Chookooloonks

the good and the bad of it

Farm in Paramin, a small village at the top of Trinidad's Northern Mountain Range

I'd like to bitch, please.

I always feel very reticent about whining on Chookooloonks about anything in my life, because I always imagine readers going, "Woman, please. You live in the CARIBBEAN. You have a great husband, a wonderful daughter, a good life, and, did I mention YOU LIVE IN THE CARIBBEAN? PLEASE do NOT tell me about your woes. You want woes? I'll give your ass woes..." And you know what? I'd have to agree with you -- most of the time. I mean, yes, I have a great family, and the weather is wonderful. But sometimes....

...I dunno.

I tell you what: first I'll list all the things that I think are great with my life, just so you do realize that I am aware and thankful for the good things we have. And then I'm going to vent a little. Okay? I think that's fair, don't you?

So, without further ado, here are the things that are great about my life:

1. Marcus and Alex. 'Nuff said.

2. I live in a country that doesn't have winter. Which, I understand, for some of you, winter is a cool thing, what with the skiiing, and the snowboarding, and whatnot, but for me? Well, put it to you this way: if there is a hell, and I'm destined for it, my hell is ice cold. And fire doesn't exist. And it's a perpetual wedding shower and everything's pink, but I suspect that's a post for another time.

3. I'm writing. And God help me, I love it. I think I've finally (finally!) found something that I can honestly say I could do for the rest of my life. And that's the first time I've ever been able to say that.

4. We live in a warm comfortable house, we don't have to worry about putting food on our table, our bills are paid, and we even save a little every month. And having lived a life where I didn't have every one of those items, I truly understand that this is a good thing. And I can pretty much get anything I want here. There's nothing -- no convenience, no item, nothing -- that I could get in other countries that I can't get here (or need to get here, for that matter). I mean, there's a MAC store here, for heaven's sake. See? I couldn't possibly want for anything more.

5. Everywhere I turn, there's beauty. The flowers, the hills, the ocean, the people ... everywhere. This is truly a beautiful country.

See? I get it. We are really, really lucky people. Hell, I'm a really, really lucky person.

And now for the the part where I'm not so grateful:

I miss feeling safe. I really do. I miss being able to feel like I could run to the grocery store at 9 o'clock at night by myself, just to pick up a carton of milk, say, and not have to worry about being kidnapped or robbed, or worse. I hate living 15 minutes from the beach, and yet not feel comfortable enough to take Alex there during the week by myself, without Marcus. I miss living in places where the likelihood of being killed in a car wreck exceeds the likelihood of being murdered. I miss living in countries where, if I read about a kidnapping, or rape, or murder, chances were that I didn't know the victim, or even knew someone who knew the victim. I miss not feeling safe enough to go outside and check the mail after dark, knowing that I could just do it in the morning. I miss going out, even in broad daylight, and not constantly feel like I have to watch my back.

I miss safe.

...

...

Okay, then.

Okay.

Thanks. I promise I'll get back to more positive posting tomorrow. But for tonight?

I needed to vent.

and sometimes, looking back at your past is just plain weird

An obligatory bathroom-mirror-self-portrait

This weekend, as I was surfing around looking for new blogs to read, I happened across Mir's site. Mir had posted a few pictures of herself from her distant past, at the inspiration of two other bloggers. As I looked at these pictures of frightening 80's hairdos and seriously-wrong-glasses, I felt nothing but admiration for these women. These were people who clearly were comfortable in their own skins. Women who had the ability to laugh at themselves. Women with incredible self confidence. And so, I too decided to join suit.

The above picture was taken of me way, way back ... on Saturday night. Before Marcus and I went out to dinner. A whole 15-or-so hours ago. I'm fully made up, I might add.

What?

Okay, I never said I was comfortable in my own skin, people. The truth is that I've burned any candid shots of myself between the years of, say, 1982 and 1998 -- what I like to call my DeBarge period. Because, frankly, I would never do that to you. There's just so much jheri-curl and acid-wash a society should be forced to take. Besides, ten years from now we're probably all going to look back at this shot and laugh at the GIANT AFRO THAT'S ABOUT TO EAT MY HEAD.

