Tuesday, September 15, 2009
But I've had some work published in the past few months that I have been lax about sharing. A book review I wrote appeared in the July/August issue of Women's Review of Books, and my poem "Shanti's Gun" appeared in the summer issue of Melusine. Please check them out, and support these wonderful publications.
Now that school has started, and my nausea has abated, I hope to have more work out there in the world soon--keep an eye here and I'll add my updates!
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Also, for anyone in the New Orleans area, I'll be giving a reading, with four or five other poets, on Saturday June 6 at Latter Library (on St. Charles). The fun will begin at 2 (and will only last until 3:30). Gina Ferrera will host; this is a newish monthly series she's putting together, so it's bound to be good. Hope to see some folks out there!
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
My friend Leeandra writes a blog on Open Salon, and a recent post was featured on Salon.com's front page--high honor, and deservedly so. She wrote a wicked funny satire about some of the customers who come into the gallery where she works. Thousands of views later, she had many positive comments, but also a few who seem to have entirely missed the humor and the point of her original essay (mostly those who took offense at her Croc-bashing). Another writer even posted a critique on the Times-Picayune's website, blaming her essay (and others like it) for...well, I'm not sure what. Preventing New Orleanians from "just getting along"?
To her credit, she takes it all in stride and sees the humor (and irony) in writers criticizing other writers for writing. Who knew that trying to elicit a few laughs (and exorcise a few retail-related demons) could cause, as she put it, such a shit-storm?
In a much reduced way, a recent post of mine on Open Salon attracted comments from a gun lover. I was trying to begin a discussion about kids and toy weapons, and this dude went all gangbusters on freedom to bear arms. Yikes.
I guess it's the dangers of putting your opinion out there for all to see (and comment on). I don't mind someone disagreeing with me, as long as they stick more or less to the topic at hand and can keep things intelligent and calm. But maybe in the blogosphere, that's just too much to ask?
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Last weekend, and the weekend before, was the 40th anniversary of Jazz Fest (officially called the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival). It's seven days (over two weekends) of music, food, crafts, and celebration of all things New Orleans (and even tangentially related to New Orleans--I mean, Bon Jovi was one of the headliners this year!). We were lucky enough to fall into three free tickets, plus tickets from Mom-in-law for Hubby's bday, so we got to see Emmylou Harris, Gal Halliday and the Honkytonk Review, Silky Sol (an R&B singer who was just hilarious), and overheard lots of others as we strolled past all the different stages. We ate and drank ourselves into oblivion, and I bought a new hat (as you can see above!).
We went on Thursday, known as "locals day," because nobody seems to know it's open--and so it's not crowded at all. No lines for food or potties, the porta-potties still have toilet paper, and you can actually get close to the stages to see (or find space further back to spread out without being stomped). Perfect!
We had such a great time, I can't wait for next year! Happy Jazz Fest, y'all!
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Many thanks to Jessica for her thought-provoking questions!
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
March in New Orleans is one of the most beautiful times of year. The azaleas explode all over town, my irises just keep bursting into purple, and the oak trees look dusted with teeny green leaf buds--amazing to see those hundred-year-old trees as fresh as a yearling. The weather, too, is simply gorgeous: in the mid 70s with clear skies and breezes, the air dry and the shade actually cooling. All too soon, the temps will creep into the 80s and 90s and stay there until fall--so for now, here's to spring.
Here's a poem I wrote a while back about early-budding azaleas, ones that opened far too soon, it seemed to me, Northerner that I am.
Tiny explosions of fuchsia flowers
bloom, unafraid, in January.
A magical day in the sun, the rain’s caress,
and the azaleas think they’re safe.
Better to curb passion, to protect their petals;
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
My husband and I are shopping for a new car because our trusty old Volvo has become increasingly less trusty in the past couple of years. It's twenty years old, the former owner drove it only to church and back so it had less than 20,000 miles on it, and we've had it seven years, kept it well- maintained, and it served us well.
