happy birthday

Today my uncle will sit in the cemetery next to my aunt's grave and read, wishing for the infinite time this year that she was still alive. Especially today, to celebrate her 69th birthday. When you've decided to spend your life with someone, they always die too early, don't they?

I have a class to go to today. I have reading to do. I have friends to hang out with. I have movies to watch, and jokes to laugh at, and minor irritations to get frustrated about. I will spend today among the living. And I can't decide if it's better that way.

There are too many things to tell her. They're starting to weigh down my chest.

I should call. But I don't know what to say.

gol dang those white folks

I've been noticing for a while now an increasingly curious racial self-loathing in (younger) white people today. For a while it's been expressed as a self-deprecating look into the weird quirks and desires of "white" people, who are being portrayed as clueless psuedo-liberals who want to appear culturally aware and welcoming. "Stuff White People Like" is hilarious in its perfect specificity, and written with well-intentioned satire, typically prompting an "Oh god, that's totally me, dammit" response from a reader. It's not bitter or accusatory, but in it's own way manages to have a little bit of an edge underneath the jokes. 

I just stumbled upon another blog, "stuff white people do," which, on the surface, looks to be similar to the original "Stuff White People Like." On closer examination though, most of the posts are pretty vitriolic, slamming modern white people for embracing racist books (To Kill A Mockingbird was cited), being "afraid" of black people, investigating reverse-racism, denying the existence of racial tension, and generally just being...well, racist. The blog is written by macon d, who explains himself as "a white guy, trying to find out what that means. Especially the 'white' part." 

Judging by his hotly opinionated posts, Macon appears to have discovered what the descriptor "white" means, and it doesn't seem to have a positive connotation. The thing is, I don't think he's really wrong in most of what he says. But what is interesting is that he's so adamant that the people of his race are so ethically and politically backwards--and so, by heavily criticizing their faults, he's trying to distance himself away from the entire race. It's a sort of "I'm not like them," declaration; to what audience he's trying to convey this message, I'm not sure. But his blanket attacks on ALL white people certainly indicate some sort of racial self loathing. 

Enlightened white people--perhaps like Macon, or the writer of Stuff White People Like--don't want to be white anymore because it's not considered cool. The white people mocked in blogs are pathetic spineless wannabes, or else self-righteous closet racists. And while there's much truth to every stereotype, the people who point them out so wildly don't end up looking much better than those they accuse. 

In the end, your skin will always be the color it was when you came into this world. And no matter what your opinion is, that fact will always speak louder. 

Sparing Change

People ask me for money a lot. On the street. Sometimes they're outright about it. Other times they have a story. Most times I give them something.

I was on the phone with my mom, wasting time at work in the Loop, when this guy comes up to me.

"Listen, miss, I'm so sorry to bother you, but..."

I tell my mom to hang on, and I listen to this dude's story. Apparently he's from Jersey, doesn't know a soul, needs bus money but everyone downtown is an asshole with a place to go, and could I spare a couple of bucks? He pulled out his ID and told me he'd give me that as collateral until he paid me back. I didn't want his ID--what was I supposed to do with it?-- and I had some money in my wallet. But this is always a curious situation. Should I believe his story and cut him some slack? Did his story even matter? Fuck it. I had some buckage. I could spare it.

"Sure," I said. I gave him three dollars.

"Well, what I really needed was about 12 dollars, miss, but I didn't want to ask you that in the first place, I know it's a lot of money but I'm trying to get a bus..." and on he goes.

I check my wallet. I've got more than that to spare, but I'm not feeling giving all of it to him. So I hand him a fiver and wish him luck. He thanks me profusely and goes on his way. I go back to my phone conversation with my mother.

"Oh, you were so just scammed."

Yeah? Yeah. Maybe I was. Maybe he was lying about the bus, maybe he was hustling me. But he was still asking for money, which means he obviously still needed it for something. He still needed it. So who cares what story he told me? Why does that even matter? Why do we always need a reassurance that when we're helping someone out financially that they're in tangible trouble? People like my mother want proof that this person's car did break down, or they did get mugged. But why? What does that change? Does that make you feel better about giving away five, ten, twenty dollars? Because you're helping someone? That's the only time we can justify being generous, if we're absolutely sure that they have an immediate problem.

Look, that approach makes sense. We want to help someone in trouble. And when people lie about their situation, we get offended, like someone screwed up our charity donations. But I'd like to get back to the original point--that there's someone here asking me for money. And if they didn't need it for something, they wouldn't ask.

I dunno. I think the need outweighs the reason. And I don't care how naive that sounds because I never want to be as cynical as my mother.

