6 posts tagged “rotw”

I could never be a vegan. I rely too much on meat due to my diet based primarily of Filipino or Mexican food. I also love sneakers (as you may have figured out), too much to not wear leather.  In fact, those are just a few reasons I could never be a vegan.

Don't get me wrong. I'll try and support natural sustainable friendly farming when I can, and by that I mean when I can afford to do it regularly. But some things, I just couldn't let go of.

I firmly believe that if you are a vegan, it is completely back-asswards (yes you read that right) to wear leather sneakers– particularly if they are Nike's, Adidas, Pumas etc. Case in point: There was an entire group of guys at my college who were vegans and spoke of social justice and revolution and what not but all had squeaky clean kicks. We called them the 'Activist Frat'.

So is this situation, and others like it, The Activists Paradox?

Right now I live, breathe and eat the words "social justice," "equity," as well as other buzz words related to education and improving it.

As an undergrad I lived, breathed and ate all things related to race/ethnic studies & the sociologies of the two.

So naturally I've always encountered different degrees of what I'm naming here, the Activists Paradox. But now... now its manifesting in other ways. Now it's just blatant indifference to certain behaviors that I would have otherwise, at one point or another, not stood for.

Long story short: I splurged on a manicure. I don't do it often but I thought what the hell. I'm more of a pedicure kind of girl b/c if given the opportunity, I'd live somewhere that did not require closed toed shoes ever, barefootedness recommended. In browsing the colors I came across a weird whiteish-beigeish color called "Let them Eat Rice Cake". Buggin! It bothered me, but not enough to ignore other colors with weird names. In the past I have been known to actually choose colors based primarily on their names (the brand at the salon I frequent is particularly clever with this) like "Cajun Shrimp" and "My Chihuahua Bites." Today I choose a neutral called "Miso Happy with this Color," which I, even with my initial reaction to the first color, seemed to be indifferent to. "They're a UK company", I thought.  "They're just being cheeky."

But it wasn't until I walked home that I was bothred more, not by the colors or the company, but by my indifference.  Is the nail polish battle a battle to be dealt with? Should I feel wrong that in all the work I do to work with equity, equality and diversity, I still have room to wear like 2 cents worth of nail polish with a possibly racist name? (I will note the entire cost of the manicure is for the expert cuticle trimming, nail shapping and hand massage, so get with it).

I can't say that I care as much about something like that. I care about the big things. The blatant things. But how blatant is it? After 'googlizing' the first rice related color I came across the company's other ethnic collections. And while they might be wrong. And they might be disturbing... they're kind of clever and crack my shit up. Here are some favorites, shameful favorites. The colors I could care less about, but man these are clever puns. I'll work out the Activist Paradox in time. For now I need laughs.

 

I've been reading "Can't Stop, Won't Stop" since the Sunday after Christmas, chipping away at in in large and small chunks and savoring the good bits.

Though it's a non-fiction joint about the "full" history of the hip-hop generation (that other book about this population basically argues that the folks who created it are too old to be a part of this generation, as are those who were born after like 1980– making the population a finite like 10 year group of people... and black, completely excluding the entire population of Latino break dancers who founded that movement.... anyways), this book is written like fiction. Amazing read.

Around new years day, the day Oscar Grant was shot at the Oakland Fruitvale BART station, in cold blooded fashion by BART cops, I happened to read about a similar shooting in NYC in the 1970s, man shot supposedly resisting arrest by white cops who clearly saw the individual as a threat, when clearly one man, already cuffed (the same story in both cases) should be easy for several cops to control.

The same week this whole bit with Gaza went off. Suddenly protestors around SF were torn. Poor black youngster, MURDERED by someone clearly incapable of doing his job. Another attack against Palastinians in a battle that will never be completely burried.

And then the lines were drawn. Whites stuck with the Gaza tip, an older still diverse but clearly populated by white anarchist crowd. The crowd protesting in Oakland remained younger, from lower socioeconomic status groups and brown brown BROWN.

Now I'm not gonna be high and mighty and righteous and say that I chose or didnt choose sides. I did choose. Choose not to get involved. Post holiday rush to get back to real life had me obviously concerned about all this but also focused on how the work that I do can help young people, brown people, foreign brown young people, in the future.