Since I completely copped out and didn't show you a picture of my scary past, I thought instead I'd tell you a scary story from my past. My sister has been trying to get me to tell you this story for a while now, and given the fact that she gave birth to a bouncing baby boy this weekend (yes! That's right! I'm an uncle now!), I figure this is the least I can do. (Mother, father, baby and big sister Julia are all doing fine, by the way).

So, Natalie and Little Baby Henry Alexander, this one's for you.

How I Met My Evil Twin

Back about 10 years ago, when I was young, single, carefree and fresh out of a starter marriage, I lived in an area close to downtown Houston known as Montrose. Montrose is known for its museums, restaurants and coffehouses, not to mention transvestites, tattoo artists and liberals -- you know, members of fringe society (as far as Texas is concerned, anyway). After leaving my safe little marriage and safe little house in Texas suburbia, Montrose was a refreshing change, and for the first time, I felt like I fit in.

One of my favourite coffeehouses in Montrose is a little unmarked place called Brasil (a place I still visit every time I go back to Houston). By day, this place is a cosy restaurant that serves great coffee and wonderful sandwiches and salads; by night, it transforms (or at least, it used to) into a bit more of a wine bar, often adding a DJ spinning neo-soul, trip-hop, jazznova and ambient music. The clientele are generally artists (tattoo or otherwise), Goths, punks or academics (Rice University is close by). It became a place I'd visit several times a week to have a glass of wine and chill out, often reading a book by candlelight by myself.

One night, I noticed this huge guy walking toward me, with a big smile on his face. His arms were covered in sleeve tattoos, and he had several piercings.

"Hey!" he said. "I haven't seen you in ages!"

I looked at him, with one of those do-I-know-you uncomfortable smiles on my face.

He stopped, registering my confusion. "Oh," he said. "You're not her."

"Who?" I asked.

"The Cigarette Girl."

"Uh, no. I'm not the Cigarette Girl." I hate smoking.

"Sorry to bother you," he smiled. I smiled back. "No problem, I said."

I didn't think anything of it, until the next night, when it happened again. I was standing in line waiting for my glass of wine, and a person walked up and tapped me on the shoulder. "Hi!" she was saying brightly as I turned around to face her. She looked at me for a second, and then her face fell. "OH. I'm sorry. I thought you were the Cigarette Girl."

"Sorry," I said, smiling. She looked down and hurried off to join her friends.

After it happened a third time, I finally asked one of the guys who worked behind the counter: "Okay, this is getting silly," I said. "Who is 'the Cigarette Girl' that people keep thinking I look like?"

He looked at me for a moment, and then laughed. "Oh my God," he said. "You DO look like her! You haven't seen her?"

"No."

"She comes in here all the time. I don't know her name. But she always has a bag of cigarettes with her. And, well -- she looks like you. You can't miss her."

About 2 weeks later, I was back at Brasil one evening, and the door opened. I looked up, and saw...

...me.

This woman looked just like me, except with a slightly darker skin tone. She was about my age, my height, my build, my face, and had a HUGE duffel bag of cigarettes over her shoulder. She was wearing Doc Martens and her arms and chest were covered in tattoos. She walked up to the counter to give the barristas her order.

I walked over and tapped her on the shoulder. "Hi," I said, when she turned around. "You must be the Cigarette Girl."

She smiled. "Oh my God," she responded. "You must be the Lawyer."

I laughed.

"Where are you sitting?" she asked. "Would you mind if I joined you?"

"Not at all," I responded, pointing to my table. "Please do."

I returned to my seat, and when she got her coffee, she sat down. "So, I'm Kay," she said.

"You're kidding," I answered. "I'm Karen. But sometimes people call me K."

"That's incredible," she said. "I can't believe how much we look alike."

So then we traded similar experiences of mistaken identity, and laughed, and clicked. I found her really funny and smart.

"So, what do you do with all those cigarettes?" I asked.

"Oh," she grimaced. "It's a promotional thing. I hate smoking, actually, but you know ... gotta make a buck."

"What do you do?"

"Well, I go to lounges and clubs, and I walk up to people who are smoking, and ask them if they'd like to trade their half-empty boxes of cigarettes for a full one of this brand."

"Oh. Well, at least you're targeting people who already smoke," I said, weakly.

"Yeah. I guess."

I couldn't believe this obviously-intelligent woman did this for a living. It didn't make any sense. "So...is this your full-time job?"

