OMFG

There's a new Quentin Tarantino movie. Brad Pitt is in it. It's about Nazi-occupied France. Holy. Eff.

This is what it means to be an American

That's what people keep saying today. Arianna Huffington said it, the letters to the editor of the New York Times repeat it often, it's obvious it's what Juan Williams was thinking when he broke the news.

Obama won. Obama fucking won! My dad often said, when talking about this election, "if democrats can't win this election, I don't see how democrats can win any election." I'm really happy we won, and I don't have to think of a world where we couldn't. So what does it mean to be an American? And what does it mean to be an American living overseas?

It means that people are eager to talk to me if they know I am American. The landlord: "What do you think of the new president?" The man at the post office (in attempted English): "Chicago? Home of new president?" My friend Mourad (quoting Obama's speech): "It is not a black America. It is not a white America."

It means I have to stop every so often and remind myself what a historic day this is. As Tom reminded me, I can look into the future and see children twenty years from now asking me, "where were you when Barack Obama was elected President?"

It means I had to stifle tears as I watched this speech in the library.



It means I couldn't help it when the pride I felt made my chest swell. It means all of these "it means"s just scratch the surface of how I feel.

Obama talks a lot about hope. Here are my hopes: I hope great things for his presidency. I hope predictions of assassination don't come true. I hope conservatives don't try to blame a Democratic (or worse, black) president when the economy finally goes down the shitter, and I hope that if they do the American people are smart enough not to buy it.

I hope Americans are as passionate about every election as they were about this one.

Today I feel better about America. And hey, I did vow that I wouldn't come home if McCain won. Guess it looks like the States will welcome me back in May!

A strange day to be away

Very strange. I don't feel at all like I'm not in the USA. Last night almost half of the eight o'clock news had to do with the US elections. Leonardo DiCaprio was a guest to talk about his new movie, and also how he voted for Obama (which makes me love him almost as much as I did when I was 12). All day on the internet I've been reading up on news from the elections (not much so far). Right now I'm sitting next to my friend who is sporting his Obama t-shirt. I've blogged and had more conversations (in French and English) about this election than any other. I was afraid I would miss home on Election Day, but it's going all right. The only thing I'm gonna miss is one kickass election party.

I hope everyone who can vote does. And I hope the winner really wins.

A better way to pay homage to my country

Disclaimer: Allan is an awesome photographer. Most of the photos I used in this entry are his, which is made obvious by how good they are. I'm really happy that he was there to capture the day, and I'm really hoping I don't get in trouble for using the pictures. Is copyright as serious in France as it is in the US?


Best Week(end) Ever part 5 – D-Day Beaches



In high school and college I wasn’t too into history. Now I wish I had been. That’s because I have seen the D-Day beaches, and I am embarrassed at how much I don’t know. Would you think I was totally lame if you found out that before last Saturday I had no idea why there was a battle on those beaches? If you found out I didn’t even know which countries were fighting? Yeah, I think it’s pretty lame too.

You know that scene in Saving Private Ryan where old Tom Hanks is standing in front of the white cross, and then the camera pans out and you see that this cemetery is just full of crosses and goes on for what seems like forever? Believe me when I say even that scene does not do justice to the feeling of being there yourself.

On Saturday I woke up early, and found out what a typical French breakfast would be. I think C may have been shocked when she found out that during my month here, I had yet to have a proper French croissant. Well, she certainly fixed that. When Allan (I hope I spelled that right) returned from the bakery we all enjoyed our croissants and pain au chocolat (chocolate bread – did I mention it’s delicious?) and big bowls of hot chocolate.

After watching some of Billy Elliot, which seems to be fantastic - I must finish it, and some of Eastenders, a British soap, and having a shower in which the hot water lasted for more than the minute and a half that is typical of my studio, the family got together to take me to the beaches, and a tour of the beautiful Normandy countryside. Look how beautiful the clouds were on Saturday. I was complaining about how photos can’t capture the texture and beauty of clouds, but I think this one really did.

