tupac on barack

i see no changes all i see is racist faces/ misplaced hate makes disgrace of races
. . .
and although it seems heaven sent/ we ain't ready to see a black president

changes, tupac shakur, 1998

changes was released after pac's death. a decade ago. a decade ago i didn't think twice about this lyric. we were not ready. and now?

a student asked me what i think, specifically, will change if obama becomes president. he was looking for an answer chocked full of policy related things, like the end of the iraq war or the beginning of free healthcare for everyone. of course, those changes would be amazing. but i could only think symbolically.

what about those things . . . those things that breed inequality and feed oppression . . . will those ever change? if he wins will it mean things have changed? or is pac right, again?

stereotypes

when did anal sex become compulsory in a sexual relationship? seriously, despite some of my behavior, of which i've only begun to write about here, i can be traditional. i have my moments. this is one of them. anal sex is not on the menu del día, as far as i'm concerned. but in my last few encounters, my partners have thought nothing of asking or insinuating. i'm still searching for appropriate translations for 'hold up- you don't know me like that, homie'. for me anal sex is like christmas, something you only share with ones you love. then i logged on to boinkology this morning, and i found this. as the proud bearer of a pair of beautiful tats and one more on the way, it all came together. i get it now. i'm supposed to want it. 100% of the time.

and this just in--the legend of the angry black woman lives!!!

something uma thurman and i have in common

24hrs after i arrived in madrid, january '08, i was kissing a really cute little south american outside of a salsa club. he was the third to attempt it that night, the cutest, the best dancer, and so the only one to get a taste. when he suggested a little more than a taste, i begged off saying i'd just left my boyfriend in belgium on monday. 'so? today's wednesday,' he said. i hadn't thought of the implications of the phrase, tomorrow is another day. tomorrow is another day, another thought, another feeling, and if you're smart, the beginning of another life.

well i began many new lives during that month in madrid. most lasted only one kiss. like with sandro, an italian with a huge belly. of course, standing next to that bad ass red ducati racer like he was when i met him, i didn't notice it. actually, he was so nice when we went out that night, and had so many clever things to say about sarkozy and hugo chavez, that i didn't notice how physically unattractive he was until he kissed me. when i felt absolutely nothing, i stopped. never kissed him again. and the more nothing i felt, the more insistent he became. making plans, and calling me multiple times a day. i stopped seeing him even as a friend, and eventually left madrid without even saying goodbye.

5 months later, tuesday, to be exact, he appeared in bcn. walked right past me on las ramblas. i was so shocked, i froze. then i ran and hid in a shop. i was hoping he didn't recognize me, but alas he must have. because peeking from behind the shop door, i saw that he'd reversed, and walked past the shop in the direction opposite to where he had been heading. he couldn't be here for me. not possible. it's even less possible that he actually found me.

2 days later, i'd forgotten all about it and as i enjoyed a morning of home decoration shopping. singing along to my ipod on the way from the fabric store to habitat's bedding department, i felt a tap on my shoulder. i turned around, took out my earplugs. fuck. unreal. he found me twice? 'wow!' he tried to act surprised. 'you live here? look, i've been here since monday. what's your phone number again?' i gave it up. i couldn't hide, obviously. he had a knack for finding me. or following me. wasn't sure which. but i figured when he called me, i'd calmly explain that i didn't want him. at all. that he should definitely forget me and go back to madrid. yes. i'd reason with him.

i braced myself to read the first message.

he perdido el avion y estoy en barçelona. tomamos algo?

-as in-

i missed my plane so i'm still in barçelona, can we have a drink?

does he think i'm stupid? actually, he does. back in madrid, he'd told me that his last girlfriend was black and brazilian. and that what he loved most about black women was that they always had a smile on their faces. wtf?? uh uh. i am no man's noble savage. recognize. he dug his grave with that one. and obviously, he didn't catch on to my complete and utter intolerance for dumb shit, as evidenced by the 'missed my plane' gambit. now i was pissed.

