R i s k

Risk is an interesting thing. It silently shapes our lives, hiding just under the surface of our decisions, goals, fears, and dreams. It has created, changed, improved, and destroyed countless lives and entire nations. Risk is that thin line we walk between triumph and disaster.

What makes it so potent? To me, its potency lies in its relation to the unknown. Risk arises like a gaseous byproduct from the unknown outcomes of our choices; fear of the unknown is a human trait, and fear carries power. Thus, risk carries power, by association.

Today I realized that I am not a big risk taker. I live for comfort, stability, and the peace that comes with knowing. It’s not that I want to know everything; it’s that, since I am usually content with my life as is, I am afraid to jeopardize that contentment by taking a risk on a change that may or may not be for the better. It’s like having to choose between a prize I like and whatever is behind a mystery door—if the chance of the mystery prize being better is (or seems) 50/50 (which, to me, in some corner of my mind, is closer to 0 than 100), I’m more likely to stick with my prize. I do take risks sometimes—I just realize the risks I take are on the safe side (which almost negates the definition of risk, unfortunately for me).

Despite my tendencies, I believe risks serve an important purpose and should be met head-on sometimes. (I’m working on it). They have the ability to teach us lessons (which are always useful), or change our circumstances for the better.

Of course, I qualified that with sometimes. There is a such thing as bad risks. Bad risks are almost like safe risks—but instead of nearly cancelling out the point of risk-taking, bad risks turns it into poor judgment. (Just to round off my definitions, I’d say “good risk” turns risk into learning experiences, in which (if you don’t have a positive outcome) a negative outcome will have taught you something without the destruction that comes with a bad risk).

I think the problem for people [like me], who are too afraid of, or uncomfortable with the unknown to effectively deal with risk, is that our fear of discomfort makes every risk seem undesirable, if not unneccessary and imprudent. I believe this mindset will hurt in the long run.

So how should we process this four-letter word? Use your best judgment, and try to step outside your comfort zone with it in mind. Be prudent, but not close-minded and fearful. Strike a balance. See risk as a useful part of life.

I will try to take my own advice, and continue to better myself. It’s just one more thing I’ve observed about life and the human condition that makes living interesting.

A few days ago, I attended an awards ceremony to support someone who has helped my career along and continues to help me on occasion. I was undoubtedly the youngest person present in this gathering of over 300 guests. But that’s not what this post is about. As I watched the recipients pause onstage for the photographer, I couldn’t help but notice: they all seemed uncomfortable smiling for a photo. Some didn’t even bother to smile, staring blankly ahead instead. And this was regardless of gender.

It’s one of the many things I’ve noticed in middle-aged to older people that I don’t understand. At what age do you start thinking about how you’re too unattractive/fat/old/whatever to take pictures? A quick perusal of facebook will tell you most 28-and-unders seem to love taking photos. But past that mark, I don’t know what happens. Maybe with age, you undergo another change in self-esteem in which you still love and respect yourself, but that love is directed more to your soul than shared evenly with your exterior appearance. It’s like beauty is only for the young (generally speaking). I hope I am right in saying that’s not true.

Something else I’ve noticed is that older people seem jaded  with nearly everything. What was once their career seems to become just another day at work. Their children seem to become another detail on their to-do list. Things they were once (and honestly still are) passionate about become engulfed in “if only’s,” “someday’s,”  and wistful daydreams. Happiness seems to be downgraded to mean comfortable. This phenomenon I can understand, I guess. Life is a gauntlet, and after decades of running it, I get how it is easy to be bored and or tired of it all. Even things we percieve as “good” can become obligatory tasks.

What I can say about people older than me is that their resilience is a source of comfort for a young person who doesn’t know what’s up ahead. I admire that ability to collect the experiences of three (or more) life stages, weave them together, pull out the lessons and keep yourself whole and well-adjusted as you carry on. Thanks for that example. But cheer up, will ya? You’re scaring us.

 

Hodgepodge

I have a whole bunch of thoughts going on in my head this week, but like a half-full glass bottle of Heinz ketchup, it just won’t come out. So two things: one, I’m going to give you all the opportunity to choose one of those thoughts for me to write about next, and two, I will post something I wrote a while ago to hold you over until then.

