January 30, 2008
You Bring Out the Boring White Guy in Me
for Christina Acosta
the Ward Cleaver in me. The
in me. The K-Mart in me. The Slurpee
in me. The boiled hotdog in me. The mac
and cheese in me. The Tang in me.
You bring out the Hamburger Helper
in me. You bring out the Twinkie
in me. The Cheez Whiz in me.
You bring out the bowling trophy
in me. The student council in me.
The parliamentary procedure in me.
The missionary position in me.
You bring out the canned vegetables
in me. The Jell-o in me. The training
wheels in me. You bring out
the lawn edger in me. The fast-food
drive-thru window in me. The Valu
Meal in me. You bring out the white
briefs in me. You bring out
the cheap beer and weak coffee
in me. You bring out the 15%
tip chart in me. The sad overweight
weekend golfer in me. You bring out
the ex-smoker in me. The jumper
cables in the trunk with flares
and the red flag to tie to the window
in me. You bring out the Tony Orlando
in me. The canned situation comedy
laughter in me. The elevator music
in me. You bring out the medley
of TV commercial jingles in me.
The Up with People in me.
I’ve come to a complete stop
at the stop sign. I’ve got my
emergency flashers on. My doors
are locked, baby,
I’m waiting for you.
—Jim Daniels, 2003
You Bring Out the Mexican in Me
You bring out the Mexican in me.
The hunkered thick dark spiral.
The core of a heart howl.
The bitter bile.
The tequila lágrimas on Saturday all
through next weekend Sunday.
You are the one I’d let go the other loves for,
surrender my one-woman house.
Allow you red wine in bed,
even with my vintage lace linens.
You bring out the
The Mexican spitfire in me.
The raw navajas, glint and passion in me.
The raise Cain and dance with the rooster-footed devil in me.
The spangled sequin in me.
The eagle and serpent in me.
The mariachi trumpets of the blood in me.
The Aztec love of war in me.
The fierce obsidian of the tongue in me.
The berrinchuda, bien-cabrona in me.
The Pandora’s curiosity in me.
The pre-Columbian death and destruction in me.
The rainforest disaster, nuclear threat in me.
The fear of fascists in me.
Yes, you do. Yes, you do.
You bring out the colonizer in me.
The holocaust of desire in me.
The ’85 earthquake in me.
The Popocatepetl/Ixtacchiuatl in me.
The tidal wave of recession in me.
The Agustín Lara hopeless romantic in me.
The barbacoa taquitos on Sunday in me.
The cover the mirrors with cloth in me.
Sweet twin. My wicked other,
I am the memory that circles your bed nights,
that tugs you taut as moon tugs ocean.
I claim you all mine,
arrogant as Manifest Destiny.
I want to rattle and rent you in two.
I want to defile you and raise hell.
I want to pull out the kitchen knives,
dull and sharp, and whisk the air with crosses.
Me sacas lo mexicana en mi,
like it or not, honey.
You bring out the Uled-Nayl in me.
The stand-back-white-bitch-in me.
The switchblade in the boot in me.
The cliff diver in me.
The Flecha Roja mountain disaster in me.
The dengue fever in me.
The ¡Alarma! murderess in me.
I could kill in the name of you and think
it worth it. Brandish a fork and terrorize rivals,
female and male, who loiter and look at you,
languid in you light. Oh,
I am evil. I am the filth goddess Tlazoltéotl.
I am the swallower of sins.
The lust goddess without guilt.
The delicious debauchery. You bring out
the primordial exquisiteness in me.
The nasty obsession in me.
The corporal and venial sin in me.
The original transgression in me.
Red ocher. Yellow ocher. Indigo. Cochineal.
Piñon. Copal. Sweetgrass. Myrrh.
All you saints, blessed and terrible,
Virgen de Guadalupe, diosa Coatlicue,
I invoke you.
Quiero ser tuya. Only yours. Only you.
Quiero amarte. Aarte. Amarrarte.
Love the way a Mexican woman loves. Let
me show you. Love the only way I know how.