1-by-1, my dear friends expressed their concern. what if he's following you? what if he knows where you live? what are you going to do? tear his black woman fetishizing, stalking italian ass limb from limb, i'd say. metaphorically speaking, of course. but what did i do vis-a-vis the text? i summarily ignored it, and headed to the grácia neighborhood where argentinian mcdreamy was cooking me dinner. i received only one more sad and lame text from him that night. it read:

aicha, no es como antes. tomamos algo y te cuento.

- as in -

aicha, it's not like before. let's meet, and i'll tell you . . .

and with that i fully appreciated the fact that he. is. crazy. there was no before. there was one kiss, one coffee date, and two nights in a club. the last club night, i flirted with some lesbians all night, hoping he'd get the hint: i'm not gay, but homegirl here has more of a chance than you do.

i ignored the last text too. and totally enjoyed dinner, moonlight, and dessert with my mcdreamy.


* about that title, some crazy man called jack was arrested this week for stalking the leggy blonde movie star. it's the stalking we have in common. and well, the hotness.

fill-in-the-blanks

here is a transcript of just one part of last night's conversation between my flatmate, mixeddutchgirl, and me.


mixeddutchgirl: italians and greeks have the biggest _ _ _ _ _ .

me: i've never been with a greek guy.

mixeddutchgirl: they like it up the _ _ _.

i posed nude today

two weeks ago, a friend first approached me at a party saying that his boyfriend, a professional photographer, was doing some conceptual nude photos for a gallery exhibition outside of barçelona. they had 3 models but needed one more; a woman. at first, i thought, 'hell no!' then i thought again. we're always hiding or censoring something. our bodies behind the latest fashions, or skin behind make up, our feelings behind bravado, inadequacies behind job titles, our low self esteem behind sexual conquest, and our instincts behind social conventions. i took a good look at my body. at least here, i have nothing to hide. i love my body. so i said yes. posed nude for a series of black-and-white photographs in a quartet of straight hotness. breathing helped me get past my initial nerves. once i got comfortable i felt creative. sensual. beautiful and powerful. hours into the aftermath, i feel incredibly lucky to be on this journey. and the calm. i've been searching for this calm for weeks, and to think it's been underneath all of these layers the whole time. i've peeled some layers off today, and i feel lighter for it. ironically, the idea that we are not human beings having a spiritual experience, but spiritual beings having a human experience rings in my ears tonight, crystal and clear, like church bells calling the faithful to prayer.

social responsibility 2

i once heard a 'relationship expert' say that with the time women spend over the course of one year analyzing their romantic relationships, obsessing with their girlfriends over if and when a man might call, what he meant when he said that he didn't want to be in a relationship, they could have learned a new language, written that novel, or even become an online chess champion. whatever it is you like to do, you can become an expert at it within a year by trading in those hours you log on relationship watch, that was the argument. i think about this even as i want to think about the argentinian dr. mcdreamy look-alike that left my flat at 11 this morning. i want to sit around and reflect on our conversations, and speak poetry about his touch, and his gentle 'chocolate girl' jokes, but instead i channel all of last night into this blog, where i write about the issues that are important to me in the context of my everyday life.

i remember the summer of 2005, when periel aschenbrand had every liberal thinking new york woman rocking baby tees with the slogan, 'the only bush i trust is my own' across the chest. in her autobiographical book of the same title, aschenbrand dedicates an entire chapter to the story of an anal tear, the result of, you guessed it, anal intercourse, and the subsequent doctor's visit. tmi? no, just some good 'ol smashing the mostly arbitrary and insidiously harmful barriers between public and private, sacred and profane.

aschenbrand was my hero that year. that year, with an ass, once again in office, the idea that my ass could inspire acts of revolution, no matter how small, was really appealing. that a t-shirt could be like butterfly flapping its wings on one continental shelf and creating a hurricane on another, well, if representational politics wasn't gonna work, this seemed like as good an approach as any.

