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!