So! Number one:

And, for your waiting pleasure, here’s something I wrote over a year ago to amuse myself.

Stuff That Gets on my Nerves:

People that say how old their child is in months, after the year-old mark. “Oh, she’s 19 months…” What the hell! She’s one! Or one and a half, at best. None of this 19 months. Do I go around saying I’m 240 months old? No, so stop the madness.

The fact that Gillette keeps putting out the same razor over and over again. Venus, Embrace, Goddess … it’s the same freaking razor in different colors! I mean really, do they think no one’s noticed? They don’t even package them like a family, they treat them like separate products. I bought the Venus when it came out. Now stop it.

Fox News. You’re racist, and I have no idea how you get away with it. Michelle Obama as “Obama’s Baby Mama?” Middle Eastern/ Arabs as being “of terrorist descent?” Really though?

Cadres of friends who walk abreast (go look it up!) and take up the whole effing sidewalk. I won’t waste my words on you. Next time, someone’s getting punched in the back of the head.

7-11 food. Ewwwww. Cheese filled hotdogs? Hamburger meat shaped and eaten like hotdogs? Sitting on that lukewarm, greasy roller thing all day? Eww. I’m not judging those who willingly consume it but God bless your innards.

Travel-line bus seats. They are not made for short people. Some loser tried to contour it to mirror the spine’s dips and curves, but duh, everybody’s torso is not necessarily in the same place when seated. So poor short people (read: me) have to deal with a headrest that angles forward too high, thus pushing my head forward and hurting my neck.

People who don’t care that they’re ignorant to things they happily discuss. If you, for example, don’t know anything about Tanzania, then keep your mouth shut when that conversation comes up. Go read about it. Do something other than look and sound like an ass with your unfounded opinions.

The Disney Channel’s entertainment slave trade. Those poor [white] kids, chewed up and spit out. They go in for an audition and next thing they know, they’re locked into a contract for 7 TV shows, 345,232,121 albums (nevermind they can’t sing/rap/play their instruments), 23,234,232,567 tour dates, 15 movies, plus DVDs and merchandise. They are well paid though. But they damn sure better not find themselves doing work without Mickey. Walt would be proud.

….The way there’s no escaping these people and their music/antics…AHHHHH!!!!!

LL Cool J. Uncle James, please sit own. Enjoy the accomplishment of a 13-album career, spanning decades, with gold and platinum sales. Count your money. Take up a new hobby. But please stop rapping. “She lookin’ for a man that can give her a break/ Like Usher or Justin Timberlake” Really though? L. Go sit down. Thanks.

Opposite Sex GPS?

An open letter to God:

Dear God,

I understand why you made men and women different, yet complementary. You meant for them to be a team, and what good is a team if each member doesn’t bring his/her own individual strengths to the table? Usually, it works out. But sometimes, Jehovah …

I mean, forgive me, but what in the sam hell were You thinking?!

Look. You made two puzzle pieces that fit together fine, but are parts of two completely different scenes. You made a left shoe and a right shoe, and they’re walking in opposite directions to get to the same destination. You made the sun and the moon, and they’re both trying to light the world all 24 hours of the day.  And then, you decide to let them figure out how to rectify that on their own! We don’t understand them, they don’t understand us, we’re nothing alike and yet we accomplish nothing without cooperating. And You. You have alllllll the answers, but leave us flying blind, groping around for the sight we could provide each other, but somehow clawing at each other at the same time.

Men. Women. It’s maddening, I tell you. Maybe “the gays” are on to something.

Now, don’t get me wrong. The set up is actually a good idea—men and women are similar enough to be drawn to each other, but different enough to be strong where the other is weak. But this works so much better in theory, where this dynamic is not the double-edged cutlass that it becomes in practice. That similarity is nice when the plight of being human strikes—when our hearts are broken, when our dreams are dashed, when we feel so fragile. But oh gosh, when we get too much alike, it makes for all kinds of confusion (I’m sure your imagination can go acres here). That harmonious, complementary balance is wonderful when you’re trying to tackle a multifaceted issue. But when that multifaceted issue is within the team, harmony turns to insanity pretty damn quick.