Instead I'm seeing some hardcore, and seemingly unintentional divisions in this country in regards to civil, global rights. But clearly this isnt the first time this is going down, in such a short period of time. We're seeing a changing world where even the most ignorant people know what's going on out there, but are we as a world forcibly making people choose one cause over another?

Maybe its identity politics maybe not. Celebrate our President Elect being a minority (a mixed minority at that) or cry about the passing of CA Prop 8. Is there no middle ground?  Oscar Grant or Gaza?

I worry, instead of having united fronts for any change, or just cohesive movements that work not against each other but in conjunction, the divisions going down will most likely just force folks like me, who have the ability to actually do something about it, into inaction.

And let me tell you this, I hate being inactive.

There's no way around it. I come from peoples of small statures. The average height in my family (extended included) is probably 5' 4". A few folks exceed that but just barely making it to 5' 7" or 5' 8" which really just means we consider them to be freaks. I'm generally okay with my petite size, I've got enough attitude and a collection of huge earrings to compensate, but lately I've kind of struggled with a phenomena only short folks are stricken by that has started to become a huge part of my day to day experience...

That would be the exorbitant amount of face time I spend with people's elbows, armpits, butts and crotches.
For any short person out there riding public transportation, this is an all too familiar feeling. And it manifests itself nearly every day.

If I'm unable to get a seat, then its elbows to the face as people insist on holding the pole next to me instead of the pole above when they can clearly reach it. Usually they are clearly tall enough to reach the pole above, but instead their self-centeredness leaves me to make an attempt. As if being 5' 1 3/4" (that 3/4 is a huge deal) is conducive to reaching a pole nearly 6 feet in the air. On more than one occasion some middle aged business woman in a power suit will be kind enough to throw her arm out for me to hold onto as we get jostled from side to side.

The photo at right, does not truly do justice to the annoyance I feel. That poor girl just looks only slightly annoyed. I tend to feel murderous my entire ride to work every morning, fortunate to be someone who has actually obtained a seat, because I get on before the masses, but stuck with someones bag hitting my head because they are too inconsiderate to notice I'm being assaulted by their Prada or Timbuk2 bag.

If I'm even luckier, I get to have some personal time with the stitching on someone's butt pockets, apparently a lot of folks are into Joe's Jeans and Dockers around my hood. I've spent a lot of time examining belts and on some rare occasions panty lines, truly a great start to the morning.

But the BEST, and most coveted of my riding experiences is when some jerk-off guy decides he has to stand right in front of me but refuses to take off his back pack. As he faces me, and people try to cram into the bus behind him I get on again off again time with his fly, and have come to determine more people wear button fly pants than you might think.

Though the hate is quite strong, I'm attempting to embrace the fact that I get to see quite a different side of life from this vantage point. Lots of shoes to judge people by, bags to determine if they are real or knock-offs. But honestly this is just too much booty and private part time for me. PLEASE people, keep your genitals out of short people's bubbles.

Actually, its beyond heels, its love-hate with all women's dress shoes.

I discreetly snapped the photo above on the bus today. These heels were so awesome the photo (taken by my meh, camera phone) does not do justice.

So its no secret I love shoes, but my love affair may be misleading as my shoe of choice is generally sneakers. But trust, when I say I can appreciate a truly well designed pair of heels, wedges or lady boots. But, like with much of women's fashion I have issues with them.

Flats, my business casual shoe of choice, are too flat all of the sudden. In light of the quarter-life they're proving to be too much for my bod to handle.

The last pair of black heels I bought squeezed my poor, nearly non-existent b/c its so little, baby toe into such submission that it took a week to recover.

My beautiful burnt orange leather wedges prove to be great for salsa dancing, but impractical running through SFC's never smooth streets.

The misery I experience now, post dress shoe wearing (particularly heels) is kind of exasperating. I used to dance, and do martial arts, could walk barefoot on all sorts of surfaces, and now my feet are pansies.

Seeing shoes like the ones above (maybe I just think they're fly because they're orange, I really cannot say) make me sigh, sometimes at an audible tone, which made my attempt at covertly taking a picture of this woman's feet a bit less covert.

