Maybe halfway to feeling like this is Home

A month (or two?) ago I met with the Cantor of Touro to discuss my nervousness about joining the choir. It started with the fact that I chickened out on what was supposed to be my first performance with the choir on Erev Rosh Hashanah. I'd sheepishly admitted to my Rabbi that my stage fright was induced by the hundreds of people that show up for High Holy Days. Seriously. A lot of people. More people than I've seen at temple since Jazz Fest Shabbat. And I was supposed to sing in front of everyone? In Hebrew?

Yeah. No. Even if I was just one little voice in the crowd. I was too emotionally overwhelmed.

In hind sight I don't know that I was any better off not singing with the choir I'd been rehearsing with for weeks. Mainly because the congregation plays the old switch-a-roo with the prayer book. On Erev Rosh Hashanah we read from another book. Not the one I read at home, the one that I'd been holding most Friday nights for the past few months. An older prayer book. One without any transliteration.

Fun. The rabbi suggested I speak to the cantor about the incident. Good idea, speak to the person that actually directs me in choir about the momentary freak out.

I let the cantor know that I felt silly at having stage fright. I mean, seriously Naomi? The same girl that has performed in The Vagina Monlogues for the last half decade caught a case of stage fright? Utterly lame. He assures me that these things happen, and that he doesn't doubt I will be doing just fine in choir soon enough.

We end up talking more about everything else that is going on in my life than the actual event. Where am I from. Why I am Jewish. Why I moved here. What I do. What I really want to do. Timeline for when I'd like to learn Hebrew. How I am adjusting to New Orleans.

How am I adjusting to New Orleans?

I am facing my one year anniversary here. And I can say this. This city has the potential to make someone feel loved and welcome. New Orleans can revitalize your sense of adventure. It can make you feel brave. However, New Orleans has it's own sense of time, and you can easily get sucked into it. And while I love (LOVE) the local mentality, the New Orleanian attitude that you aren't “local enough” can be a tough pill to swallow. I might have moved anywhere on the planet and could have created a pro/con list of things I've learned from my adopted city in the first year. Every place has it's own personality. It's own charms.

New Orleans will charm the fucking shit out of you. It's like a cavalier date that shows up twenty minutes late, but with a bouquet of locally purchased flora to present with a sugary whispered smile around the word, “Lagniappe.”

Yes I miss home. And in the face of some of life's most recent defeats, it is sometimes tempting to want to retreat back to a familiar space.

But the cantor had very good advice for me. “Give it two years.”

Tried to stay silent

Last presidential election I was very vocal, very active and very passionate.

With this current election I was just as passionate but without the stamina of my younger self.

Last presidential election I was an intern for a pro-choice organization (which has since, apparently, lost it's funding in the state of NM). I was just coming out of a major depression, just beginning to feel optimistic about the financial risk of earning a college degree, just living with my parents again and generally just trying as hard as I could to grasp onto some hope.

Generically I could say I had been looking for some change.

I was in a new space with an assault of distractions that I could not delegate away this year. Having years ago learned (ish) to deal with depression, attained a degree since, and living on my own (and then not)-- Change had happened. Had been happening. In a universe that offers no constancy I had learned to make fewer plans and hope for the best.

So this year I had not taken my opinion and hopes to the streets which might be why I was so nervous. What if my ounces of efforts in a sea of campaigning in the community is what would cost me my comfort and safety in this nation?

A hope for the best turned to a sigh of relief for my values.

And I never mean to impose my values on others.

I live in a country that is, with more hard work, moving towards marriage equality. Ideally, I'll get married one day. But I don't think I could do so happily when I know that people I love (and people in my nation) were being deprived of the same emotional, spiritual, and LAWFUL bliss. How can any American fall in love, look their love in the eyes and say “I do.” when so many others are being denied that preciously elemental moment?

Think about how your heart would swell in that moment.

And how so many hearts are breaking and waiting to feel the same.

I live in a country that, with little effort, is going to protect the reproductive rights of women. As a woman who has suffered a miscarriage, had an illegal abortion as well as having experience with the legal and medical aspects of abortion... I can honestly say, from all ends of a spectrum... there is no singular circumstance that can dictate right from wrong when it comes to these choices. Legitimacy can not be defined by “God's” intent.