So Jehovah … I mean, I love You and everything and I would never question Your judgment, but isn’t there a wire or two You could tweak? I mean, just sayin’. Can we get matching system upgrades? Can You just equip us with opposite-sex GPS, or something? Anything? Seriously…

Sincerely,

Eve

White in America in 2050

Today, a friend posted this on Facebook. I found it hilarious.

But it does raise an interesting discussion: Will this first-time-ever-in-America racial shift mean or change anything?

I don’t think so. At least not at first, and at most, maybe in the farther-future. But here is what I think will be notably different:

1. Children growing up then will be much more likely to have friends of several races and backgrounds.

2. Socioeconomic status will be much more divisive than it already is (and may even surpass color/race in that regard).

3. Schools will be more racially mixed (though the students may continue to segregate themselves).

4. White flight will be more difficult to accomplish and gentrification will look different—the “color” of neighborhoods may not change so noticeably.

5. “Diversity training” may become obsolete…you probably wouldn’t be able to keep your job unless you figure it out through day to day interaction.

6. Latinos will be a social, political, and economic force to be reckoned with across the entire country.

And here’s what I think will remain painfully the same:

1. People will still be ignorant and refuse to learn about each other.

2. TV still won’t reflect the multiplicity of reality, nor non-white aesthetics/standards of beauty (although, I must say, I have seen slow but steady improvement in this over the course of my short life).

3. People will still segregate themselves, and become segregated through human nature (and deliberate actions).

4. The people in power will still be overwhelmingly white. The power structure and dynamics between the haves and have-nots will not change.

But,

5. The food and nightlife will be FANTASTIC!

 

What are your thoughts on white people becoming the minority in 2050?

How does it feel to be a problem?

It’s important to me to learn about the experiences of people who are different from me, so right now I am reading Moustafa Bayoumi’s How Does It Feel to be a Problem?: Being Young and Arab in America. Bayoumi draws from W.E.B. Du Bois’ The Souls of Black Folk, in which Du Bois answers that question as a black man forced to live a dual life, somewhere between second-class citizen and ultimate survivor. Problem paints pictures of the lives of five Arab-Americans in Brooklyn, NY, post 9/11. Since that horrific day in history, hundreds of thousands of Arab and Muslim immigrants have been rounded up, detained, jailed, and/or deported, usually without just cause. It’s WWII and Japanese Americans all over again.

I’m not too far into the book, but so far I have read about Rasha. Rasha, who is Syrian, has spent most of her life in the United States, though the snail’s pace of immigration proceedures have left her and most of her family undocumented. Without warning, she and her family were awoken in the middle of the night, handcuffed, taken from their home and carted off to jail. They spent the next three months in prisons and detention centers while the government investigated them for terrorist connections.

I had no idea this went on, but I am not surprised. It seems so obvious now—of course this would happen in the wake of such a heinous event and strike to American pride. There are few things America loves more than a scapegoat. I know America harbors anti-Islam sentiments. I know Arab people are regularly discriminated against. I have heard my fair share of “sand niggas” and “A-rabs.” So why did I pick up this book?

Because sometimes, it’s important to get out of the cloud of your own existence. It’s important to understand your fellow man. But above all, it is important to combat your own ignorance. I challenge you to do the same. If more people did, the world might be a better place.

Surprise! (It’s about food.)

Hi! I don’t know what to write about today, but thanks for stopping by nonetheless…viewership has been steadily rising, and I appreciate that! I guess this post will be a surprise for both of us. Also, for those who check here daily, on days I am scheduled to work Duly Noted will be updated in the evening instead of the early afternoon.

On a wholly unrelated side note; At work each morning I have to throw away massive amounts of fresh strawberries simply because they are bruised. It bothers me to no end. [The-chocolatier-I-work-for-who-shall-remain-nameless-lest-I-violate-my non-disclosure-agreement] only dips perfect specimens in chocolate, and I feel very bad (and hungry) for the rejects.