—Sandra Cisneros, 1994
I’ve mostly been quiet on this subject because others have been covering it well, and because it’s difficult for me to voice exactly what I’m thinking. When it comes down to it, I’m torn. I’m still bitter about Hillary Clinton’s Marie Claire interview (evidently I’m far more likely to hold a grudge when it comes to politics than I am in my personal life, which has been an interesting thing to discover about myself), and, quite simply, Clinton’s politics are far more moderate than those of my ideal candidate (as Melissa McEwan put it, Clinton is “arguably the least progressive of the three Democratic front-runners,” which she explains further in the third linked post above).
Of course, my ideal candidate doesn’t appear to exist, and just as I’m afraid that, if elected, Clinton will bend to the will of the right wing more than I would prefer, similar concerns exist for Obama. So, even without the issue of identity politics, I would be torn. (On a tangentially related note, I can’t help but wonder whether Edwards isn’t getting as much press as the other two because he’s not doing as well — or if he’s not doing as well as the other two because he’s not getting as much press.)
But the issue of identity politics is front and center during this primary season. On one hand, I very much like the idea of — as Liss put it — “repudiating institutional misogyny by supporting the female candidate.” I, too, will celebrate and cheer and blub when we inaugurate our first female President. And so, in that respect, I’m excited about the Clinton campaign. Read the rest of this entry »
January 29, 2008
Not that I’m obsessed or anything…
|Which sci-fi crew would you best fit in with? (pics)
created with QuizFarm.com
|You scored as Serenity (Firefly)You like to live your own way and don’t enjoy when anyone but a friend tries to tell you should do different. Now if only the Reavers would quit trying to skin you.
Also? I can kill you with my brain.
January 28, 2008
Leslie Nuccio plays with Hector, one of Michael Vick’s former fighting dogs, at her California home.
There’s a great Associated Press story up at CNN.com about the dogs seized from Michael Vick’s property, focusing on the dog pictured above, Hector. Rather than go into what he went through as a fighting dog, I want to highlight how he’s doing now:
Hector’s settling into his new life, getting further and further from his past.
Weekly “canine good citizen” classes are correcting his social ineptitude. And he’s taking cues on good manners from patient Pandora, a female pit bull mix who’s queen of the household’s dogs. Once Hector graduates, he’ll take classes to become a certified therapy dog, helping at nursing homes and the like.
For now, he’s learning the simple pleasures of a blanket at bedtime, a peanut butter-filled chew toy, even classical music.
“I put on Yo-Yo Ma one day and he cocked his head, laid down and listened to the cello next to the speaker,” Nuccio said. “He’s turning out to be a man of high class and culture.”
There’s more — including more absolutely adorable pictures — at the link. Enjoy!
January 24, 2008
The Statue Got Me High:
January 23, 2008
Sailing to Byzantium
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
—William Butler Yeats, 1927
Just in case I have any readers who don’t also read Shakesville, I currently have a guest post up over there. Enjoy!
January 22, 2008
Today is the 35th anniversary of the Roe v. Wade decision, and to mark the occasion the people at NARAL Pro-Choice America are asking bloggers to discuss why it’s important to vote pro-choice. Here’s why: because we need to counteract anti-choice witch hunts like these. Because — and of course this is stating the obvious — voting pro-choice sends an unmistakable message to politicians who are liable to think we (“we” meaning young women, or “we” meaning progressives, or “we” meaning those in favor of reproductive freedom for all women) don’t feel as strongly about reproductive freedom as we actually do. Finally, in a nutshell, BECAUSE IT MATTERS.
On a related note, Salon has an in-depth feature up marking the anniversary. Go read.
January 21, 2008
- Liss has the full video of the I Have A Dream speech, which serves, among other things, as reminder that he was an absolutely amazing orator.
- Cara discusses Dr. King and reproductive justice over at the Curvature (which I’m adding to the blogroll as soon as I finish this post).
- Pam’s got Dr. King speaking against the Vietnam war, and how the 2008 Presidential candidates are trying to connect to King’s legacy even though “it’s pretty clear the King of 1968 is probably more radical a figure than they would want to identify with.”
- Jessica has a collection of Dr. King quotes, with readers adding their favorites in comments.
Feel free to add anything else you come across in comments.
Update: I’d intended to link to “Letter from A Birmingham Jail,” but got distracted. Luckily, Evil Bender’s got my back.