I do not believe that God ever intended for me to be raped when I was young. I believe that I came across a person that did not intend to act humanely towards me. I do not believe that God ever intended for me to lose a child that I intended to keep. Or that I was being punished for the mistakes I'd made. I believe that environment and biology created a situation in which prevented me from carrying to term. I do not believe that God no longer loves me because I could not (and elected to NOT) have children with men who did not love me. I think God, for whatever “God” is, doesn't really give a flip about that sort of thing but if “God” did care... it wouldn't be unforgiving. I think God would say something like, “Good call. Because having a child with someone who does not love you/ respect you and/or likes to punch you in the face/ emotionally abuse you... is not what I intended.”

Obviously the reproductive choice thing is a HUGE issue for me. Even as I get older. And especially because I'm older and faced with the reproductive challenges of being exposed to the wrong type of HPV.

Which brings me to another thing.

Stop slut shaming young women over an HPV vaccine. SERIOUSLY. On any occasion that science is capable of staving off a plague of STI... just stop making it about how no one has any business having sex and start making it about how everyone has a communal obligation to protect themselves and others. Stop lying about the numbers. Stop lying about saving yourself for someone that is coming along. And stop lying about how it's “not that big of a deal.”

It is a really big deal.

Universal healthcare? A big deal. Totally worth it when we calculate how much we're wasting on treating those with preventable problems that have turned south... or terminal. Or, you know, the emotional calculation of how many men, women and CHILDREN go without treatment because of an unbearable cost to families.

You can start to see why I'd been silent. No one wants to hear this from me on a daily basis.

Decriminalizing a basic drug that is contributing to violence in a national neighbor? Also a big deal. The American need to consume an “illegal” substance has devastated the sociological stability of a nation. No. A few nations. Americans lack the dignity to accept responsibility for their addiction to consumption.

Not just to drugs. We also like to criminalize women and men in the sex trade, despite the fact that their actions are often coerced. We let the johns off with a slap to the wrist without offering any sort of rehabilitation for prostitutes. It's in and out of the “corrections” system for them.

I can go on like this. Forever.

We like to shield ourselves with personal “values” without taking into account that.... the singular value does not serve the masses.

Our quality of life can't be improved by trying to cater to one set of ideals and circumstance.

Pre-H-day assessment

I don't know when Halloween became a chore for me.

After years at Club Dedo things threatened to become a bit lack-luster in the costume department. It was difficult to top the atmosphere, drink to wait time ratio, social satisfaction departments. Maybe it was the make-outable DJ's. Maybe it was the bartenders willingness to put up with my shit as well as pour candle wax over me when things were slow. Maybe it was the goth drama. Maybe it was "love you even if you're too loud" vibe I caught... Maybe it was in my head.

For a few years I became the Hostess with the Mostest for a Halloween shindigs that encompassed all of my social circles. Tip of the hat to my parents for havin' a place with lots of room, a tree house, a hot-tub AND a fire pit. I could throw a party that included Vagina Veterans, Rotaractors, Japanese exchange students, my family, co-workers, ex-best-friends, new best friends, and friends of friends of friends.

It didn't matter because we had enough hot dogs and marshmallows for everyone.

But at one point I lost control of Halloween celebration. I might be able to trace it back to being engaged to a man that refused to dress up.Think again. Another story.

Obviously that ended badly and I tried to move VERY FAR away. Only that fell through... only a year later... only a week before Halloween. Giving me no time to arrange for a Martha Stewart level Halloween Party .

Instead I made pumpkin-pineapple-ginger eggrolls and lit up a campfire. At the last minute I let people know there was food and fire to be had.

The ones that I love the most, they were there. The ones I would love deeply showed up by accident.

It was a good Halloween. My last great one.

Now New Orleans had to make up for the lost time and the great memories.

What NOLA does not have? My baby brother, my nephews and niece. Just Dance. My Vaginas. A hot tub in my backyard.