I love the look of country life. I love the way red vegetation is allowed to crawl over the side of a house, I love the structure of the farm houses, I love the red geraniums that are sometimes popular outside windows. It’s all just really beautiful.

Before I knew it we arrived to the first beach of the day. Forgive me for not knowing the name. It was a very small beach with not much left, but you could still see the bunkers in the ocean where the Americans arrived. Even though it was small it was still powerful.

We drove on to a lookout point. I think it may have been called Arromanche, but I’m not sure. From a small tower you could look out over the seas and the parking lot, into which a tour bus was pulling. C pointed out to me that there was a veteran in that bus. As we pulled out, we saw the veteran exit the bus. He was wearing his suit with his medals, and I can’t remember the last time I felt so much respect for a person. Even from inside a car, without meeting him or even seeing him up close, I had to hold back tears. I can’t imagine what it must be like for him to come back.

Our next stop was the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial. That’s the one from Saving Private Ryan that I was talking about earlier. I noticed right away that all the signs were in English, and C and Allan explained to me that we were technically on American soil, since the USA bought the land. All of the employees there speak English, all the signs are in English first, and the grounds are kept just like any American military ceremony. In a strange way, it felt like returning home.

As we walked into the grounds, the National Anthem started to play. I never realized just how deeply that music is engrained in me. I knew it from the first chord. There was a ceremony happening around this statue for a tour group that had just arrived. Everyone was silent and collected around the statue. I joined them and just couldn’t help but cry.

I decided to walk over to a lookout over the beach first. I needed some time before the cemetery. And looking at the beach really hit me. The thing that affected me the most was how completely calm it was. Just a regular beach. Some people walking on it, the constant cycle of waves, but overall it was totally quiet. It’s hard to imagine how riotous it must have been on June 6th, 1944.

I felt like I was ready as I would ever be to head to the cemetery. And I’m telling you, there is no way to explain the gravity of all those crosses. I could tell you that there are 9300+ graves, but I’m not sure that that is a comprehensible number. I could muse about the impact of war and how behind every grave there is a whole grieving family, but I’m not sure that’s the right way to describe the feeling either. Maybe the experience is one that can’t be expressed at all.
So maybe I’ll just let you look at the pictures:









Like I said, I’m not a big history buff. I only studied WWII enough to pass the test on it in 11th grade. I don’t watch war movies. I don’t read war litt. Call it a defense mechanism. And I have been lucky enough not to lose anyone to war. Ever. And with all that considered, this experience was still the most overwhelming, heart wrenching one I have ever had. I can’t imagine how it must feel for people who have more invested to visit this cemetery. I just can not imagine.

Once I felt like I couldn’t take the cemetery any more, we went down to Omaha beach. Like I said, it was calm. I’m so so so happy that petite Alice was with us on this day. At 3, she doesn’t comprehend war or death; all she wants to do is run on the beach and play with her shadow. Running and playing with her really helped to relieve the tension I was feeling. Thank you, petite Alice!


After the beaches, we all went to Bayeux. It was too late to see the famous tapestry (tear) but I did see the cathedral. Cathedrals really astound me. The thought that someone – well actually, a lot of someones – would care about and have enough love for one deity to construct something like this leaves me speechless. This picture is just the base of the cathedral. There was no way to get a good picture of the whole thing. That you can find here.

We walked around Bauyeux for a while. C used to teach here so she’s an expert on the city. There were many beautiful buildings, of course. I’m jealous of the history that France has. Buildings this old just don’t exist in the USA.

For dinner we went to an Indian restaurant, which was awesome for two reasons: 1. I wanted to compare French Indian food to American Indian food. It’s the same but less spicy. 2. It reminded me of Tapan, who I miss every single day. And I felt so in-the-know. I didn’t order meat, I used only my right hand to pull the nan apart and pick up the Korma Taj Mahal (veggie dish). It was really nice. Conversation was, as usual, awesome, and petite Alice was just lovely.

Once we returned home, everyone was ready to crash. It had been a long day for everyone, but, excuse the cliché, an incredible learning experience.