But lately, major repairs have been needed every three or four months, each one more expensive than the last. The last egregious offense was when the engine just STOPPED as my husband was exiting the freeway--with our son in his carseat in the back. He coasted it into a parking lot, and everyone was fine, but that was pretty much the last straw.
My in-laws have generously offered to buy us a new car, and so we are beginning to say goodbye to this old one. Yet I can't help but feel a bit nostalgic for the old girl. We've developed a relationship with her (I always think of her as a Bessie, to which my hub rolls his eyes).
So here's an ode to our old Volvo, which I wrote a few years back. It's funny how much personality a piece of machinery can have, or that we ascribe to it. Maybe it makes us feel a bit more connected if we think of our vehicles as something alive.
For an ‘89 Volvo
You’re square, not sleek nor sophisticated,
an awkward mule parked among the classy;
your heavy steel frame, downright antiquated,
accentuates your boxy workhorse chassis.
Even your coat, once glossy white, has weathered
to gray, flecked with rust spots. Yet when I gaze
across the lot, you’re there, patiently tethered:
stability reassures me these days,
and you endure. Climbing behind your wheel,
safe in your saddle, I’m ready to roam.
You snort sweetly at the touch of my heel;
you don’t gallop, but you know the way home:
past asphalt rivers, through concrete canyons,
toward one more sundown, my rusty companion.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
My friend’s boyfriend is flipping out about the Mardi Gras day shootings here in New Orleans. I want to scoff, really I do, but seven people were shot—including an 18-month-old baby—while they were watching parades, arms outstretched, catching beads, only a few blocks from where my family, friends, and I were standing a few hours before. The young men responsible were apprehended within moments, but no motive has been forthcoming; all of the victims appeared to be random bystanders.
And of course, the question everyone has is why. And the next question is, what is wrong with this city? I find myself waiting for the logical explanation for gunfire into a celebrating crowd. I wonder what I would have done had I heard gunshots near me, seen people fall next to me, felt a bullet graze my toddler son as I held him up to catch a bead or stuffed animal.
And then I wonder why I skip over the story, why I want to scoff at my friend’s boyfriend. I wonder, why am I not freaking out? Has it become such a normal part of living in New Orleans that I am willing to accept random acts of violence as part of the price we pay to live here? What if it had been me, my friends, my family who had been shot? Do I ignore it because it hasn’t happened to me? Is it only a matter of time?
Violence in this city has touched me personally. A year after we returned from our Hurricane Katrina-motivated exile, a friend of mine, Helen Hill, was shot and killed in her home; her husband and two-year-old son were chased down and fired at as they hid in their bathroom. Her story made national headlines, too, and her killer has never been found, her death never explained. She and I were not terribly close, but she and her husband were some of the first friends we made when we moved to this city, and their passion for this place was contagious, even as they put themselves to work to improve the many problems here. It still is difficult not to think of the horrible end to their stay here as a warning for those of us who come here to make a difference: get out, get out now before it happens to you.
But I am working hard at seeing it differently. I want to believe that the violence, the poverty, the crime, the pain can be overcome. That the overwhelming problems our city is plagued with can be addressed, that we won’t sink under the weight of it all. Am I an optimist or a fool? Will I feel differently when it happens to me? For now, since Helen’s death, I keep my doors locked even when I’m home and always use the peephole before I open my home. I tell myself that that’s just smart city living. I tell myself it’s a small price to pay to live in such an amazing place. I tell myself I want to raise my children here, I want to grow old here, I want to be part of the fabric of this city. But I don’t want to become one of its bloody statistics, a news story, a reason to leave for good.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
So-called because of the taste in my mouth? Somehow, yesterday I convinced myself that bloody marys count more as juice than as alcohol--and at 10am Mardi Gras morning, they seemed just right. And again after lunch, and of course walking around the Quarter catching beads from balconies, one needs something in one's hand, and I've learned the importance of avoiding mixing my liquors. See, I am mature!