What NOLA does have? Frenchman Street. With Christina at The Revival Outpost inspiring my costume.  Friends visiting from out of town. I can't wait to see V.!

A great job.

A snoring boyfriend.

Things will balance out.

PB and C mini muffins

Yields: 42 mini muffins

2 cups all-purpose flour
1/3 cup granulated sugar
2 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp kosher salt
3 Tbsp unsalted butter, melted
1/2 cup peanut butter
1 cup goat milk

1 tsp vanilla extract
1large egg, beaten
3/4 cup carob chips

Preheat oven to 350°. Combine the flour, cinnamon, baking powder, and salt in a large mixing bowl. In a separate medium sized bowl, whisk together the butter, sugar, peanut butter, vanilla extract, egg and milk. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry and stir just until combined; fold in the carob chips.
Coat a nonstick muffin pan with a mist of olive oil from your awesome PC oil misting thing. Fill each of muffin cup about half full with batter. Bake 15ish minutes or until bottoms of muffins are golden but the tops are oddly not. Make sure they are baked all the way through... by eating one. Try to let it cool first. But you know... don't stress about that step.
Bring to your favorite deli and feed your meat slinging, bagel slicing deli boys.
Maybe undress the man you are dating with your eyes.

Yes, but is he Jewish?

After a few months of my mother struggling off and on with my spiritual path she said something the other day that was so “Jewish Mom” that I had the opportunity to feel normal about being Jewish.

Alienated. But normal alienated.

I informed her I was dating again. To which she asked, “A girl or a boy?” Because in my mom's mind I'm still just a lesbian waiting to happen. I also have a few lesbian friends who feel the same way. Secretly I think it's because of my bazooms of doom... and raging feminism. In any case. After I reconfirm that I self- identify as a heterosexual female my mom hits me with this gem, this rite of passage.

“Is he Jewish?”

I sat and stewed in the iconic and ironic glory. Is. He. Jewish?

No.

Which immediately set my heart and soul to racing. I mean, am I going to miss out on having spiritual spark in my relationships if I don't seek out Jewish men to date? Are non-Jewish men bound to never “get” me? Gosh, what if the man I end up falling in love with is not down with raising Jewish children?

Can of worms. Ye hath been opened so hard.

From what I understand Jewish men my age (or younger) don't get the idea of “spiritual spark” until later... or at least until I'm out of the picture. The number of unattached Jewish men in my age group I've met at temple? Zero.

So he's not Jewish, so what?

He's sweet. When I do something nice for him he is surprised, humbled and grateful. He gets dreamy eyed at me. He's honest. Honest about things most people would lie about. Which is to say more honest than I've experienced in quite some time. BUT... you know... he SNORES. A lot. So that might be a deal breaker.

Heh heh.

I'm a 31 year old poet with maybe a bum cervix and a bad credit score. There are worse things. We both have elements of our past that we're ashamed of. Who doesn't? I could certainly never run for president. Anyone that knows me from age 13 to 28 knows that I spent a solid decade and a half mangling my reputation and tempting fate. I got over it. Some people are capable of that sort of redemption. I might go so far as to say MOST people are capable of redemption.

I don't believe in throw away people. After the damage we sustain in life... we deserve reprieves. After my father treated my mother poorly, people may have regarded her as a throw away. A woman so wound up in pain that she could not love or would do anything to seek the approval of love. Even wait. And wait for love. My step-dad did not see her like that. He just swooped in and loved her.

My Ellie-mom. She got the hell out of situations before anyone could try to pull that shit on her. She is fucking zen-core like that.

And my sister? She's been told time and time again that she's a throw away. Thankfully she has the type of attitude that doesn't give a shit about what people say. She has the type of spirit that means to redeem lost causes. Her own as well as the causes of others. Might be the only reason why she's still with us today. With us and full of life... and bullshit.

I've been thrown away. A lot. So now I'm persnickety. About pretty much everything.

Only, right now, I'm around someone that doesn't mind the attitude. Someone that nose dives into a book about Shabbat. Someone that snores... snores so hard.

Get the fuck out. Sometimes I can be that simple.

A guy walks up to you in a deli and asks about the book you're reading.

