On Being Interesting

I have an interesting name. Does that make me interesting? I get a lot of comments and compliments about my name. What does it mean? Were your parents Persian? Were your parents hippies? Is that your real name? It's so beautiful.

What can I say about this? Perfect strangers are not entitled to the painful and tragic history that led to my rebirth and rechristening as B___. Nor do they deserve outright lies. My parents were probably hippies since they were teens in the 60's, so I say "No, they aren't Persian, but they probably were hippies." My French last name also draws queries, but it's simple enough to admit that I come from "mutt" blood as a mixture of Prussian, Irish, English, Native American and African American. My aunt swears by the African, my mother prays by the Native and my grandmother denies them both, so who's to say that there wasn't a little Frenchie thrown in somewhere?

At any rate, I didn't start intending to portray my entire genealogy, but rather my dismay at being interesting. It's become a strange sort of ritual in my life that after I introduce myself, I am automatically ready to say "Thank you, I like it, too. It's Persian. No, I'm not." It's almost become my long introduction, such as those given in the south when debs are given (in)to society.

My name is not the only thing publicly but inanely interesting - I also wear vintage glasses admired by all. "Yes, they are prescription. Yes, they are old. I got them at ___." Be careful trying on vintage glasses - wear them around the shop for at least 20 minutes. I bought two lovely pair at once and can only wear one set because the others are too heavy. Although vintage glasses are sized, so once you find a pair you like the fit of, you can easily weed through a stack looking for the same size. My eyeglass size is 5 1/2. My shoes are 38 European or 8 American. My dresses are 12-14 and my earrings are preferably huge.

But I didn't start this post intending to give tips on buying vintage or to elucidate the size of all my body parts. It's about being interesting. I think being interesting is just like being invisible. My invisible friend V once threw a fit in class and flipped everyone off, double handed, while cursing them all vocally. Neither the instructor or any of our 10 classmates noticed. Only I and the person on the other side of her noticed. Not seeing her is their loss because she's really an admirable, gifted and kind person. I wish I could see more of her.

Having these interesting things for people to latch onto, they become you, you become them. I am my interesting name and my funky glasses. And to some, little else, but I know better. I know the really interesting things come at night when I wake up in the middle of the night, when I dream big - win, lose or draw, when I dance, when I sing or when I cry. I just hope to recognize those things that are really interesting in you.

When it's hard to choose love over fear...

Just this moment I decided to add another blog ... it's that whole procrastination thing ... but I had writer's block. I looked out my window (which is really a big sliding glass door) and received inspiration as I watched my roommate start climbing over the gate that leads to our patio that leads to the big sliding glass door which could easily be broken or broken into ... that's probably not what I want to be thinking about when I just learned my friend was assaulted by an intruder in her home.

I know that these things happen and am actually terrified whenever I have to stay the night in my home alone. I wake up on those mornings with a sense of relief that the night passed uneventfully and the day is here. It's worse at night, but I get scared during the day, too. I was unloading my truck yesterday morning and accidentally left the garage door open when I took everything upstairs. It was all I could do not to call the police when I realized the door had been open for up to 30 minutes unattended. That my bike was still in the garage and my dog hadn't barked the house down helped me relax and just close the damn door.

I'm not constantly quaking in my pansy pink booties, but these fearful thoughts enter my head on a regular basis throughout the day. I check that all doors are locked, put my faith in something and just keep going. I don't walk down dark alleys alone at night, but neither do I avoid taking my dog out for a pee at 3am when the bar across the street is long closed and the drunks and crazies are still about. What I'm trying to explain is that I have a heightened level of vigilance, but I try not to let it affect my options in life.

I was going to wax philosophical about this being a difference between men and women - that men don't have to be as constantly on guard as women - but it occurs to me this is not a male-female issue, but a minority issue. Any non-majority group or persecuted group can probably understand this feeling very well ... gay, person of color, women, fat, nerdy ... I guess we're all subject to the vagaries of human conscience that allow another human being to willfully hurt us. For now, I'm just happy that my boyfriend is a door locker, too, even though I laughed when he made a point of locking the car doors when we were scooting down the freeway at 85mph - maybe he knows something I don't know.

Poetry

If you do not learn to hate
you will never be lonely
enough
to love easily
nor will you always be brave
although it does not grow any easier.
Do not pretend to convenient beliefs.
You will never be able to defend
your city
while shouting.
Remember our sun
is not the most noteworthy star
only the nearest.
Respect whatever pain you bring back
from your dreaming
but do not look for new gods
in the sea
nor in any part of a rainbow.
Each time you love
love as deeply
as if it were
forever
only nothing is
eternal.
Speak proudly to your children
wherever you may find them.
Tell them
they are the offspring of slaves
and your mother was
a princess in darkness.

- Audre Lorde

Poetry

Dream Variations


To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun
To whirl and to dance
Til the white day is done
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently
Dark like me ... that is my dream.



To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun
Dance whirl whirl
Til the quick day is done
Rest at pale evening
A tall slim tree
Night coming tenderly
Black like me.