday and APO's rendezvous. Thursday was like a Friday, which felt good since I haven't had Friday classes for two terms. JoAnne drove me out to pick up some New York Times for Donna's intern class and I went on another "scenic tour" of Jackson afterward. Seriously, I need a sense of direction inserted into my brain. I cannot imagine what will happen when I'm old and senile.
Work Thursday went wonderfully, although I've been frustrated trying to contact a Freedom Rider for my feature article. I've been working on Jessie Harris, who supposedly lives in the area. One woman said that I had the right Jessie Harris, the Freedom Rider Jessie Harris, but preceded to tell me he had "gone to be with Jesus more than a year ago." My co-intern Marquez, however, knows another Freedom Rider who says Jessie was out playing golf Thursday...
Maha and I went out to do street talk in the afternoon. Basically, we ask random people random questions and take their photos. I loved using the Canon SLR once again. It feels so familiar and I have grown to really enjoy photojournalism since I took a course last term. Our question was about the new smoking ban in restaurants. To be honest, I don't completely understand what all the ban includes, but we got some interesting responses.
I was thrilled to receive an e-mail in the afternoon from the International Ballet Competition public relations director. She gave me two tickets to next week's reunion gala. Luckily, I can accept the tickets without an ethics code breach because I wrote my IBC article before she offered me the tickets. I invited JoAnne to be my "date" for the evening and am so excited to experience something that's so significant to Jackson.
Donna prepared all the 21 and older JFPers margaritas. We sat around in the ad room, sipping our drinks and eating chips. I love the JFP. The people. The critical thought. The mentality. The in-depth coverage. The quirky personalities. The charisma. Everything. Especially in contrast to my last job as an RA, I'm in a much happier place interning for a newspaper and leading a more creative, open lifestyle.
After I finished at the office and let my margarita settle, I drove to the library to see if Bryan needed help on his day-long library work session for the media literacy project. I'm so glad I stopped by because afterward, I joined him and his long-time friend, Derrick, for dinner at a place with falafel (yum!) and experienced the most soul-filled music venue I've encountered. Wow, is all I have to say. 930 Blues Cafe gets an A plus in my book and more to come on that once I transcribe the notes I took.
Today marks the beginning of my third week in Mississippi. I feel a sense of belonging here, especially while I read one of Willie's classics, "'North Toward Home" and am introduced to deep Southern traditions, like blues music and July 4 festivities. As I learn what makes the South special for its people, I feel called to ponder what makes Oregon special for me, what I value in a place. I feel this unrelentless urge to be immersed in my twenties and not let anything hold me back from experiencing the world and stretching out of my comfort zone. The quote that my mom penned on my most recent birthday card, sticks in my mind.
"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the tradewinds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." -attributed to Mark Twain
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Creative lifestyle
In Donna's intern class last Thursday, she urged us not to become perfectionists when writing. Every Thursday, she has us type 30 minute "expresssives"–– free writes about various topics.
I too often let my desire to perfect everything rule me, which ironically makes my writing worse because I procrastinate, stay up too late frantically trying to crank something out and do not produce my best work. I've carried my lifelong procrastination habits to Mississippi–– I already pulled an all-nighter :) and want to break them. So, I'm going to sit here for 30 minute and free blog.
I love living with JoAnne. We are different in many ways, but similar, too. We both appreciate love letters, good writing, colorful home decor and well-told stories. We both value progressive thought and open-minded people. The beautiful ways in which she reminisces about her years spent with Willie have moved me close to tears and remind me that Keith is one of the best people who has ever walked into my life and to ever take him forgranted is to let a magical, mature love slip.
I enjoy exploring Jackson, both by car and foot. I get lost half of the time, but have surprisingly managed to find my way around pretty well and not wasted too much gas. The bumpy, unpatched roads here stretch for miles and I miss Eugene's Northwest green allure, but the people here live up to the state's reputation for being hospitable and are among the most curious, vivacious and inclusive bunch I've met.
I'm trying my best to not talk about Oregon too much–– I don't want to sound like I dislike this place and Mississippians already tend to have inferiority complexes about their state. It's not so much that I want to brag about my home and contrast it to here, but like Southerners who defend their hometowns to a fault and are immersed in the history of this place, I feel a strong affinity for my state and its people.
Today I shook up my routine. I didn't set an alarm clock and didn't feel mad at myself for not waking until 11:00a.m. (no work until 3p.m. Tuesdays). Instead of writing down a laundry list of tasks to accomplish and goals to meet, I did what felt natural: Read a chapter of Barefootin' and scanned through the New York Times. While I'm down here, I feel the urge to jostle my habits and make some change. I'm also compelled to stretch myself out of my comfort zone.