Inadequacy

Check it out:

http://www.thestylerookie.com/

Here's what my writing NEVER was when I was in 8th grade: good. I was super lame when I was 13. Which is why I both envy and appreciate Tavi, the 13-year-old fashion blogger. Not just because she's a well-known and reasonably respected fashion blogger/entrepreneur, but because she actually writes pretty darn well. While I'm definitely considering her age when I write this post, I'm still pretty impressed by the style and by the knowledge reflected in the blog. It's good for what it is--not just for someone who hasn't even entered high-school yet. 

And I wonder what the fuck I was doing writing painfully inane xanga posts? Damn. 

Adventures on the job

It's a pretty piece--red, and green, and blue. I barely know either of you. I've been in this park a half dozen times. You have a small little yellow bag where you hold your stuff. You crush it into the bowl. Light it. I hate lighters. I'm afraid of fire. I'm last. Two hits are enough because now I'm drowsy and my eyelids are folding. It's nice to feel grass on my upper thigh, making patterns in my skin. You two talk a lot about invention and self-employment and start up companies. I want to eat a burrito and watch Roseanne. I can feel my smile curling under my nose without my permission.

We took a long break. Time to go back to work. But first I want my burrito. Flash Taco makes good food. Let's go there. Order a torta, forget the burrito. Girl behind the counter doesn't work there. I'm tired and I feel sick. I don't like where I am. I am hot. I feel funny. I feel like sleeping. I don't want to be here and I have to go home to my bed and sleep and oh, God, I don't even want my torta but where is it, it's taking so long, and the two of your eat your steak tacos and I just want something to drink and I think I might die in Flash Taco--but, wait. No. I'm okay. It's just the bud. And my torta's up. And it looks messy and delicious. And I drink my water with vigor. And I tear into my food. I can barely remember eating it. It tasted so good, better than anything I've ever eaten in my whole life. And finally our break is really over. And it's really time to go back to work. I'm still sleepy, but sated. I can do this.

I can't do this. I'm tired and I'm rambling, and is this guy I'm talking to a cop? Am I fucked? He's nodding at me like he knows exactly what's up and oh, God, I should just stop talking and walk away right now what do I do what do I do whatdoIdo, ohGodoh--but, wait. I'm fine. And Michael, the nice guy I'm talking to, is most certainly not a cop. He's a really nice (broke) dude. He's not going to sign up. I let him go. I am relieved. But this was a bad idea. I don't want to talk to anyone. I'm so sleepy and I'm still paranoid, and what the fuck? I have to go away, away from people and the sun and outside and go home and drink a bottle of water because my mouth is cottonwood and I just want to sit by myself for a while.

I talk and I talk and I talk and then I take the train back and then we pretend to work for a while and then it's 6 and I can go home and I turn in my timesheet and my boss is not there and that's good because I only got one sign-up and I'm too tired to deal with disappointment anyway. I almost fall asleep on the train home, but now I just have a headache.

And then I reflect and I realize that smoking on the job was the worst fucking idea I've ever had in my entire life.

just a lil sum'n

I know when the dew comes—
A little before 2:38 in the morning
When everyone is asleep but
The Belltone factory workers
Backs crooked over desks under
Green fluorescent light
Vampires working on the atomic bomb.

I’m sure that
There is something running
Underneath our sidewalks and lawns,
Underneath the souls of our shoes
That pushes up against the ground
And so
The sharp green blades perspire sugar
And it’s
Those beads of sweat
Perfect honey melons of water
That chill my flip-flopped feet
As I cut across the grass
A little before 2:38 in the morning.

A little before 2:38 in the morning
When everyone is still—
But the Belltone factory workers,
Who don’t bother anyone, anyway—
That’s when the grass can pause
To cool down before the sun rises
And the world begins to rush again.

Yeah, I got a few of these silly little lines in the bank. Think I'll keep posting them.

living in my monitor

I was riding the el home from work last week, listening to Jawbreaker, lazily observing everyone in the train car when my eyes happened upon an ad on the right wall. It was an advert for Blackberry, and it had a picture of a phone and the words "If you can't say it here, you probably can't say it."

That ad is the most telling representation of the way we communicate now, and I bet the creators knew that, and that's why it's so clever. Because the almost the only way we can feel comfortable truly bearing it all is behind a computer screen or through the keypad of our cell phones. Everyone says that technology cheapens communication. But maybe it makes us more sincere.

Because without it, would we really say everything we wanted to? Secrets are easier told in the dark, just as grievances are easier filed in an e-mail. Does it really mean more to say it in person just because it's harder?

But even as I type that, I don't agree. I'm only saying this half-heartedly. I would rather hear something true and real than read it. But don't knock the art of a meaningful Facebook message...