Despite today's foggy, ashy flavor, I am beginning to recollect yesterday's high points. We missed the Zulu parade (it starts at 8am, and not even I am that diehard) but did catch Rex, and lots of beads and cups. Now, of course, the piles of beads are sitting all over my house--on the floor, draped over every doorknob, on the kitchen table--and I have no idea what I'm going to do with them all. I guess add them to the boxes already sitting in the attic. Or maybe actually look into some of the bead-recycling programs around town, places that repackage them for sale to float riders for next year.
Of course, bead crafts are always fun. I've already decorated a toilet seat currently hanging above our actual toilet and made a bead curtain in years past. Now the volume of beads requires much more time and energy (and creativity) than I have anymore. What does one do to top a beaded toilet seat?
Back to yesterday. As the most seasoned Mardi Gras veterans, my husband, son, and I had the honor of escorting a large group of out-of-town (and new-to-town) friends and family members through the sights, sounds, and smells of their first Mardi Gras. We caught beads at the Rex parade, then boarded the bus to head to the Quarter (did I mention we were all dressed--to varying degrees--as superheroes? Capes and masks abounded. Our friends even decorated their mom's wheelchair with purple tinsel garland, and we ornamented our son's stroller with bead fringe).
After getting off the bus, we were hungry, so we stopped by Mother's, a soul food institution on the outskirts of the Quarter. I'd never been, figuring they didn't have anything for vegetarians, but was I wrong! It was one of those blessed places that serves breakfast all day, and I'll gladly eat waffles anytime. As will my three-year-old, who, for the first time all day, was happy. (I think seeing me in a wig wigged him out--he was cranky and whiny all morning, thus my heavy emphasis on bloody marys.) As all eleven of us sat around a round table munching away on po-boys and waffles, with beads, capes, and masks around our necks, I couldn't help but feel a wave of gratitude for good friends, good food, and a wonderful sense of oneness with the celebration going on throughout the entire city. And the waitresses kept calling us "baby" and "darling." Gotta love it.
Finally, we began walking. Walking and walking. We crossed Canal, strolled up Chartres, over to Royal (lots of balconies with people dropping beads on us--my son started screaming and running away, afraid of beads on his head, sigh) and even ventured down Bourbon street. For one block. Then we'd had enough of the crowd, the boobs, and the competing extra-loud stereos blasting out of the bars and clubs. Back to the more relaxed parts of the Quarter. One of the best parts of being downtown on Mardi Gras is seeing and being seen, checking out all the costumes, interacting with the other revelers, trading beads and laughs with all the grown-ups acting like little kids (even as the kids get all serious and cranky, again. Time for a refill of Mom's cup!).
Aw, maybe I'm not being fair to the little guy. It is pretty overwhelming to see the grown-ups acting so silly. And he did get into it, sitting on Daddy's shoulders and sometimes standing by himself in the middle of the street waving his arms for beads or feather boas or little stuffed toys. He especially enjoyed chasing and being chased by our friends, a giant game of hide-and-seek (don't worry, not very hidden), the French Quarter as his playground.
We ran into some of our other friends as we wandered around, made friends with strangers, generally walked until we just plain ran out of steam. By the time the sun was going down, I was feeling as crabby as a three-year-old on Mardi Gras, so we grabbed a cab (a Mardi Gras miracle!) back to our car, then made it home to rest...