Because one man's Tommy Lasorda is another man's Sidney Poitier

On Friday night there was a special on ABC, NBC, and CBS called Stnad Up 2 Cancer. It was incredible. Mariah Carey, Beyonce, Mary J. Blige, Rihanna, Fergie, Sheryl Crow, Miley Cyrus, Melissa Etheridge, Ashanti, Natasha Bedingfield, Keyshia Cole, Ciara, Leona Lewis, LeAnn Rimes, and Carrie Underwood all got together to sing a beautiful song called "Just Stand Up."

And a whole slew of other A-List celebs from Kirsten Dunst to Patrick Swayze showed up to take donations or make incredible speeches about the importance of cancer research.

As soon as I saw what the show was about I knew I was going to make a donation. My boss, who is on a few "Fight back against cancer" committees, is such an inspiration to me. She does much to promote awareness about the disease, so of course I felt like a small contribution was necessary. I don't have much money right now, but I called and donated what I could. And then I got to talk to a celebrity! I didn't know who he was when I called, but it didn't matter. I commended him for taking the time to do something so important, and he assured me that my meager donation was not laugable at all.

If you have anything at all extra this week, I urge you to make a donation. As Meryl Streep said on the show, no one knows whose dollar is going to be the one that pushes this research over the top and is responsible for the cure. Here's where you can donate.

Sing-Along with Dr. Horrible

Allow me to explain how incredibly awesome Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog is. Imagine that in the time it would take you to watch one episode of your favorite hour-long TV show (without commercials) you could watch a self-contained mini movie with singing, basic choreography, Neil Patrick Harris, Nathan Filion and an evil-ass horse, and it was all brought to you by super-genius Joss Whedon. OK, done imagining what an awesome and wonderful experience would be? Well rest assured that you can have all of these things. Right here, right now.

Seriously, I don't know why Hulu isn't more famous. You can watch lots of episodes of TV (House and Heroes for me) and some movies too, completely for free!

But back to Dr. Horrible. If you are still on this page, leave. Go watch it. And then come back because the following contains spoilers.

First, here are two reasons why I am in love with Neil Patrick Harris:

Laundry Day:



Brand New Day:


Of course one of the reasons that I love Joss Whedon is that his work always has a huge fan following. And lots of times, they have really smart things to say. There are some quite interesting discussions over at the Sing Along Blog Message Board. I think my favorite so far is the discussion of an alternate ending written by bellatrys over at LiveJournal. An ideal ending, but not one that Joss, or I, or any of the Whedonians I know actually, would ever support. Because ideal endings are not something that good art, or Joss Whedon, will ever give us.

What intrigued me most about this discussion, though, was not the talk about what should have happened to Penny or Doctor Horrible, but a small point that I almost passed over. User rudyhenkel said:

"Although I don't actually like the alternative proposed by the OP, why on earth should anyone *have* to accept the ending as is? If this was reality you'd be correct. Fortunately, this is fiction. So, while Sutures' alternative vision may lack the numbers, production value and artistry of the ending given to us, both endings are just as real. That is, not at all. People have to face and accept enough tragedy in real life. They shouldn't be forced to accept it in fiction as well, if they don't wish to."

I think that this is a valid argument for why fanfic exist, but I can't agree with what rudyhenkel says. When I find a writer as wonderful as Whedon, I get attached to the stories. His characters and plots are so well-crafted that to me, they are real. I relate to them as if they were my neighbors or enemies, and I am sad when their stories are over and I have to let go. Sure, fiction is fiction, but I think that the endings of really great fiction should absolutely, without a doubt, be regarded as truth.

What more can I say? Joss has delivered once again. I can't wait for the sequel!