The rest is presently surprising you.

Light after Lonliness

A few weeks ago, during a sermon, Rabbi B reminded us that life is full of interruptions. Her interruptions had/have a capital I. Mine... not as much. In life, I think, there should be such a thing as middle case. Middle case maybe.

Hurricane Issac was an interruption. It was devastating in unexpected aspects of my life-- emotionally, financially and spiritually.

No one can really prepare you for three days alone in a house with your cats. Isolation. ISOLATION. Middle case isolation, maybe. Alone with per-cancerous cells, cat fights and lots of thoughts. Thoughts of family, friends, friends (who are not speaking to you for their own reasons) fatal friendships, family fatalities, genetic dispositions, your own look on life and it got that way because of your choices, choices you wouldn't have made if you'd known people were not going honest and true to you, and how does anyone know how to be honest and true when all their hearts know is the bob and weave of listening art... and who are you to accuse because all your heart ever wanted was the bob and weave of speaking art. How does any love ever happen between the two when the zig to the right and the zag to minor never meet?

You're alone with that conglomeration of catastrophe.

And then there's the turmoil of trying, having tried for weeks before Issac, to meet with your local rabbi. To meet with a rabbi, one has to have a few weeks notice. Can you meet on Day XYZ? No. Then you can meet with a rabbi on day A. Ok. Only something has happened on Day A. And then the Capital H came in on the anniversary of Capital/Bold K. You can't expect to meet with anyone during High Holy Days which is stressful.. because... like.. first High Holy Days since you decided to become a Jew... all on your own... so talking to someone about that would be nice.... better than nice... it would be a life line. But that's not going to happen. So you ask to have certain days off so you can attend to your spiritual business as efficiently and business like as possible only to realize you have to prioritize. And a rabbi has to prioritize. Somewhere in the middle you'll keep missing your connection.

And it has STRESSED ME OUT.

Until my best friend was in town. Strained as the friendship is right now, God knows how good it is, because it was when Ariel was here that I was asked to light the candles for Friday services.

In all the isolation and desperation and stress and insecurity.... in all the chaos... a very select, very important moment was created for me to have with someone I love deeply and then shared with a community that is creating a learning and loving experience in my life.

For months I've been trying to be loved by Judaism. For months I've been stressed out and hurt because I didn't feel that I was being loved from a place that I had found love.

Love. Capital in all ways. LOVE.

And just a few moments of creating fire and speaking poetry on the right night, in front of the right people... is all it took to renew my faith in love, God, greatness and light.

Because. ABSOLUTELY... it is no question of maybe/middle cases.

Love alone will Shine.

For what it is worth. For all my faults. And all of yours. It still will Shine.

we'll know the reason why

The second semester of my second senior year (say that seven times fast) I had a part-time job on campus as a scholarship fundraiser. I would call up alumni and convey this sentiment, “Hello respected alumni, the pride of NMSU, tell me about where life has taken you. Give unto me the wealth of information that you have to bestow upon your fellow Aggie! And now that we have spoken about that.... let me remind you of an incredible opportunity --a chance for you to assist students that ARE as you WERE once. Struggling perhaps and just very deserving of financial support and the emotional and academic relief that comes with having earned and received an alumni sponsored scholarship. This is your chance to share your success with your department and your Aggie community.”

And while you might think that sounds cheesy or pushy... I had many amazing conversations with many awesome Aggies who were happy to donate a little here or a lot there. These people were excited to hear from a student and they wanted to know how they could help us.

Tonight was my turn.

But before I could get a call from NMSU Foundation I received an entirely different sort of call.

A call from ACS. And they ask me the same things they always ask me. Asking me to confirm my address, which takes a few tries because after THREE MONTHS and dozens of calls they STILL HAVE NOT UPDATED my contact information. They ask me why I haven't made a full payment. I break down the math of my budget for them. I live off of less than $200 a month after expenses and partial loan payments. They ask me if I am in school and I tell them I'm not but, “I am considering going back to school to put myself further in debt if it means I won't have to get your calls for a few more years.”

Then they drop the bomb.

“Do you intend on paying this loan?”