social responsibility 1

seu jorge came to town

as a tween, saturday was my favorite day of the week. not because i didn't have school, but because i did. dancing school. at ms. hill's dance studio in hollis, queens. saturday nights were african nights. our teacher had a style of teaching that excluded breaking things down. we'd go across the floor in groups of three or four, just mimicking his movements. he'd tell us the dance we were about to learn was 'mandjani' or 'kuku', signal the drummers to begin. they wouldn't stop playing, and we wouldn't stop dancing for hours at a time. the drummers would sweat so much that they had to take their shirts off. the dancers would sweat to the point where we'd lift and tie our wet t-shirts as much as we could without taking them off. we danced like it was the only thing to do. left all our energy, angst, hopes, and dreams on that dance floor. it was like church.

this time in my life is what comes to mind as i watched the half-time show at the seu jorge concert last night at the teatro palau in barçelona. stunning, baroque-style theater, with a tapas bar and all. about 1000 rowdy brasileños. two men, playing tambourines while jorge takes a siesta, or a piss or whatever.

wait . . . tambourines???

hell, it sure looks like a tambourine, but it's actually called a pandeiro in brazil. it's a small tambourine-looking drum, held in one hand and played with the other. except the sounds that emerge are those of five hands. complex contra-rhythms, double and triple beats, traditional and quasi hip hop beats, beats trip hopping over each other to the next solo, duet or trio. creating a wall of sound, all with the palm of the hand and the tip of the thumb. this instrument is amazing. those drummers were amazing. i want to buy one just so that when i tell this story i can show it to people. and they'll be as incredulous as i was . . . the instrument, i mean. i looked toward the bank of djembes on the right hand corner or the stage, expecting to see another drummer (at least one other drummer) assisting, like a child trying to see the strings backstage at a puppet show. no help. all thumbs and palms and ancestral memories. one man on this little tambourine, and i was back at ms. hill's dance studio on a saturday night, wishing my african class never ended.

if you've seen the life aquatic, you've seen seu jorge. he's the ship's entertainment, strumming david bowie classics in portuguese. if you've seen city of god, you've seen seu jorge, knockout ned, who swears revenge against lil zé, that psychopath. remember you wanted to feel bad for him, i mean his wife was raped and his family was slaughtered, but you kept reminding yourself that no matter how cute he is, he's a drug dealer. seu's been around for a minute, multiple albums, multiple movies, he even releases his own music on his own damn label, farofa carioca.

commercial success aside, from what i can see, seu is, without a doubt, the voice of the young people. granted, i really don't know what he's saying, but the brasileño audience knew every word, chord, and adlib. they clapped, stomped, samba-d, yelled, yelped, and sang along right through. he croons samba and bossa nova, raps, rocks, and even indulges in some roots reggae. fitting, as his shoulder length dreads make him look like beenie man these days. his guitar riffs during the roots number brought me right back to bob and the original concept behind the world domination of roots, rock and reggae. his voice is flawed, raspy, and incredibly beautiful, in that way of old cuban men, or real soul singers. as he indulged his audience in traditional numbers and exotic fusion fantasies, i thought, i want to live like this. just like this.

from the cheap seats in the back

i said that you wouldn't have to hear about my high school crush again, (and i lied about that) but i never said that my friends wouldn't have to hear about it. so last night at dinner with my newest partner in crime, a crazy beautiful french girl called amelie, i started to wax poetic about the artist i'd love to call mine.

see, i`ve been in a bit of a shitty mood lately, a rut, or a lull if you will. there's a lull in my life. i thought it was pms. there are multiple men in my life. a sexy french dj i've slept with a handful of times, a dr. mcdreamy look alike, who's actually an architect from argentina, and HIM, the one i really like. but none of them are stepping up to the plate. they call, i guess to check in or whatever, hang around, but that's it. i NEVER call, text, or make any plans or suggestions for get-togethers. i generally let the man determine the course of the relationship. and while none of us are making any decisions, i'm in limbo, or more accurately, floating on a sea of romantic uncertainty.

as i spoke, i found a name for my low feelings of late. adrift and queasy. sleepy and low in energy. i am neither sick, nor expecting my period. i am psychosomatically seasick. this could all be solved with some good, old fashioned decision making and moving on. can't i just ask him out? wait, can i? is that allowed? if i ask him out will he be impressed by my moxie or emasculated and scared off? i asked amelie. she had advice, alright. but she had an illustrative anecdote to boot.