"Oh hell no," she responded quickly. "I couldn't live on what I make doing this! This is just for a little extra spending money."

"Oh," I said. "What do you do?"

She looked me dead in the eye, and said, matter-of-factly, "I'm a dominatrix."

Blink.

Blink, blink.

"I'm sorry...did you say 'dominatrix'?" I asked stupidly.

"Yes, that's right. I"m a dominatrix."

"Like whips, chains, cat-o'nine-tails, that sort of thing?" I asked, sounding more and more like a puritanical prude with every word.

"Yes, that sort of thing."

I stared at her dumbly.

"It's not about sex," she added quickly.

"Well, no, of course..." I mumbled.

"It's about domination."

"Well, sure." I thought about it. "So...how's business?" I smiled wanly.

She laughed. "Booming, actually," and she began to tell me about it -- the domination house (I assume that's what it's called?), the other girls, the fact that the clientele were mostly professionals -- doctors, lawyers, schoolteachers(!). I eventually stopped feeling uncomfortable, and started asking her questions that I hoped weren't offensive, and which she gamely answered. After a while, she stopped.

"I better get going. I gotta get rid of these cigarettes."

"Oh, right. Well, nice meeting you," I said.

"Likewise," she said. "I'd love to meet for a cup of coffee again. Shall we trade numbers?"

Which we did. And we did speak on the phone a few more times. Once she told me she was engaged(!). "Really? Your fiancé doesn't mind the work you do?" "Not at all," was the response. "He owns the domination house."

Well, of course he does.

Anyway, I never saw her after that night, and after a few phone conversations, we never spoke again -- for no real reason, just that apparently lawyers and dominatrices have less in common than one might initially think. Interestingly, no one ever mistook me for her again, either. She just sort of disappeared, as if she'd never existed in the first place.

So, that's the story of my Evil Twin. Was she real? Was she a figment of my imagination? Was she a Being conjured by an unseen, omnipotent Force, created specifically for me to confront a darker side of myself?

Only the Shadow knows for sure...

taken a few seconds after she woke from her nap, and a few seconds before she launched into nonstop chatter

On another note: Happy Birthday Dad!

thanks, and a tropical flower

strange flower outside our home

Thanks (again!) for your good words yesterday, especially your kind ones about me and my site. You guys are really too much.

Now that I've thought about all of this, however, I'm not sure what I'm going to do with this revelation -- I think the trick is to be mindful with my words so that I'm constructive and not destructive; while also maintaining complete honesty in my posts. Most of the time, that shouldn't be a problem. Sometimes however, it may be difficult to convey honest feelings without sometimes conveying ugly thoughts, don't you think?

But then, there are always those immortal words of Clairee Belcher: "If you don't have anything nice to say about anybody ... come sit by me."

I kid, I kid.

Sort of.

Anyway, on to other things: 10 Chookooloonks points to the person who can name this flower. It grows on a large tree just outside our apartment, and I think it's beautiful, but I have no idea what it's called. Anyone? Anyone? Beuller?

____________

UPDATE: Is it me, or is this a bit unsettling?

image & power, ii

My bracelet, after Alex lost interest

Well, as usual, I can’t thank you guys enough for sharing your wonderful thoughts about the questions posed in my last post. I found it interesting that many of you agreed on the “empowerment” part of blogging – I agree with you as well, but I hadn’t even considered that aspect of online journaling when I posed the question. Well done. Many of you spoke of a “limited sphere of influence” you felt you had through your words – and that’s closer to what I was thinking. Those of you who mentioned that you remain anonymous on your blog, or have in the past, I think understand what I’m about to say. But for me, the "Anonymous reader" hit the nail on the head.

I’m of the opinion that most of us bloggers wield immeasurable amounts of power in our words, and we don’t even know it. And I think this power comes from, bear with me, stereotypes.

Now don’t get me wrong – I have a real hatred for stereotypes – both good and bad – because in my opinion, at their roots stereotypes are based on ignorance. For this reason, they cloud the truth about individuals. Unfortunately, I don’t think stereotypes are something you can avoid – because even the most enlightened and open-minded of us do it. Our views of the world are inevitably coloured by our own limited experiences. So even if we made a conscious effort NOT to stereotype, we probably would never be 100% successful.