Cause: Heroes for Andy

So Andy sent a note over facebook a while ago that prompted all of his friends to consider some questions about heroes and heroism. It took me a while to respond because I thought good and long about it. And I came up with some answers that I think are pretty solid, though they could use a little more analysis. At any rate, I think they're blogworthy, so here they are for your viewing pleasure (bolded bits are Andy's questions):

Who is your hero? Alexander Harris, the character from the show Buffy the Vampire Slayer, is my hero.

why? what about that person/s makes them your hero? Xander remains throughout the series the only character that does not have or develop some sort of supernatural power. Let’s look at the characters: Buffy is of course the slayer, Willow and Tara are witches, Anya is an ex-vengeance demon, Dawn starts out as a mystical key, Oz becomes a werewolf, Angel and Spike are two examples of an ever-expanding cast of vampires. Cordelia and Giles start out as simple mortals with no supernatural abilities, but in season six Giles hinders evil-Willow with some bad-ass magicks, and Cordelia goes on to become one of the Powers-that-be in the later seasons of Angel.

Xander is the only character who doesn’t get any supernatural play. But he is just as much an integral part of the Scooby gang as anyone else. The fact that he remains such a sacred part of the inner-circle even though he has no superpower is incredible to me. He’s the heart of their operation, and if you ask me, that is a much harder role to fill. Xander manages to keep up his role alongside all of these characters that have been blessed with powers outside nature while he remains an average joe. Sure, he gets frustrated every now and then, but never so much that he is willing to abandon his friends.

What traits in particular do you wish you had that he does? btw Andy, I did notice that you assume my hero is male;Xander accepts that he is “the zeppo” – the one person in the group who is un-special. He has accepted that he is never going to be supernaturally-endowed like his friends but he still acknowledges that he brings something unique to their friendset. The fact that he is OK with this, and does not compete to become the strongest fighter or the most bad-ass witch, is extraordinary. I guess that tells me that he is not jealous or competitive, which are both traits I feel I take on when I am surrounded by a set of friends who are way awesomer than I am.

what traits do you not want? I do not want to be the guy that has to be rescued all the time because he can not get himself out of the ropes he’s been tied in. And I do not want to lose an eyeball.

Who do you think an american hero is? I think an American hero is someone like a comic book superhero. Spiderman or Superman

why? I get the feeling that most United Statesians want someone to swing in on a web and rescue them from their lives and rising gas prices and terrorism. This is something that will never happen because the American hero, like Spiderman, is fictional.

who do you think a superhero is? To me, the best kind of superhero is someone like Batman or Iron Man. Someone who used to be an average citizen but was genius enough to develop ridiculous technology to make changes in the world.

why? Because it is hard for me to believe that a spaceship crash- landed into our planet and out popped a man who could save the world for us. It’s too easy. Show me a person (speaking of are there any female superheroes like I’m about to describe?) in a great mess of trouble who actually makes himself into a superhero using realistic technology and I’m a believer. I don’t care how likely it is that Iron Man could have made that suit in a day in a cave in the middle of the desert – if there’s even a small percentage of a chance that it’s possible, I’ll buy it. And I’ll like that type of hero better. Because he made a choice to do what he did.

what kind of hero do you think the US and, even bigger, the world needs? This is the hardest question. Not because I don’t know, but because the type of hero the world needs is impossible to find. The reason it’s impossible is because we need a hero that everyone can agree is a hero. And that will never happen with the massive political, cultural, and religious differences in this world. My idea of a hero, or a superhero, is not going to be the same as anyone else’s. In all of the answers that you get back from this, I doubt you will get any two that are exactly the same. And for the most part, I’m sure that the people you asked have a lot in common. Now extend your questions to the entire world, and your response is going to be an enormous clusterfuck.

And I’m not sold that we need a hero anyway. I think individual people need to start making some goddamn improvements and take the blame when they mess up. If we had a world where all people believed in the same set of morals/values and everyone lived by them, we wouldn’t need a hero to come in and fix things.

But expecting that world to exist is unhealthy and unrealistic, and so is believing in superheroes.

True Life: I'm a sap

Last night I turned on my TV to watch some more of Buffy Season Five en Francais(which by the way is really bolstering my confidence - I can now say "He's not a little ball of sunshine"). But I never turned on the DVD because what was on MTV was so much better.