'i spent 6 years thinking about my high school crush. i never actually dated him in high school, but i spent the next six years in love with him, even after school was over and we lost contact. for six years i didn't date anyone else, thinking my chance for love in the future was gone, because i missed my opportunity to be with the man of my past. and one day, i woke up and said, 'this is enough'. i just found his number, called him and suggested we get together. when i saw him, he looked amazing, and i was happy to see him, but i realized i was in love with a 15 year old boy, who did not exist anymore.'

she talked about being freed, almost instantaneously. oh, i want to feel this way. i want to believe i can, in the kind of way i always want to believe an infomercial testimonial, where an incredibly fresh-faced, rosy-cheeked woman swears the product took her skin from freddie kruger to baby's bottom in only two days.

'i think of it this way', she concluded, 'i want to be the actor of my life, not the object or the observer . . .'

jesus, i haven't talked about agency since my undergrad feminism course. now i not only have to think about whether or not he likes me, but i have to decide who i am. agent or an object? does success in romance depend on my being comfortable with the latter? furthermore, do i even want to free myself from this crush that's crushing me; this romantic limbo, or am i addicted to it?

the name

i never met a country i didn't like. i lived in england 2 years, the english mentality (if it can be said that there is one) frustrates me. it's a rainy, judgemental country, but in the end i fled a relationship that just could not get itself off the ground.

the first time that i lived outside of the u.s. was when i did a work/study abroad program in costa rica in 1998. tell someone who knows the region that you love límon if you want to see a genuinely confused and disbelieving look cross his face. límon's biggest attraction, outside of the new tcby that opened that summer, is the burned out office of what used to be the central american headquarters of marcus garvey's black star line company. the fact that my students used to bring me avocados off their trees, helped tremendously.

i loved costa rica like family. but i fell in love with paris almost immediately. i was mad that they tried to market the seine as a beach, but nevermind. the view off those little bridges by notre dam is to die for. like the men. and the men of my generation who love what they call funk and we call classics. earth, wind and fire, chaka, shalimar and shit. far from pompous and insular, i love that the french love themselves. they should. they're dope.

i moved to belgium for love, and left for lack of it. but lord i dream about moules et frites, sole muniere, and english television with dutch subtitles, as opposed to the voiced-over broadcasts i get here, in spain.

barçelona. not just an escape. this city is demanding, gritty, dirty, and harsh. but in that, it's like new york. so many people and places nestled between the sea and the mountains. they're stubborn, clinging to their own language, catalan, that no one else in the world speaks. and at times, as i've noted before on this blog, they can be VERY closed-minded. nevertheless, paso bien aqui. or, i feel good here. but i feel good everywhere. because the world is my fucking oyster.

and so the title of this blog. fat juicy oyster. cause i never met a country i didn't like. and though one day i'd like to settle, right now, i'll settle for the perenially new bird's eye view and a ´one world´ philosophy i cannot shake.

age old question

i am 31 years old and i still have absolutely no freaking idea how to find out if a man likes me. i'll just present the evidence:

• his blue eyes light up when he sees me. no joke. he looks up, catches my glance and a smile leaps right up into those bad boys, just pulling me toward him like a magic lasso.

• he sits like me. the other day i was sitting in a common area at work. legs outstretched, elbows leaned against the high counter. he sat next to me and did the same thing. leaned back with legs stretched. proceeded to tell stories about his past. i think the psychological name for this technique is 'mirroring'. damn him.