Right now I'm trying to:
• Listen actively and hold better conversations without spacing out on accident or getting self-conscious-- as Donna says, "It's not about you."
• Read a lot, more often and longer periods of time
• Make friends with adults many years my senior who have infinite wisdom and fascinating stories to share
• Actually exercise in some capacity so that I don't get fat going out for drinks and eating soul food
• Cook so that I don't blow through money at Quizno's and Rainbow Foods
• Recognize the amazing people in my life
• Maintain a long distance relationship via Skype, phone and love e-mail/letters
• Soak up everything I can
Last Friday, I attended a movie and discussion at a barbecue joint. When I was younger, my Dad introduced my sister and me to Sidney Poitier. I've since come to deeply appreciate his Sidney phase that I now understand better. The movie was "Field of Lilies" or "Lilies of the Field." I walked in as the youngest, only white audience member among a group of 12 or so. I loved the delicious barbecue and warm reception I received at Lumpkins. Also, I took away much from the movie, which chronicles a group of German nuns who hire Smith (Poitier) to build them a chapel in the early 1960s. In return, Smith, a well-spoken, industrious man with a stubborn but giving spirit, teaches them English and folksy gospel songs. Along the way, Latino community members assist Smith and by the film's end, the chapel is completed with everyone's help.
How refreshing, I thought, that this brigade of seemingly disparate, random strangers can come together for a greater cause and put aside their cultural differences. And this was in the 1960s. Here we are in 2008 and I sense a standoffishness among us... a fear of what a church friend calls "radical, inclusive community." I hope with all my might that come November, we revolutionize this country with true change and elect Obama. I attended his rally in Eugene last May and have never felt such an uplifting call to national community in my life. For the first time, I felt patriotic.
I'm running out of time on this free write but want to jot one more thought before I head to work. JoAnne and I saw "Sex in the City" last night and I absolutely loved it. As cheesy as it sounds, I identified a lot with some of the central themes and almost teared up a couple times. If you look beyond the fashion crap and over-the-top-lifestyles, you pare the movie down to relationships and the complexities that unite us. And those relationships, that sense of community, is what most runs through my head right now.
I too often let my desire to perfect everything rule me, which ironically makes my writing worse because I procrastinate, stay up too late frantically trying to crank something out and do not produce my best work. I've carried my lifelong procrastination habits to Mississippi–– I already pulled an all-nighter :) and want to break them. So, I'm going to sit here for 30 minute and free blog.
I love living with JoAnne. We are different in many ways, but similar, too. We both appreciate love letters, good writing, colorful home decor and well-told stories. We both value progressive thought and open-minded people. The beautiful ways in which she reminisces about her years spent with Willie have moved me close to tears and remind me that Keith is one of the best people who has ever walked into my life and to ever take him forgranted is to let a magical, mature love slip.
I enjoy exploring Jackson, both by car and foot. I get lost half of the time, but have surprisingly managed to find my way around pretty well and not wasted too much gas. The bumpy, unpatched roads here stretch for miles and I miss Eugene's Northwest green allure, but the people here live up to the state's reputation for being hospitable and are among the most curious, vivacious and inclusive bunch I've met.
I'm trying my best to not talk about Oregon too much–– I don't want to sound like I dislike this place and Mississippians already tend to have inferiority complexes about their state. It's not so much that I want to brag about my home and contrast it to here, but like Southerners who defend their hometowns to a fault and are immersed in the history of this place, I feel a strong affinity for my state and its people.
Today I shook up my routine. I didn't set an alarm clock and didn't feel mad at myself for not waking until 11:00a.m. (no work until 3p.m. Tuesdays). Instead of writing down a laundry list of tasks to accomplish and goals to meet, I did what felt natural: Read a chapter of Barefootin' and scanned through the New York Times. While I'm down here, I feel the urge to jostle my habits and make some change. I'm also compelled to stretch myself out of my comfort zone.
Right now I'm trying to:
• Listen actively and hold better conversations without spacing out on accident or getting self-conscious-- as Donna says, "It's not about you."
• Read a lot, more often and longer periods of time
• Make friends with adults many years my senior who have infinite wisdom and fascinating stories to share
• Actually exercise in some capacity so that I don't get fat going out for drinks and eating soul food
• Cook so that I don't blow through money at Quizno's and Rainbow Foods
• Recognize the amazing people in my life
• Maintain a long distance relationship via Skype, phone and love e-mail/letters
• Soak up everything I can
Last Friday, I attended a movie and discussion at a barbecue joint. When I was younger, my Dad introduced my sister and me to Sidney Poitier. I've since come to deeply appreciate his Sidney phase that I now understand better. The movie was "Field of Lilies" or "Lilies of the Field." I walked in as the youngest, only white audience member among a group of 12 or so. I loved the delicious barbecue and warm reception I received at Lumpkins. Also, I took away much from the movie, which chronicles a group of German nuns who hire Smith (Poitier) to build them a chapel in the early 1960s. In return, Smith, a well-spoken, industrious man with a stubborn but giving spirit, teaches them English and folksy gospel songs. Along the way, Latino community members assist Smith and by the film's end, the chapel is completed with everyone's help.