Whoa. Did I just say that? I mean, I can admit I am addicted to MTV and VH1, but I don't usually defend the programming as any more than sleaze TV that sometimes makes a commentary on the weaker points of our society. While I argue that it has its merits, I never thought a show on either channel would be so good that it would delay me from turning on BtVS. But then I saw True Life: I'm deaf.

The show profiled two people who were born deaf. Amanda, 21, was born deaf but uses a hearing aid to listen to people's voices. She doesn't use sign language because she prefers to read lips, and she speaks. When she was young her mom enrolled her in a dance class and she was able to listen to the vibration of the music to pick up rhythm.

Chris is a high-school student who was also born deaf. He, unlike Amanda, relies on sign language to communicate because he doesn't know how his voice sounds. His girlfriend is learning sign language but they mostly communicate with written notes.

The episode documents life-changing events for both people. Chris gets a cochlear implant in his head, which means that he is able to hear for the first time in his life. He can hear his mother's voice, his father play the guitar, the sound of leaves beneath his feet, all of the chaotic sounds of a day in high school, and the way it sounds when his girlfriend says his name. Although it will take a few years for Chris to fully understand spoken language, he is happy to be able to hear.

Amanda tries out for a dance squad in Baltimore with two of her close friends. She is an incredible dancer and she is beautiful, but she doesn't make the cut. The update at the end of the episode tells us that she makes the next squad she tries out for.

Of course it is amazing that medical technology can make a deaf person hear, and that Amanda is a fantastic dancer though she can't hear the music, and that Chris and his girlfriend sustain a healthy relationship without verbal communication, but what impressed me most was the candor that Chris and Amanda have. The episode was wraught with moments of extreme vulnerability that these people let cameras be privy to: when Chris stands in front of his bathroom mirror and tries to form words when he has no idea how he sounds; when Amanda brings a ringing cell phone to her ear and then talks about how much it sucks to not be able to talk on the telephone; how she is so nervous that no one will count 5,6,7,8... before the routine and she will miss her first step of the audition. During these moments, I couldn't help feeling like a voyeur in their lives.

It is rare that a program on the TV stations I watch inspires me to make the most out of my life, but this one certainly did.

Letter to Morgan Freeman

Dear Morgan Freeman,

I truly hope you recover soon from your accident on Sunday. You are one of my favorite actors, and I can't imagine a Hollywood without you. Speedy Recovery, please.

Deepest regards,
Ashley

Kudos to Curvature

I just read the entirety of The Curvature's Day of Blogging, and it was phenomenal. In the span of 39 blog entries (which were written to raise money for RAINN - the nation's largest anti-sexual assault organization) I gained a ton of knowledge, and a whole lot of respect for Cara as well. She is a fantastic blogger who sheds light on serious feminist issues that I have realized do need to be addressed a hell of a lot more often.

She led me to some Lines that Rock by Julie Buffaloe-Yoder.

My favorite post highlighted a new series of posters from the Date Safe Project that challenge "consent" as it is commonly understood. I am really loving them. Here's my favorite one:



I've kissed a lot of guys. Not horribly too many, but still a lot. And two kisses stand out in my mind. The hands-down best kiss ever happened after I asked him if I could touch his lips with mine. The runner up happened after he asked "May I kiss you?"

Though I've never asked (or been asked) consent for anything more major than that, I'm going to start.

These posters rock.

Thank You Chris Moore

for introducing Christian the Lion into my life.

smash's best week ever part one

Because Rachel is awesome and inspiring, i myself am starting a best week ever thread.

so last week was probably the most wonderful one i've had in quite a while. though it started out a little slow, by the end of the week i was happily surprised with the turnout.

so monday, tuesday and wednesday were average in terms of fun. monday i watched the most horrifying movie ever and it made me never want to have sex. ever.

tuesday and wednesday i got to hang out with my favorites, sharon and chris.

but the week really picked up on thursday, when i got to see Salman Rushdie deliver a powerful, inspiring reading at the philly free library.


there was a decent turonout for the man, but not as many fans as i would have expected were there. usually when the reader is popular, they sell tickets for the auditorium and they simulcast in the lobby, but he didn't sell enough tickets for all that, only enough for the auditorium. this is not to say that he wasn't hugely appreciated. he came out to a round of applause that was genuine, and long enough that he had to tell us to stop.

