Aya

I want a busy life, a just mind and a timely death.
- Zora Neale Hurston

A few years ago, I had the occasion to work with a professor of African American history in Washington, DC.

I lived in an apartment building with a healthy mix of lower middle class and middle class families. A rarity in this part of town, the building had a number of families with children in private schools, despite their modest incomes. Aisha M., a woman in her late 40’s with 2 teenagers (13& 14) was my next door neighbour and I spent lovely afternoons with her, sometimes tutoring the boys in algebra.

We talked about public education and how black children are faring in the more impoverished ones. No books, broken toilets, no advanced classes. The black schools, which are what they call schools with mainly African American children, are among the worst in funding and management. Performance scores, predictably, were also amongst the worst in the nation. She decided she couldn’t risk her children missing out on a primary education and enrolled them in private school.

Our talks reminded me of an essay I read for Zora Neale Hurston.

She was an early 20th century black author referred to as a libertarian long after her death. She was marginalized by both white and black people for holding opposing views to the times. In my opinion, she was way ahead of her times.

In 1955, she wrote a letter to a Florida paper against the Brown vs. the Board of Education that were to end segregation in schools.

She was of the opinion that black children didn’t need to be bused to white schools but to be provided with better teachers and facilities. No one wanted to hear what she had to say.

Nearly 51 years later, what would she think about black children’s performance? Was she right in believing that desegregation was an insult and a detriment to black children?

I saw Babel last night. Given the choice, I would see a Latin American film over a hollywood one most days. I’ve just about had it with plasticwood’s formulaic rubbish and airhead actors. Must admit, it was not an easy film to watch. Of course, I couldn’t miss a film with Gael Garcia Bernal.

Anyway, Babel is a 2.5hr drama/thriller with 4 storylines and in 3 languages. The 4 stories revolve around the shooting of an American tourist in Morocco.

This is not a movie where the American/white person is the smartest, most courageous and moral character in the film and everyone else is a 2-dimensional embodiment of white America or Europe’s stereotype. Subtly present are ugly tourists disgusted with locals yet wanting to experience the exotic ‘other’. Self-entitled whitey, power-drunk immigration official, and truth-twisting media are on hand as well.

I am thoroughly impressed with the performances of the two young Moroccan boys: Boubker Ait El Caid & Said Tarchani not to mention Adriana Barraza.

So, I was tagged by SleepDepraved to list 6 weird things about myself. Not sure what counts as weird but here it goes:

#1. My feet have never touched the floor of a bathroom. Really. I mean it. Maybe once or twice as a kid but since my first pair of dacas around 4 or 5, I’ve avoided bathroom cooties with religious fervour. Here’s the pair I have now. A friend in TO sent it through DHL. And they call me a weirdo.

#2. I read my first book on Freud at 10. I was bored and my uncle’s library had nothing else that was interesting. Before you jump up and down and call me perv. names, I missed most of what he was saying except for the unconscious. I remember thinking: hmmm, I wonder what my cat is thinking when he’s not licking his balls.

#3. I drove over 2500 miles in about 48 hours. I was absolutely mesmerized by the bright colours, stars, dots, waves and hissing sounds fatigue generated. I’m never doing that again. Here’s the image from the room. The fuzz in my brain was worse.

#4. I sued a police department once. I represented myself. I won.

#5. I ran a marathon to raise money for a charity at work. Don’t ask. Anyway, my foot felt funny and I couldn’t tell if it was the shoe or that I don’t run. Seems I had a broken toe from an encyclopedia landing on it the night before. I wonder if I’m human sometimes.

#6. I refuse to say anymore. Y’all don’t pay me enough to show you my underweirds.

What if I have some mutant gene triggered by hormone-laced food plotting to kill me. I know I’m young (relatively, anyways) but horrible things happen to young people all the time.

I wake up with this incessant pain in my ribs and back. Was told a few years ago that I had poor posture, spent too many hours typing away on a laptop, contorted and stiff. I don’t know. Winter brings out the hypochondriac in me.

Anyway, that’s not the purpose of this rambling. I’m pissed off at people who repeat that live life like it’s your last day bullshit. I just heard it for the 3rd time this week.

I have bills, student loans, family to help. I have a boss who thinks that he owns my soul. I’ve lived in hotels for most of the last 2 months thanks to work. The thought of filthy people doing filthy things in these beds makes me gag. Am I the only one who covers a pillow with a t-shirt?

A few much anticipated milestones have come and gone and all I have to show for my life is a couple of degrees and a couple thousand resentments. I could’ve sworn the dean was laughing at me both times I got my bleeding degrees.

What I’d like people to stop doing is reminisce about their youth when they didn’t have the balls to do shit with it. Yes, if you had the guts, you would’ve gone after what you wanted. But no, all you have now is lame-ass, unwanted “live life to the fullest” rubbish to pass off as sage advice.

Work, pay bills, send money, workout, get harassed by immigration people at airports. Oh yeah, for that peroxide officer in Pittsburgh: I hope you die, you worthless CUNT! Thanks to showing up late for a meeting, I lost a 4 day weekend I’ve been planning for months!

I am doing what I can. Living to the fullest or any other bullshit drivel belongs to the retirement group, too old, too lazy, too stupid to have done anything. Full or not, my live is being lived, which is more than I could say for some of you.

I was going to say something profound but I really can’t bother.

Don’t know what’s wrong with me these days. A friend was telling me about her friend’s loss of a pet and I burst out laughing. It seems that my nomad background makes the death of a cat something of a, um, shall we say, non-event.

The cat was sick for months, throwing up and whining, more lazy and sluggish than usual. Can’t figure out for the life of me how to tell the difference. I had a pet cat as a child and the bloody thing was so lethargic, she was sat on many times by elderly relatives who couldn’t see too well. Unlucky for the lazy beast, they couldn’t get up too fast either. Scratches and angry meows, cussing old people and limping cats. Ahhhh, those were the days.

Anyway, back to the sick, vomiting cat.

Friend of a friend: So, what’s wrong with her, doc?

Fat vet.: Mrs. CatOwner, she has a large kidney mass, and a bunch of smaller ones everywhere.

Friend of a friend: Well, can you fix her? Will she be alright?

Fat vet.: I don’t think so, she’s very sick. Why don’t you spend some time with her and make an appointment in the next few days.

Of course, the appt. would be to put the cat down. A couple of sobs, a couple of ‘I’m sorry’s and cat + catowner went home.

The next morning, the cat has some strange burst of energy and manages a jump from a stool to a short book case. The book case rocks back and forth, sways hither and tither, then comes crashing down on cat. Cancer tumours and all. Poof. Dead. Not good.

The friend of the friend screams in horror and cries for days, and through the mutual friend, I hear about it. I laughed. Damn. I shouldn’t have. I have sympathy, wouldn’t have laughed if the stupid cat got a needle and went to sleep.