Tonight, I finally lost it. I said something like, “Let ME ask YOU a question. Does anyone ever say, 'NO. I do not plan on paying this loan back. I think I will allow my credit rating to continue to plummet and create a financial situation in which I will never ever be approved for a loan ever ever again.'? Does ANYONE ever say that? Does anyone ever tell you that they DO NOT INTEND ON PAYING BACK THEIR LOAN?”

The answer is no. No one ever says that. We all went out there and took out loans to get our degrees because once we had said degrees amazing American boot-strappy jobs were supposed to be all around for us to GET and then live out some intellectually refined professional life that provided financial stability for ourselves, our spouses and our many American babies... who were going to go to college someday. JUST LIKE MOM AND POP!

Paying back our loans was going to happen in the months following landing that first job-- doing something that wasn't what we always wanted to do, but at the very least would LEAD us to becoming that thing we had always wanted to be when we grew up.

Astronauts. Engineers. Architects. Doctors. President.

English teachers who moon-light as small press authors of poignant and modern poetry that will revolutionize nothing but at the very least stir some hearts.

I mean, the revolution part would be nice, but it is not expected.

Sometimes these things don't happen in the time frame between getting a degree and the first round of calls from the loan collectors. I remind myself that it is totally ok. They can't get blood from a stone. I'm a first generation graduate. Obviously there is a period of trial and error. Adjustment. Whatever.

After standing up to the innocent (she's just doing her job) out of country (wouldn't it be cool if ACS created some jobs for a country full of Americans who can't find jobs or pay their loans?) outbound phone support agent... I am still a little indignant about the humiliation of it all. I go to choir. Decompress about debt and re-compress about my sociological place in my synagogue (which is another blog for another time).

That's when the baby Aggie calls me.

As soon as I hear him I know. I KNOW. And I am devastated.

When I had his job, I swore to myself that I would give something each time they called me. I promised myself that I would help sponsor a scholarship in my department. For a few reasons. One- I had received a scholarship for a set of poems in 2008. It wasn't from NMSU Foundation funds, it was from LOLA. But it was a scholarship and it made a, “I don't have to pay for textbooks next semester” kind of impact on my life. Two- the majority of alumni that I called donated to their departments... Ag and Eng. Ag and Eng. Ag... and Eng. Very few Lit majors were in the roster and those that were... didn't have money to give. Three- employees get a lot of praise for landing a donation. After dozens of hang ups, answering machines, wrong numbers and the like... it always just felt good to talk to another Aggie and land a donation. ANY SIZE donation.

Which is why I was nearly in tears while the baby Aggie starts asking me how I am, where I am, what am I doing.... It's all part of the lead up.

I tried to stop him. I said, “You're from the scholarship call center aren't you? I used to have your job. I have to tell you, tonight my answer is going to have to be no.”

And he says, bravely, “That's awesome that you worked here. Then you know I have to keep trying, right?”

“Ok kid. Let's do this.”

I let him know a lot of things. That I'm not using my degree. I'm working retail. I'm in New Orleans. Yes he can update my contact information so they will put me in the right time zone queue. Yes I know that NMSU Career Services can be utilized by alumni. If I had to pick an all time favorite class it would be Chaucer with Schirmer. Though to be fair I loved all of my teachers EXCEPT Cunnar who was a sexist shithead. I'm sorry I can't donate now, but I INTEND on donating to the department at some point. I really, for honest and true, want to help someone in my department. Someone that wants to write a revolution someday. I want to be that alumnus.

All of this is while I am on Broad and Washington waiting for my transfer bus. I have drunk people screaming the N word, young men at least half my age eye balling my person, and a car backfiring... repeatedly... in the back ground.

I tell the baby Aggie to tell the boss I said hello. I apologize for not helping him land a donation and wish him luck. All of this happens and I oddly feel a little more... decompressed but not decomposed.

I've been in need of some revolution. Or poetry. Or both. But just because I need a revolution doesn't mean I get to act a fool and jump from the comal to the campfire.

Revolution or no, I've got to get a plan.

Step one. Breathe. Slide. Aum. Shine.

And always now “here to do or die”.