he began with a reading from his new book, The Enchantress of Florence, and i simply loved the section he chose. the title character was witty and endearing, and i was in love with her almost immediately. the excerpt had many of my favorite things: love, tattoos, toilet humor, a garden, and Dracula.

that's right. i did say Dracula. i knew from some of the elements in the reading (Wallachia, Janissaries) that his story probably took place during the time that Vlad Tepes III was in power, and i wondered if Rushdie would tie him into the novel somehow. and he did. in fact, one of my favorite parts of the night was during question and answer section, when someone asked what it was like to research history for this book. Rushdie responded that he knew a lot about the time, but that he still had to research the characters, who actually lived. he then quite excitedly added that when he realized that he was writing in the same period that Dracula lived, he was ecstatic that he could include him in his book. and that, my friends, is one of the many reasons that i love rushdie.

during question and answer segement, i was quite pleased with his responses. they were all humorous, especially his tale about writing a song for U2.

humor aside, i think my favorite part of the night was when Rushdie warned us to not forget that stories are fictitious. he reminded us that there are no such things as flying carpets and genies that grant wishes, and that we too often as readers forget this. he told us something that i never knew, and that i will try to remind myself as often as possible - that the introduction we use to fairy tales, "Once upon a time, in a land far far away," is a rough translation of the sanscrit, "It was so, it was not so, in a time long forgotten." much more fitting, if you ask me.

oh, and another highlight of the night? when i found out that Rushdie was a mud angel after the 1966 flood of the River Arno in Florence. since one of my favorite books ever is The Sixteen Pleasures, this tidbit made me a little melty inside.

for more of the best moments of the night , hop over to lines that rock.

let's has a moments

promise

i finished Ondaatje's newest book almost a week ago, and i promise i will put up the most awesome quotations from it as soon as i get home today. look for them on "lines that rock."

because everyone's a little emo sometimes

i opened at Talk of the Walk in the aeropeurto on saturday morning. for anyone who didn't hear me complaining about it already, that means my shift started at 5 am. Not fun. no one even entered the store until 6, and even after that only one person would amble in every half hour, casually browse some overpriced merch, and then leave, sometimes without a salutation.

so i'm sitting in the chair reading Divisadero when an older man comes into the store. i say hello, half-expecting him to ignore me, but he asks me what i'm reading.

diversion: in my personal experience, i have found that there are two types of old men that will talk to a young woman:

1. the loathsome i-know-i'm-older-but-would-you-please-entertain-my-fantasies-and-not-smack-me-when-i-make-a-comment-about-your-breasts-or-ass

2. the grandfather.

(of course, another type of old man is the agist grump, but he doesn't make the list because he won't likely talk to a young woman in the first place.)

digressions aside, the man who asked me what i was reading was definitely the grandfather type. i told him what i was reading, which led us into a discussion about college, which inevitably led the conversation to my future. i told him about France and he was genuinely impressed (which is nice because my maternal grandfather is not the grandfatherly type of old man but the agist grump, and therefore not interested in talking, or congratulating me, about France).

this old man was so nice that when he felt it was time to leave the store, i shook his hand and told him it was my pleasure to meet him. and just so you know, that is a big deal. i work in an airport. i don't shake many hands.

after a few more minutes of reading Ondaatje, the old man re-entered the store to buy gum. when i stood to ring his sale, i noticed that he noticed my shape. it wasn't a creepy ogling, though. more of an acknowledgement of a pretty girl lifting her curves from the chair she was sitting in.

he said, "so you're gonna break your boyfriend's heart when you go to France, aren't you."

i was so flattered i could have cried. instead, i said, "oh, sir. i wish i could say i had someone's heart to break." when he didn't seem to believe i was single, i added, "it seems no one wants to date someone who is leaving in five months."

and here is where i get emo.

