dara t. mathis

Chicks Stay Tripping (Or, Why I Need Him)

I am a clumsy and accident-prone chick. Ordained before time immemorial. What toddler you know breaks her leg learning how to walk? My mother photographed me, knock-kneed, standing next to an ottoman with a purple cast binding my leg. I am reminded of this when I wonder why I walk into walls.

It only got worse as I grew older. I actually tumbled in tumbling class. Poised to be the next Judith Jamison, I took the stage at my ballet recital…with no poise. My construction paper apple flew from my hands when my legs zig-zagged beneath me. The audience tittered and I scrambled up from the dusty floor, rushing to point the right toe with the other little girls. I crushed my silver sparkle tutu and my ballerina dreams. I quit ballet dancing at age five only to doom myself to a life of no rhythm. (I chose rhyme instead!)

My husband returns today after a two-week stay in California for a STEM Conference. My relief cannot be expressed in mere words but I will try. People appreciate their partners for all sorts of reasons. Mine: I am a clumsy chick and I need someone to catch me.

During his absence, I have done the following ridiculous things:

Hit the side of the garage with the car mirror (AGAIN! The last time, I broke the mirror and had to replace it).
Knocked the baby over with the stroller.
Almost backed into the daycare assistant’s car.
Left the refrigerator open at 3:00 am.
Forgot the vanilla caramel creamer on the counter (Sob).
Jammed my elbow on the sill trying to open the window.
Took the baby to daycare with shoes on the wrong feet.
Overslept for work 3 or 4 times (I forget; those were bleary mornings).
Sounded like a complete idiot to the A/C repairman.
(Me: So we need to change the filter once a year? Him: Ah, no, every 30-45 days.) #Fail

I have learned to poke fun at my awkwardness, to stave off jokes by lobbing them like boomerangs to shield me from stinging barbs. Luckily, the only person who caught me doing all this clumsy stuff was the baby and she ain’t talking.

Hubs has witnessed me trip up and downstairs (with baby in arms), skin my knees on concrete steps and baseball fields, and cut gashes on random pieces of my body (my tailbone, though?!). And the best part is that he catches me in both senses of the word. I can be my clumsy self because I know he will throw a hand out before I crush my tutu.

I’m glad he’s coming home. But most of all, I’m just relieved I can stop praying I won’t burn the house down.

National Poetry Slam 2013 Finals: RIGHT NOW!

The 2013 National Poetry Slam kicked off this week in Boston, MA! NPS is streaming the entire event live tonight for free. If you feel like hearing some good-good poetry, click the link RIGHT NOW! Get You Some!

P.S. Go Team SNO (Slam New Orleans)!

Reality TV’s “Heart of Darkness”

It’s Friday, and I’m looking for a lighthearted show to laugh at, but I stumble upon the Discovery Channel’s reality show “Gold Rush: South America.” “Gold Rush” focuses on families of gold prospectors who travel to “strangest place on earth” to mine gold for profit.

Discovery markets the show as an adventure series, a glimpse into the lives of devil-may-care, rugged opportunists á la Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. The producers plucked a movie narrator from an old Arnold Schwarzenegger flick; his voice ominously intones, “They must traverse this steep Peruvian mountain road in order to reach the gold.” I half expect the whipping of helicopter blades in the air to punctuate his narrative.

The dialogue is background noise until I hear one of the Hoffman brothers utter these words:

“The American Dream doesn’t stop at the American border.”

I shiver. Irrationally, I feel threatened. It does not take me long to figure out why.

In 2013, he has unknowingly resurrected the rallying cry of 19th Century colonialism and Manifest Destiny. The go-getter spirit of which America is so proud spurred us to ‘go get’ resources from foreign lands and profit from them. It frightens me that no one checks Hoffman. No one says, “Um, actually, the American Dream does stop at the American border. After that, you are borrowing, mining, robbing, appropriating, exploiting, and fleecing the dream from the nationals of another country.”

Hoffman further laments, “You know, I have a wife and three kids. Sometimes, doing this, I wonder if I’m going to make it home to them.” Oh, the invisible violins swell to a pitiful crescendo then.

This man voluntarily hops on a plane to mine another country’s gold and solicits sympathy because he puts himself in danger?! I could understand if he was doing humanitarian work or if his employer demanded it. But he is risking his life for love of Mammon, God help him.

The Hoffman brother did not mean to sound sinister, I am sure. Still, a not-so-different speech played in my head:

I went down on my knees and prayed to Almighty God for light and guidance … and one night late it came to me this way. We could not leave (the Philippines) to themselves–they were unfit for self-government… There was nothing left for us to do but take them all and educate the Filipinos, and uplift and Christianize them.” –President William McKinley.

Hoffman’s hubris flies far beyond ambition. It hints at a belief that he even has a right to step outside his motherland and mine the resources of a developing nation that needs it. He regards both the landscape and the locals as Other, when he is the interloper.

Herein lies the greatest fallacy of capitalism and imperialism: That there are no borders, no external forces compelling us to leave riches and land and people to themselves; that we inherently own what others currently possess. If anything, it is America’s Manifest Destiny to repeat the evils of our forefathers, because clearly, we haven’t learned. “Discovery Channel,” indeed.