Oh but how lovely they are. Like finely crafted master pieces, they just hurt like a bitch lately, relegating me to the oft hated upon, but occasionally stylish teacher shoe– if you dig deep, look hard and do NOT settle that is.

BUT I PROMISE: I will not and cannot ever, only wear teacher shoes. I will be that educator with dope sneaks, killer heels and I MEAN BUSINESS boots. I will not settle for clogs, that's fo sho. I will train my feet to endure the pains I've been feeling as of late. Honestly, I love shoes too much not to.

Seven days ago I was getting ready for work at this time. It would be the last day in our old office located in San Francisco's very own CRACK ALLEY.

He'd enter the office at 9 dressed as Bert of Bert and Ernie from sesame street toting a NO ON PROP 8 sign and tell me that his husband, who he's been married to now 4 times, was dressed as Ernie and that they were late because they had gotten out of the car on their way to work to join a no on prop 8 protest along the side of the rode. Both feeling incredibly hopeful we'd go through the motions to close out whatever business we had to complete for our move later in the weekend.

I'd go home and gear up for my favorite holiday, put on my crazily thrown together female superhero costume and help by father finish up dinner for the guests we'd invited over, in our family halloween is not just for the kids. We'd drink make a huge scene on our front stoop, scaring some kids, and be joined by so many we love.

Mom, dad and I would get up saturday morning to preform at a rally for a candidate for supervisor of a neighboring district. The skys would rain something fierce. Sunday would pass with no real events, just homework, and attempting to complete one of 3 assignments. My boss would call, tell me as he was packing up crack alley and moving into the new office a pigeon would fly into our window and he'd spend a decent portion of the day trying to get it out. Only felt par for the course. I'd celebrate Dia De Los Muertos, my second favorite holiday by doing homework in a cafe with classmates as a whole slew of crazy white hipsters ran around 24th and mission looking like calacas.

Monday would arrive, we'd move, feng shui the new office. All the while, as I readied my three assignments worried about the move and had strange conversations with my best friend, all of which pointed to each of us experiencing our own kind of mental break down, his induced by LA, mine induced by over work and blocking out any inevitable concern about Tuesday.

And Tuesday would come. So many I love, so many I like, working themselves up into frenzies. Uncertainty, concern, and vows to move should a certain old fella become our next Commander and Chief...

I'd talk with my cousin, the one with the Cher tattoo... and he and I would start our own last minute campaign. YES ON CTFD! the CALM THE EFF DOWN campaign. Because what else was there to do between waking that morning and the evening time closing of West Coast Polls?

I had class Tuesday night. No one was truly present. The only time I spoke was to say "HOW COULD THE AUTHOR NOT SEE THAT?" spoken exactly how the caps lock implies. I turn in assignment 1 of 3.

Home at last. Confusing numbers of electoral votes. Waiting for 8pm to arrive. Wolf Blitzer, who my dad treats as his homeboy, says there are 30 seconds until the polls in CA, WA, OR and HI close. He talks 29... he says something else... 15 adds to his last comment, 6... reminds us the polls close in 5 seconds. BREAKING NEWS. He won...

I'm confused. I refuse to believe it... I wont believe it until every vote is counted, as a true pessimist I expect some of the bullshit cons have pulled in the past. But its true. And I don't know whether to cry with relief, or take a trip to the restroom... I've been holding back my emotions so it seems only fit to release something. A shot is had in his honor.

He speaks, my best friend says he wants his fade. I tell him he has his fade. He tells me he just needs a clean up. I call my boyfriend, on campus with a bunch of his friends, he's wound up. I say good night. My sister calls elated we have a president (elect) who can read. I gloat, saying our "mixed" president gives validity to all the undergrad work I did on mixed race studies. I'm a genius I say. A genius ahead of her times.

 

I go to bed. At 12:00 a thought occurs... SHIIIIIITTTT. 3 years ago I got together with my dude, its my anniversary. I call leave a message apologizing. He calls back, leaves a message trying to convince me its not election day, but the day after. Oh well...
 