i've entered this new phase in my life where i say what i want to say. i've held feelings inside most of my life, and just a few months ago, i decided i wouldn't do that anymore. since then, i've told a few people exactly how i feel about them, and it hasn't changed a damn thing. there is still clearly something about me that halts the men in my life from coming after me, even when i make it clear how i feel. is it France? is it weight? is it intelligence?

i don't know. what i do know is that i have rolled my heart out red-carpet style before the men in my life, and they have all remained indifferent. sometimes i wish that someone would trample it, tell me why i'm not worth love. at least there would be action involved in that.

because everytime someone ignores what i've said, it gets harder to say it next time. and i know that eventually i'm going to shut down.

end emo rant.

i wanted to show everyone this

postsecret from the mother's day collection, but i can't save the picture of it because whenever i run the mouse over, it changes to this image (i assume the flipside of the card):



the side of the card that made me cry, though, reads "my mom found this secret and confronted me. A year later, I can say:" and then there is red marker scrawled over the original postsecret that says "NOT ANYMORE."

The original postcard said, "I wish I could just kill myself and no one would be hurt."

At the very bottom, the author wrote, "(Thanks mom, for saving my life)"

I never doubted my gratitude for postsecret, but some stand out more than others.

It's not that I want to have babies

necessarily, but if I were going to have babies, I would want all 86 of them to be from this man:
Then perhaps my babies would be genui like him. And if I am going to have his babies, tonight is my opportunity, because he's reading at the Free Library in Philly. And I am unbelievably stoked because Ondaatje is the author of one of my favorite novels ever, In the Skin of a Lion. Oh please, that doll scene? Heaven. First Lucille, now Ondaatje. France accepted me. Can things get any better?

This weekend

I was in Philadelphia. I was bored and being me, so I decided to start rapping "Ice Ice Baby" to Jason because it was in my head. And I saw a man. He was very tall, very muscled, very tattoed, and he looked like he may have spent some time in prison. My first instinct was to distance myself a little but then I saw the shirt he was wearing:



Then I wanted to hug him.

Dear Lucille Clifton,

Thank you so much for not disappointing. Last night was the first time I saw you in person, and you were incredible. Of course your soft-spoken poetry was fantastic, especially the new ones you wrote about Aunt Jamima and Cream of Wheat.

And when you read "Fury", after you told the story of your mother, it was so beautiful and sad that I cried real tears on my cheeks and hoped Sharon and Chris wouldn't see.

But perhaps more wonderful than your reading was the question and answer section. Because most of the questions were not questions but praise or reminders of familiarity. Like, "Lucille, I wanted to thank you for reading. I didn't know who you were before tonight but my girlfriend made me come and... and...I love you."

Then there was the man a few seats to my left who was more eager to be called on than anyone:

Man: Lucille?
You: Yes.
Man: I baby sat your kids. All six of them. My wife and I (motions to his wife).
You (after a few beats): Beth? Steve- no not Steve. What is your name? I'm so sorry.
Man: Roger.
You: Oh my! Did you know that (insert oldest's name here) is forty-seven years old? And (two more children) have passed.
Man: I know. We were sorry to hear that.
You: How's your brother? (To audience) Oh, excuse us.

I wanted to ask you about the fox that appears in so many of your poems. You write so beautifully of her, and I wanted to know what her inspiration is, and what she means to you, but I didn't have the guts to raise my hand.

Oh, I thought about asking you at the book signing table, but I thought I would rather use my time to have you sign my favorite poem "Song at Midnight" instead. Remember when I told you that that poem speaks to me, and you gave me some very wise words about men? Well, you were so soft-spoken that I didn't hear everything you said, and I figured the fox answer would be lost the same way if I asked it.

I'm sad that I didn't hear all of your advice about men, but if I'd asked you about the foxes and missed your answer, well I don't know if I could handle that.

I hope she reads this one

Song at Midnight
by Lucille Clifton

…do not send me out
among strangers
Sonia Sanchez

brothers,
this big woman
carries much sweetness
in the folds of her flesh.
her hair
is white with wonderful.
she is
rounder than the moon
and far more faithful.
brothers,
who will hold her,
who will find her beautiful
if you do not?