For this reason, I know that every person with whom I come in contact with has a preconceived notion of what they think I’m likely to be. And I think this is true of people who first come to Chookooloonks, as well. At first glance, I’m a black / parent / adoptive-mom / lawyer / person-from-a-Third-World-Country / interracially-married / woman / engineer / Texas-A&M-graduate / and-the-list-goes-on-and-on. And with each of these attributes, a preconception might be formed. “I know she’ll be like this because all engineers are like this.” Or “I know she’ll be like that because all women are like that.” And so on. Some of those preconceptions might be positive, some might be negative. Whatever.

Here’s the thing: once that person reads Chookooloonks, and starts getting a sense of the person behind the blog, perceptions might be changed. S/he may walk away thinking, “Gosh. I had no idea that adoption could be like that.” Or “Wow – so that’s what the Caribbean is like. Hmm.” Again, these new perceptions might be positive or negative. I make no judgments.

But think about it: if this is all true, then through my words, I have the power to affect how people think. That, my friends, if you’ll pardon my coarseness, is some Heavy Shit. And I’m not special – this is true for everyone who publishes their thoughts for the world to read. I mean, think about it: imagine if, because of your words, someone from a foreign country, maybe even a country whose government hated your homeland, walked away feeling an affinity with you? Or imagine if you were a member of a group who routinely suffered discrimination, and because of your words, a bigot changed his mind? Or imagine if someone who read your site, and learned you survived some horrible setback and are now doing fine, as a result decided against suicide? I’m not saying these sorts of things happen routinely – far from it – but I do think they happen, and as far as I’m concerned, one more ally, one less bigot, one more person choosing to live, is HUGE.

So, again, I think bloggers wield a vast amount of power. Am I conscious of this power every time I throw a post up? Of course not. Most of the time, I’m just expressing myself. Other times, I’m kvetching. Still others, I’m just blown away by the magic that is Alex, and I feel the need to share it. And perhaps the truth is that it’s better that I’m not conscious of it, because if I were, my posts might be less than honest. But I don’t think that means the power goes away.

And I think that’s profound.

What do you guys think? Do you agree, or am I just talking out the side of my neck? Again, be as honest as possible -- even if you have to fake your name to do it!

image & power, i

Alex, wearing my favourite bracelet

Today was an interesting day. I found myself in conversation with a group of really impressive people, and some pretty profound topics came up, causing me a great deal of introspection. I mean, seriously, I've been obsessing all day -- but in a good way. I would like to share what I've been thinking with you, because I'd really like to hear your thoughts; but before I do, I was hoping that you guys would answer a couple of questions for me, first. Then tomorrow, I'll tell you about what I've been thinking, and we can have a grand old conversation about it. It'll be fun! Trust me! I'm a lawyer!

Okay, so scratch that last sentence.

Anyway, to the questions:

1. For those of you who have a weblog or any type of website, do you think you wield any power by virtue of what you write on your site? If so, what kind?

2. For those of you who do feel like you wield power: without giving any regard to magnitude or influence (or motivation for blogging in the first place, for that matter), are you nonetheless conscious of this power each time you write or update your site?

If you need to leave out any identifying characteristics in your comment below (like your real name, or your blog address) in order to feel comfortable answering, that's totally fine. I'd just love if you were totally and completely frank.

Thanks!

on being back and overwhelmed

Croton in Moruga

Well, we're back in Trinidad. We landed late Saturday night, and Alex promptly lost her mind. She ran from room to room, exclaiming at all the things she remembered and missed: "HORSIE!!" "TOYS!!" "BIKE!!!"

And then she passed out. It's good to be home.

While we had a great time in Houston, much of it was spent working -- and actually, for the first time since I quit my day job, I actually felt ... what's the word?...overwhelmed. So much came up while we were away. It got to the point that I started just ignoring things I had to do, deciding instead to "wait to deal with That Bit of Stuff until I got back to Trinidad," which, of course, once we arrived home, has resulted in me running around for the rest of the weekend in almost an apoplectic state, not knowing which way to turn or how to start managing everything I need to do. Finally, late Sunday, I decided to make a list (God, how I love lists!), and now I feel a bit better.

I'm being cryptic again, aren't I? Sorry. I need to stop that. But, as once happened before, the time is not yet nigh to divulge a lot of what's going on. I promise to tell you everything when the Time draws Nigh.* And it will draw Nigh. I see Time getting out its sketch pad as I type this.**

In the meantime, oh look! Something Shiny!***

____

* No, we're not moving.