How refreshing, I thought, that this brigade of seemingly disparate, random strangers can come together for a greater cause and put aside their cultural differences. And this was in the 1960s. Here we are in 2008 and I sense a standoffishness among us... a fear of what a church friend calls "radical, inclusive community." I hope with all my might that come November, we revolutionize this country with true change and elect Obama. I attended his rally in Eugene last May and have never felt such an uplifting call to national community in my life. For the first time, I felt patriotic.
I'm running out of time on this free write but want to jot one more thought before I head to work. JoAnne and I saw "Sex in the City" last night and I absolutely loved it. As cheesy as it sounds, I identified a lot with some of the central themes and almost teared up a couple times. If you look beyond the fashion crap and over-the-top-lifestyles, you pare the movie down to relationships and the complexities that unite us. And those relationships, that sense of community, is what most runs through my head right now.
Curiosity and Forging Forward
“The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity.” -Dorothy Parker
Notes about my Mississippi experience pile onto my desk. Written on napkins, receipts and legal pad pages, my anecdotes, quotes, observations and ideas chronicle the ins and outs of my days here in Jackson. I’m constantly curious and perpetually seeking opportunities.
One scribbled note describes my comparison of now to the past nine or ten months.
“The Jaded Junior Year Blues,” a piece I wrote three weeks into my third year of college, revealed my angst-ladden attitude toward being a 2nd year RA and involved student, fervent apathy for my rigorous courses that depleted me after a smooth-sailing summer spent studying in Mexico and unyielding desire for new experiences that would enliven me. It seemed that my self-diagnosed complex affected many of my friends, as well. There was this restlessness among us–– this dissatisfaction with the usual routine and yearning for something bold, exciting and elusive. We wanted to let loose and feel entirely different–– to stretch our comfort zones and throw out our inhibitions caused by a confining, bureacratic system.
I can’t believe it has almost been a year since that time. I surprisingly survived the year-long RA position, rediscovered my love of journalism at some point in the spring between freelancing for the Emerald and taking the best classes ever: magazine writing 1 and photojournalism, and, most importantly, reestablished myself, creating a divergent path for my final year at Oregon.
I came to Mississippi on a whim, I but after a week spent exploring Jackson, meeting some of the most vivacious, inclusive, curious and hospitable people I’ve encountered, writing to my heart’s content, listening to JoAnne’s fascinating stories, and finding a journalism mentor in Donna Ladd I can say with unwavering certainty that his Southern, soul-filled place was just what I needed to forge my life forward.
Notes about my Mississippi experience pile onto my desk. Written on napkins, receipts and legal pad pages, my anecdotes, quotes, observations and ideas chronicle the ins and outs of my days here in Jackson. I’m constantly curious and perpetually seeking opportunities.
One scribbled note describes my comparison of now to the past nine or ten months.
“The Jaded Junior Year Blues,” a piece I wrote three weeks into my third year of college, revealed my angst-ladden attitude toward being a 2nd year RA and involved student, fervent apathy for my rigorous courses that depleted me after a smooth-sailing summer spent studying in Mexico and unyielding desire for new experiences that would enliven me. It seemed that my self-diagnosed complex affected many of my friends, as well. There was this restlessness among us–– this dissatisfaction with the usual routine and yearning for something bold, exciting and elusive. We wanted to let loose and feel entirely different–– to stretch our comfort zones and throw out our inhibitions caused by a confining, bureacratic system.
I can’t believe it has almost been a year since that time. I surprisingly survived the year-long RA position, rediscovered my love of journalism at some point in the spring between freelancing for the Emerald and taking the best classes ever: magazine writing 1 and photojournalism, and, most importantly, reestablished myself, creating a divergent path for my final year at Oregon.
I came to Mississippi on a whim, I but after a week spent exploring Jackson, meeting some of the most vivacious, inclusive, curious and hospitable people I’ve encountered, writing to my heart’s content, listening to JoAnne’s fascinating stories, and finding a journalism mentor in Donna Ladd I can say with unwavering certainty that his Southern, soul-filled place was just what I needed to forge my life forward.
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