In other news! Have you ever stopped to wonder about the crap you eat? The industrial world is convenient and comfortable and everything, but our food is awful in some respects. Most of it isn’t even food—it’s “food product,” or “foodstuffs.” Have you ever read the ingredients in some American cheese slices?? You don’t want to know. They’re “singles” or “slices”  (and not cheese) for a reason. What’s worse is that the more processed and fiddled-with a food item is, the cheaper it is. It doesn’t seem to make sense—and organic apple, that needs only to be picked and shipped after growing from God-given adequate conditions, costs more than an apple that has been sprayed with pesticides by expensive machinery, picked and sorted by more machinery, and then shipped off. That seems backward. But apparently, organic (i.e., real food) means human attention (picking off bugs, checking for wormholes…). People, unlike expensive machinery, have to be paid [for] continually. That, plus the better quality of real food (you know, the fact it won’t pump you up with toxins and eventually kill you) means higher cost.

Somehow, we humans have managed to spread food around by watering it down and making it fake (thus ruining the purpose of food—nutrition), while keeping the threat of starvation common. Ah.

Now, with all that said … I still eat the junk. I know what I’m eating and eating it anyway. I’m drinking the Kool-Aid (literally and figuratively). I would like to give a public (but probably hollow) apology to my insides. I  respect all the vegans/vegetarians/organic folks/farm people/etc. and secretly envy them. But let’s be for real. I grew up in the hood. A great home/house in the hood, but surrounded by junk nonetheless. I never actually saw or heard of a Whole Foods or Farmer’s Market or Trader Joe’s until a couple years ago. I got a good, homemade, square meal most nights, but please understand my mom has six mouths to feed and had to stretch those dollars. And that means lots of high fructose syrup.

I would have to cut out or change my home base of eating habits and preferences, were I to be more conscious. I suppose there’s always the baby-steps route. Slowly phase things out while bringing substitutes and new things in. It’s too bad I can’t afford to eat like the intelligent animal I am.

Thankful.

I don’t (and won’t) usually take up an entire post to talk about myself, but this is what I’m feeling the heaviest. Today I am so thankful. It is so easy to get bogged down in things we wish to change or improve, without giving due thanks for our blessings.

Today, I woke up. I am healthy, able-bodied, safe, and well-cared for. And, I can say the same for every person I love and care about. Today I woke up with Jon, and he is one of the many people who still loves me. I put on warm, well-made, brand-new clothes, that I bought.

Today, I went to work for the first time in seven months. I have been sustained only by the grace of God and the love and generosity of my family and Jon. I have not had a steady income even longer than that, since my last job was an unpaid internship. I can’t  afford to support myself yet, but I have caught a break that many people are starving and dying to catch.

Today I started and ended my day in one piece. There are places in this world where leaving your house means risking your life. There are places where, the day you decide to go to the supermarket is the day someone decides to blow him/herself up inside it. And your death that day would not be unthinkable. Today I was not harassed, maimed, raped, or killed upon stepping outdoors, and that is enough to say thank you.

Today, I had somewhere to go home to. Technically, I have four places I could call home right now. Furthermore, they are warm, protected, comfortable, and fully stocked with food and clean, running water. There’s no need for me to say how fortunate that makes me.

And finally, today, I can express these thoughts to you. I am literate. I have a laptop at my disposal, which (in essence) is world access at my fingertips. I live in a country that allows me, a black female citizen, to freely express herself. And, I answer to none but God for this expression.

Counting your blessings is not difficult—I think the hard part is the perception that being grateful means ignoring the problems you have. (Even if they are mild, relatively speaking, they are real and serious to you). I don’t believe that being thankful requires that game of pretend. It only requires acceptance and optimism.

So acknowledge your problems, shortcomings and worries, but give the same (if not more), attention to the blessings in your life. At the very least, it takes the edge off.

The day I saw past the cape

I wasn’t supposed to be that teenager
who hated their parents
and you weren’t supposed to be that mom
who didn’t know what to do
But today, as your face screwed in exasperation
disbelief
and sheer annoyance
I saw you
for the first time
without your cape.
Without the scales of justice,
the book of knowledge,
and the quill that wrote it.
There was no maternal halo
No omniscient advice
Not even the understanding
that had incubated my growth.
Just a woman.