Bougie Girls Against Bologna

ramen drawer — Breakfast, lunch, AND dinner! (Photo credit: pinprick)

Frankly, I wanted to punch him in the mouth. I was sitting in the work lunch room, minding my own business, eating a hastily packed meal of Ramen noodles and snacks. My coworker Greg glanced over at my bowl and snorted.

“Are you eating Ramen Noodles?” “Yeah.”

“I wouldn’t get caught dead eating those things! I haven’t had them since college. I make too much money to have to eat Ramen Noodles anymore.”

I muttered something about running out of groceries that week and ducked my head closer to my bowl. Greg routinely suffered from verbal diarrhea of the jerk variety; this was not new to me. I saw nothing wrong with my lunch, but I never brought Ramen to work again.

Ramen Noodles are the national symbol for struggling college students. The knockoff Japanese noodles are cheap as Payless shoes, salty, moderately filling, and contain little to no nutritional value. Kids swear they will never eat Ramen again once they “get on.” I have no such compunction if I’m hungry enough. I once ate a whole pack raw.

Greg’s elitist critique of my meal got me thinking: what other “struggle foods” do people turn their noses up against once they have more income? A few ‘bougie biases’ came to mind:

Bologna

I once lived for the sizzling sound fried bologna made when I tossed it into a hot pan. My mother taught me to slice a line from the middle so it wouldn’t bubble up. Even then, I could only eat bologna fried. I have not eaten bologna in years; it’s the bastard stepchild of cold cuts. Who actually likes Bologna? Do not even think of raising your hand.

Hot Dogs

Since I learned that hot dogs are made from garbage disposal animal parts, I’ve been on a boycott. Oscar Meyer hot dogs never look good as hors d’oeuvres, they are fattening and are out of style once summer wanes. Want a laugh? Try hanging around bougie meat eaters asking for turkey, veggie, or all beef hotdogs–forget healthy, it’s a hotdog, for Pete’s sake!

Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwiches

Whoever decided PBJs were better left in childhood needs to be tarred and feathered. I have packed said sandwich to work and garnered sarcastic remarks as to my cute lunch of PBJ and crackers. They called me a toddler. Grown ups don’t eat PBJs? Then I’m opting out of adulthood. I like mine triple decker, sliced diagonally, heavy on the PB, light on the J. In case you were wondering.

Kool-Aid

Sugar. Food coloring. Water. That’s all Kool-Aid really is. And Crystal Light, too. But admit to a full grown adult that you’re sipping on Grape Kool-Aid and not Pomegranate-Plum Crystal Light, and you’ll get the look. The “are you broke?” look. The “up your drink game, son!” look.

Tilapia and/or Catfish

My husband refuses to have tilapia in the house. He claims that it has no nutrients and tastes like glue. He also will not eat catfish because they are “bottom feeders,” the scumbags of the fish world. Erudite folk eat grouper and salmon and kingfish because those fish allegedly taste better. Right.

Chitlins/Chitterlings/Pickled Pig Feet, ANY animal feet!

Now that’s just nasty (to me). I dare you to request chitlins at Ruth’s Chris. I’ll wait.

All told, I split my eating habits between health-conscious and “I just don’t give a what.” But the one thing I can do without is the bougie judgments of people who have flown so far past their beginnings they forgot one important thing:

Sometimes, struggle food just tastes good. What’s your food bias?

Wiping Blood Off the Leaves

I sprinkle it with holy water and pray it lives.

I kill green things. Under my care, plants eventually turn brown and brittle. One potted cilantro I bought lasted long enough for me to make one tasty batch of guacamole, and then the leaves wilted. It died within the week.

I don’t know why my plants conk out on me. I may over or under water them (probably the latter), expose them to too little sunlight, or they just might not like the way I talk to them.

Something in me likes to see things grow, despite my penchant for draining the life from the living. I recently bought two herbs (one rosemary and one spicy oregano) to use for cooking. Given my history with the cilantro, this was a risk. But the Twitterverse told me that rosemary is a hardier gent than cilantro, and Twitter doesn’t lie. So far, the wisdom has proven right; the rosemary is thriving after two months under my care. Yesterday, I put it in a pot with the oregano and dumped a cup of water in the planter. And I prayed.

As an admitted pessimist, I struggle not to strangle my own dreams before the roots spread. I have planted amazing seeds in the past year to make my life more verdant:

I traveled to New Orleans to volunteer for the Southern Fried Poetry Slam;
I took a writing class;
I resumed writing my fledgling memoir;
I performed more poetry;
I joined a fellowship/charity group;
I started pages for Twitter, Tumblr, this WordPress blog, and Disqus;
I published some essays online
I launched myself into writing groups;
I patronized my local library and read real books;
I cut all my hair off again;
I learned I could be fearless.

I have come to realize that things in my life die because I let them go, because I do not fight for their existence. I nearly let my writing wilt and molder from fear. Afraid it would stink to high heaven. Afraid others would not find it palatable. Afraid of what could happen if I wrote something powerful I could not nurture.

But I know if I nurture my spirit, the words will push upward toward fresh air and they will live on their own. I will wipe blood from the leaves of things I killed and start over. My life is fragrant with dreams these days. I give them sun and water and I speak kindly to them in the morning.

And I pray over them: Grow with me.