...ha ha. Of course, we parents were completely wiped out, so our Darling Son decided that he just couldn't fall asleep (try as we all might). We finally gave up trying, and the three of us ended up eating leftover sandwiches (that Daddy had dragged around all day) and watching the televised Meeting of Rex and Comus, the most boring, pointless, and bizarre part of Mardi Gras day, which we have become weirdly addicted to as a part of our annual celebration. It's a pageantry of the rich folks in town, who elect kings and queens to perform a weirdly stylized ritual wherein they get all dressed up and pretend to be actual kings and queens. They're on the front page of the newspaper and everything, as if their "reign" over Carnival were something significant. Weird, too, how the election (appointment? I don't know if anyone votes for this stuff) runs in families, so the queens are often the daughters and granddaughters of former kings and queens. An example of the musty, dusty past still thumping along in the present. Our son, anyway, was really into the whole idea of kings and queens and kept asking us where their kingdom was, where their castle was. How do we explain it's just grown-ups playing dress-up, and taking it really really seriously? He wanted so badly to see real kings and queens, and maybe we all do--thus the pageantry, the zoned-out viewers in front of the TV.
As a nice counterpoint, we then watched a short documentary about Mardi Gras Indians, who are African-Americans from the poorer sections of town who dress in amazingly detailed feathered costumes and perform their own series of ritualized dances and meetings in the streets. These traditions, costumes, and rituals are also passed down through families, possibly extending back as far as the time of slavery, another example of the past infusing the present. In the old days, they had ritualized fights, with knives and machetes hidden among their feathers, but these days it's all about the fanciest dances, the best costumes, the chanting and singing. It looks a lot more fun than sitting on a throne and waving a gilded scepter at a bunch of rich folks wearing white gloves, I'll tell you that much.Finally, blessedly, our boy fell asleep on the couch, and Mardi Gras was over. Everyone's experience of this day--this season--is different, and each year is different from the year before, even as we follow our own routines and rituals. Every year is amazing and exhausting. I feel so lucky to live here and excited to raise my son here. Someday he'll remember these holidays as part of his own history, one we build from one Mardi Gras to the next. For now, we're gonna sort out the beads while I add some Alka-Seltzer to my afternoon tea.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Last year, I wondered how we'd handle my son being out of diapers once he was potty trained--this year, he's a peeing pro. But he has not yet graced the porta-potty; he prefers to "water" the trees, weeds, dirt--he doesn't care. More often than not, though, he just holds it--and he can hold it for hours. We don't make him hold it, nor do we want him to. He just refuses to go while there are floats going by and beads to catch--he even digs the marching bands and the "girls in their beautiful outfits" who march and dance behind the bands. When asked what he likes the best, he says, "All of it! I like all of it!" but then amends, "except when everyone starts yelling when the float comes--why do they do that?" I explained everyone cheers to show excitement and to catch the riders' attention, and he said, "They are so loud in my ears." But last night, I heard him hollering, up on his daddy's shoulders, calling out, "Beads! Beads! Beads!" That's my boy.
I love Mardi Gras.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
I'm not normally a big celebrity hound, nor a political junkie, and part of me was a little disturbed to see the level of detail this family is subjected to. And yet, I want to know everything! For the first time in years and years, I am not disgusted by the sight and sound of the leader of my country. I find myself rooting for Obama and his family and am continually overwhelmed by the significance of their presence in the White House. It's so significant and so normal at the same time. So right.
When I watched Obama's inaugural speech, I was sobered by his laundry list of problems our country has to overcome and his emphasis on the work ahead for all of us. As a post-Katrina New Orleanian, I feel as though I know something about work. And yet, after he spoke, someone sang "The Star-Spangled Banner," the song we all know by rote, and I was surprised to find myself tearing up. I was overcome by the idea of a tattered old flag still standing for something, still meaning something, something about hope and optimism, and the future, and hard work toward communal success, about caring for those who have fought to get us here (and here I think primarily of Civil Rights warriors, not Civil War--of suffragettes, feminists, activists, environmentalists, and everyone who labored in their daily lives in unglamourous circumstances with no parades to welcome the change they wrought). Not silly debates over whether to declare flag-burning illegal, or brou-ha-ha over who wears flag pins and who doesn't, but a unifying symbol of a hopeful country.