I wrote this poem early this year, for a class, and I stumbled across it today. (Consider yourselves lucky because my poetry rarely sees the light of day, let alone be put on display). I decided to share it because it reflects an important moment in life.

If you are as fortunate enough as I am to have been raised by people who love you and do their best to take care of and rear you, then the realization that your parents are just people is an earth-shattering moment in your young life. I mean, of course our parents/guardians are human, but for us, as children whose lives depend on them, they are demigods. They are not like everybody else. They’re infallible, all-knowing, and just short of all-powerful. They are Mom and Dad, always with the capital letters. It does not occur to us that there are other wholly unseen dimensions of who they are, or that they have serious character flaws. It does not occur to us that they are people. And the moment that it does occur to us is usually when we find they are wrong about something deeply personal to us. I can tell you from retrospective experience, there is a distinct, gravitational shift in your mind at that moment, and it is never the same again.

I’m not a parent yet, so I can’t speak to the other side of this coin, but I can say that I believe this is the moment that lays the groundwork to allow us to grow up. It follows that this milestone should be immovable and heavy.

To folks who may not have ever had this moment (because of youth or circumstance), I am sure that however you became aware of your caretaker’s mortality it was a sobering (even sad) thing. (Though I wonder if it is worse to know it all along, and never have those years of childish naivety). To people who have experienced it, I hope it wasn’t too rough on you, and I hope it hasn’t changed your life and who you are.

And to the parents who may be reading this (including, and especially mine): don’t be alarmed. I know parenting is the hardest job there is. Every good parent wants to put their best face forward for their children, and they want their children’s praise as much as it’s needed the other way around. This moment isn’t your fall from grace—it’s your change of grace. We love and trust you all the same; we just know now that you may get it wrong sometimes. I don’t know if that makes being a parent easier—the knowledge that you aren’t expected to be perfect—but I do know we won’t hold your shortcomings against you. At least now, you can be honest with us in ways you didn’t allow yourself to be before. (Though, on second thought, it probably makes for new conflicts…)

I was somewhere around 15 when this happened for me. Now, at 21, I find myself thinking about and wondering who my parents and grandparents really are, as people. My Granny, who I think I wish to understand and get to know the most, is no longer with us. I imagine she was a very conflicted, perhaps hopeless, but undoubtedly passionate woman.

I am grateful to have had that moment, because it has allowed me to want to get to know the real people under the capes.

 

What are your experiences with this “moment?” What have you learned along the way?

 

The battle of the v-card

So yesterday Jon and I were watching The Cleveland Show. The episode was about Cleveland’s attempts to get his hot-to-trot 15 year-old stepdaughter to “pledge her virginity to her father” and remain a virgin until she’s married. Instead, his preteen son takes the pledge; for the rest of the episode, he and Cleveland are ridiculed for it.

I tease Jon about this all the time—that one day his daughter is going to have sex. While the timeless subject of fathers’ desperate attempts to keep their daughters chaste until marriage (if so soon) has always amused me, I have yet to find fair justification for the double standard that exists with sons. During the show, Cleveland tells his son that “a man’s virginity is a burden that must be cast off onto any woman willing to take it.” (I can almost hear the men of the world murmuring “Amen”). I’m sure there are plenty explanations as to why that’s true or OK, but none of them make it right. Why does a woman’s virginity and sexuality always seem to rest with or belong to someone else?

Whatever explanation you can come up with—biological, moral, cultural, practical or otherwise—the  discrepancy is not rectified. You know why? Because double standards are, by definition, unfair.

If you will tell your daughters that they are special—that their bodies are prizes that should only be given to someone worthy (namely, their spouse)—then be ready to tell your sons the same. If you will tell your sons “just be safe, use condoms every time and get tested often,” then be ready to give your daughters the same advice. ‘Cause trust me, if or when they decide to have sex, it’s going to happen with or without your guidance.

You too fellas.

Oh, and this is what the real chastity belts were like. None of this "iron panties" business.