** And I'm not pregnant. Or expecting a child in any way.

***Something Shiny: My dear cyberfriend Mir, the author of the fabulous blog Woulda Coulda Shoulda, has written a moving post about why she has been inspired to walk 60 miles in 3 days (!), in order to raise money for the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation. Basically, it's because she has this very close friend, and her friend has been diagnosed with breast cancer, and ... well, she tells it better than I do. Mir's set herself a pledge goal of $5000 -- a formidable task, to say the least -- but she's already well on her way. I was just so proud of her for challenging herself like this ('cause you know how I like a challenge), that I was moved to donate. Hopefully, you will be, too.

alex on a slide, and why i love a man i've never met

And yes, I've never met Matthew, but surely you can see why I love him.

____________

In other news: I've had a request to develop a button that people can put on their websites to link to Indigo Leaf Magazine. Since I'm not one to disappoint, without further ado:

Download the picture onto your desktop, by either (a) clicking and dragging, if you're a Mac user, or (b) right-clicking and saving it to your desktop. Then, feel free to use it to link to Indigo Leaf (www.indigoleafmagazine.com).

And thanks to those of you who link to Indigo Leaf -- the word is definitely getting out!

presenting: INDIGO LEAF MAGAZINE!

Beginnings, by Lucrecer Braxton, and the cover image for the inaugural issue of Indigo Leaf Magazine

Indigo Leaf Magazine

Well, everyone, this is it: the official launching of Indigo Leaf Magazine, my little project highlighting the works of previously unpublished writers. I can't tell you how proud I am of this first issue -- click the link above, and you'll see what I mean.

As you can see from the image on this post, Lucrecer Braxton provided the cover art for the magazine. In addition, Indigo Leaf includes the phenomenal writings of the Pink Lemonade Diva, Julia from {Here be Hippogriffs}, Grace Mitchell, and Christina of MyTopography. These women are so talented, and I can't thank them enough for sharing their creativity for the magazine.

As if that wasn't enough, be sure to visit blue page, the blog associated with Indigo Leaf Magazine. For each issue, this blog will feature the writings of a published author, and their interpretation of the theme -- and then you (yes, you!) are invited to share your thoughts on the theme as well. I mean, seriously, why should the featured writers get all the glory! This month, I was SO lucky to score Joshilyn Jackson, award-winning novelist of the book "Gods in Alabama," and she gamely contributed her thoughts on this issue's theme, "Beginnings". Please drop by and add your thoughts -- or a link to your artistic expression of the theme. The point is to create a community for all of us.

For those of you who have contributed but haven't heard back from me -- you will. I'm so sorry about not responding sooner, but I was so focussed on getting this issue out, time got away from me. The truth is that I'm going to keep most of your writings for consideration for future issues (not that you can't do anything with them in the meantime -- I don't own the copyright on these works, you do!), unless you tell me otherwise. In any event, now that things are calming down a bit, I hope to get back to each of you.

Thanks also to Tonya and Shane, who, with their company Ethos Media, took my myriad of Photoshop "sketches" and turned them into the Indigo Leaf website -- all for a stunningly reasonable cost, and doing most of the work (a) during the Christmas holidays, (b) while they were both sick, and (c) on a cross-country roadrip. They've been so attentive and patient (since I'm NOT web-savvy), and if you ever need a website designed, coded and/or hosted, I can't recommend them enough.

So... I guess that's it. Be sure to spread the word, and if you have any wanna-be-a-writer friends who might be interested in being published, please encourage them to contribute. I've decided that I'll allow authors to submit multiple times to Indigo Leaf (as long as the author hasn't been published anywhere else), so submit early and often. My goal is to have the next issue go live on March 1st, and the theme will be "Free" -- so get those creative juices flowing!

Enjoy!

and sometimes i let her have an acid trip, without the, you know, acid

Self-portrait of Alex and me on a light wall, Children's Museum of Houston

Yesterday, I took Alex to the Children's Museum of Houston. For the first time in the history of Alex, she plum lost her cool when I told her it was time to leave.

Which either says a lot about the Children's Museum, or a lot about how boring a life I let the child lead.

I choose not to figure out which it is.

Alex, dancing in front of the light wall