• he stops what he's doing to talk to me. he'll turn his back to the computer screen, close the book, close the newspaper, and talk to me. me only. training those deadly, kryptonite-laced lazers he calls eyes on me, arms folded, utterly still and gives me his freaking attention. sometimes for an hour at a time. at work.

•he used to be depressed. he's now damn near cheery. out of black and into colors like plum and blue. and he smiles. all of the time. and laughs at my jokes. he even makes jokes and talks to me about basketball.

he must love me, right? oh, i've been down this road before. where you waste valuable time obsessing over a guy's every move, word, glance, trying to figure out if he's being friendly or flirtatious. you're such a slave to your thoughts that you become incapable of losing yourself in your interactions with the man, because you're busy inside your own head, analysing. by the time you take your head out of your ass long enough to see the actual window of opportunity, he slamming it shut on your fingers. so this is my last rumination. i will enjoy our conversations, and the light in his eyes and keep it moving. you'll never hear about this again.

how i learned the word 'facha'

I don't think i've mentioned it yet, but i teach english here. i work at a language school, one of the oldest and most respected. i consider myself lucky because it isn't a difficult job. you do, however, have to be energetic, creative, and know your english grammar inside and out. My hours are fairly flexible. I get to enjoy the sunny barça days and crazy barça nights. i meet all kinds of people, as my students range from high powered attorneys, photographers and fashion execs, to buckwild 10 year olds. i really feel like i have the opportunity to take part in the culture, even though i speak english all day.

but i do have one student i'd like to choke. she's old. it's the first thing that i can say about her. probably not so old in age, but her skin and eyes are melting down her face, and her hair hangs in a brown lifeless blob, i mean, bob. she's one of those people who speaks in a head voice, so she sounds like her voice has no bottom, and her words have no weight. she's very intelligent. a more-than-receptionist in an architect's office, she helps to organize and edit her boss's writings. she knows about any number of topics, from art and photography to politics. in our first class, she started to talk about the sad state of africa, and said, i quote, 'africa is the shame of europe'. i took this to mean that she thought it was europe's fault africa's more or less fucked, and to a certain degree, i can relate to this sentiment. i thought there was hope for her.

but somehow, over the next few weeks i could not quite engage her. i showered her with everything from cute conversational cues like 'How would your life change if you found out your parents were aliens'? I showed her video about how civil war and African migration were effecting the continent. She seemed uncomfortable with everything. And she had considerably less self confidence and sense of humor than some of my other students. my high powered attorney, for example, who all but jumped on the conference table of his swanky rambla digs and started dancing when confronted with some of these same topics.

i tried to keep the energy up. it was the dalai lama brought us down. a simple audio news article about china and tibet, and she freaked the fuck out. "i have very specific political beliefs, and you are not going to change my mind". i hadn't tried to. but i let her vent. like i said, i like my job. i tried to mollify her. "the dalai lama has no power, it is all marketing." she even went here, "i don't believe people should have religions their parents did not belong to. westerners cannot be buddhists. i mean, what would you think of a hindu who was a catholic? it's not right; it's out of context. hindus shouldn't be christians, and westerners can't be buddhists . . ." oh. i was giving private lessons to an aging, unattractive, catalan ann coulter. who knew?

i told my cool italian director of studies about the strange encounter. she called her a fascist and had my back. but i couldn't stop thinking about how curious a thing is religion. a lot of it is show and costumes and smoke and mirrors. but i believe there are powers outside of us. and i also believe like buddhists; enlightenment, which can spring spontaneously from the well of consciousness inside of each of us, is ultimate power. is it unfair for me to think of her as a soulless cruella de ville because she can't see anything past the smoke and mirrors? maybe.

it should have bothered me that she said my class bored her. except i didn't give a shit. i come from a class of rowdy, fun, spirited and incredibly smart 10 year-olds to an hour with her. to say i was fucking bored, too, wouldn't begin to explain it. i'm not bored anymore, though. her rant kicked that shit right out of me and put sheer paranoia in its place. closed-minded folks are like roaches. if you've found one, it's only a matter of time till the rest come scurrying out of their hiding places.