Wake up feeling like an ass. Then finding out Prop 8 has passed. Its hard to know how to be excited. Hard to know if I'm allowed to take ownership of both the victory and the let down. Hard to know how my individual life will change. Educational change takes time. Will I see the change I'm affecting in my life time? I've seen a black mixed man become president. A man who's sister is half Indonesian, damn I am still a genius. Too busy to do much for an important but also no frills day in my life with my dude. A day that for both of us is more a matter of ceremony than need.

The week goes on. SF provides a landscape of mixed feelings. I turn in assignment 2. And now it's Friday. And my week is still not over. No work, b/c the boss is at a conference and my assignments have, until this week been kind of neglected.  Evening class tonight. All day class Saturday. I've been desperately waiting for Sunday to get here, since Monday. Law suits have been filed. Melissa Ethridge says she won't pay her taxes. Whoopi Goldberg's cat writes the new first family a letter about how they should not get a dog.

And who do we have to thank for such a victorious national moment in history. Apparently Oprah, Diddy and Tyra. Thanks guys, but right now, I think Ellen really needs a hug.

I'm going to try and start writing a "Rant of the Week." I've been pretty bogged down and well, I need to create space for other components of life besides PoMo theory on education and equity based school reform.

That being said behold Gizmo.

Gizmo was featured on Animal Planet's "It's Me or the Dog" where a British animal behaviorist helps folks tame unruly pets, and is a prime example of my newest hatred of (to quote my father) "big ass- fat ass" lap dogs.

Why are so many small dogs so damned fat? What the hell is going on in the minds of their owners that make them think its okay for they're small dog to live this way?  A huge part of me wishes I had just taken pictures of these dogs to illustrate why I'm so feverishly hating on these dogs. I could just be like example one. Example 2. Period. But instead consider the following.

First here are a couple of observations:

• In the last few years San Franciscan's passed an initiative to no longer be called pet owners but pet guardians and in light of trying to acknowledge that pets should be treated as family members I think an epidemic was created.
• Paired the increase in lap dogs as personal accessories (Thank You to the Paris-Britney phenomena) means more small dog owners exist than previously.

To be frank, I can't stand small dogs anyway. It is only on a rare occasion that I meet a well mannered small dog. Most are old, half blind or have owners whose general attitude towards life is no muss no fuss.  Otherwise I find their barky-ness, endless shivering and shaking, the buggy eyes, and general attitudes obnoxious. To me, they all look sick.

In the last few weeks I've seen some seriously obese small dogs. I mean I get it, maybe its a sign of the times, reports constantly tell me that America is becoming an obese nation but DAMN YALL, Our pets?! I am ALL for bodies of all shapes and sizes. I'm all for big dogs and medium dogs but SMALL DOGS SHOULD NOT BE OBESE.

Owner Excuses: I've caught segments here or there of the show mentioned above and people make extremely sad excuses as to why their small ass dog is fat. "Oh why should he eat dog food?... Oh he has a condition.... Oh he just likes relaxing?"

I get it a dog's existence is all about relaxing (unless you have dogs to heard sheep but the last time I checked we don't do that in the city) but PLEASE! Dogs don't have to eat dog food but they do not need to eat the way we do ESPECIALLY WHEN THEY ARE ONLY SUPPOSED TO WEIGH LIKE 5 POUNDS! He has a condition my ass...

There's been a huge discussion of individuals who substitute having children for having pets, it happens, thats cool you want to love and be loved but your dog does not need a stroller, or a dress, small coat for the winter maybe. But over compensating for that, or really and truly believing your dog is a part of your family does not mean over feeding them, and believe me I say that as member of family who wants to make sure guests are well fed. I just ask, are there no limits people? I don't know it just doesn't seem like its that hard to keep your small dog within a reasonable weight limit.

Chihuahuas, pommeranians, lhasa apsos, pugs, poodles and terriers of all sorts are not intended to be meaty dogs! They're bone structures are not built for the weight! I mean look at Gizmo. He's so bloated his legs are so little in comparison to his torso! That's just not right. If you love your dog than don't out their delicate little feet through that please.  No one wants their belly to drag on the ground (at least I hope not).

That's why they're called LAP DOGS.  Get it together y'all...