Even now, when I read about the bills Obama is signing into law (healthcare for all children!), and the laws he is questioning and putting the brakes on (limits to Wall Street fatcat bonuses!), I am cheered and hopeful. This level of optimism feels somewhat foreign to a cynical Gen-Xer like me, and I worry about the inevitable mistakes that will be made: will they be catastrophic? Will they burst this delicate bubble of hope so many of us share? But the romantic, the poet, the mother, the optimist in me wants to believe that maybe this really could be the beginning of a new era, one in which our country actually lives up to its potential, becomes the magical place we learned about in grade school, a place to which I will be unequivocally proud to pledge my allegiance.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
My husband and I have discussed, arranged, made lists, made promises, made threats regarding whether to have a second child. It's such an illogical decision, I've found, because there seem to be more logical reasons not to have another: our meager finances, small house, dwindling time and energy, out-of-town families and limited community resources (babysitters and all that). Most of the time, I feel stretched to my limit caring for just one child. And when I think back on my miserable first trimester, the difficult birth, the rough (to put it mildly) infancy with an up-all-day-and-all-night, fussy baby...ugh, do I really want to do it all again?
And that's when I start to think of doing it differently next time. Next time, I probably won't have to give birth five days after evacuating my home and watching my city sink underwater after a major hurricane. Next time, I probably won't be learning to be a mother in a friend's home, uncertain about the status of my own. Next time, I'll have so much more going for me: experience, confidence, my own bed. I know nothing is guaranteed, but this new person will have a family to join: a brother, parents, a home. And I'll be different, because I already am. I know better how to set limits before mine have been crossed. I know better how to ask for what I need. I know better how to enjoy the tiny moments of peace, of love, of divine joy.
That's what it's really about, isn't it? Discovering my capacity for joy, heartache, love, and frustration, feeling my boundaries stretching to encompass more emotion and experience than I thought possible. How flexible am I? Can I be big enough to embrace this hovering spirit I feel calling to me? Someone is there, waiting to call me mama, and sometimes I think all I have to do is say Yes, come to me, I'm ready.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Yes, I finally chomped into the Big Apple, and I loved it as much as I thought it would. It was fall, so the weather was crisp (but not too cold yet) and I was staying at the YMCA right by Central Park, where the leaves were sprinkling like snowflakes, the trees a riot of fall color. Ohhhh, THIS is why they write songs about this place! The hustle and bustle was exciting; having lived in San Francisco, crowded sidewalks and busy downtown streets didn't bother me too much--the trick is to go with the flow (don't stop and gawk, even if that IS the Empire State Building above you!).
I walked from one end of the city to the other, making sure to visit my own personal list of hotspots as well as a few in the guidebooks. My pilgrimmage to Macy's was in honor of Auntie Mame and Miracle on 34th Street, and I waited forever to get to the top of the Empire State just like in An Affair to Remember. Sigh. I love old movies.
I was in town primarily for a Poets' Forum, three days of readings, presentations, parties, and walking tours given by and focusing on poets. Many of the illuminaries of my field were on the dais:
Robert Pinsky, Kay Ryan, Sharon Olds, Lyn Hejinian...and it was really cool to hear them read and discuss their craft. But I ended up feeling closer to the original New York poet than any of them: good ol' Walt Whitman.
My walking tour of Whitman's New York was fascinating not only in imagining the streets and bars and hospitals as he once saw them, but to hear his words about the scenes we viewed while standing on the very street corners he wrote about. One hundred and fifty years later, I was feeling Uncle Walt's presence rising from the cobblestones, his voice echoing above and through the cabdrivers' honking. I pictured him sashaying from one cafe to another in his women's pants, his long beard flowing, as he eyed the handsome young men--and, perhaps, the curious young women, too. Dare I insert myself into that scene?
In many of his poems, Whitman speaks directly to the reader, acknowledging that time and distance might separate him from me--yet also aware that through the words, we are connected, beyond time and space. Standing on his corner in his city, I listened to New York, so changed and yet so the same.