"The Third Toni"

YOu!

2010-06-08T19:13:00.001-07:00

HEY!

2010-06-08T19:12:00.001-07:00

Some Pics

2010-06-08T19:08:00.001-07:00

Me Tummy

2010-01-04T13:04:00.000-08:00

I was super sleepy--so in being super sleepy I drunk a cup of super coffee and now my stomach hurts :(.

Post script,

I'm not a coffee drinker.

Digging Deep To Find The Me Inside

2009-12-10T07:22:00.001-08:00

There’s a gospel song with the lyrics, “As I look back over my life—and I think things over—I can truly say—that I’ve been blessed—I gotta a testa-m-on-y!” And it’s true that I’ve been blessed over the years. Just this morning I was thinking how much I was blessed to just have to take one bus to and from work when some of my co-workers travel up to two hours to get to the same place. I was thinking the other day when I shot out in traffic to make the light how blessed I was (then) that God made it so that no other cars crashed into me. I owe so much of my existence to the mercy and grace (undeserved) to Christ, my Savior. But after all He does for me day after day I’ve become so distant from Him. The things I’m fortunate in having or experiencing no matter how great or small deserves some recognition and praise to the giver, because who am I to think that all I have is a birthright when people are dying every second in this world?

I believe that everything happens for a reason. So with that, I won’t say that the events that have transpired over the last twelve months were all bad or all a mistake. I also believe that in this life you are given the right to choose your destiny to some degree because with the certain obstacles or paths to take in life—it’s really up to us to choose which way to go. I am very scattered this morning, I know. I have so much that I want to say, but not sure if I should share it here. What I’m really saying is that over this past year I’ve made some changes—changes that might have been dramatic to some, shocking even. I lost about thirty pounds, fell in love, got an apartment, moved in with a guy, and just became so wrapped up into his world that I probably lost track of things. One of the biggest things I misplaced was my desire to write (completely). It’s like all I wanted and still want to do is be around, up under, beside and with him. On top of that and all those feelings and emotions of a relationship, I’m dealing with the actuality of being a grownup (which sucks bytheway).

Okay wait a minute, I just lied when I said writing was one of the biggest things I’ve misplaced—one of the most significant changes in my life is my fellowship with God. I haven’t been to church in months, besides a brief Thanksgiving service a couple of weeks ago. I was never a big reader of the bible (except during Sunday school or bible study) so I can’t really include that, but I guess I just sort of disappeared spiritually. Right here, I’m not going to blame anyone but myself here because I chose to do all of these things. I own up to it and will accept it. It’s just so weird lately—my life and the things I think about—how I got here compared to where I was last year. Sometimes I here myself thinking out loud that “god, I wish I was back in Mankato where everything was simplier.” (I know simplier is not a word). Some days I’m just like seriously this is happening? Seriously I’m going through this blah, blah, blah. I tell you—for all of the people who think you may love someone you only really know until that love is tried and tested and only then you will know that this will either make or break us.

All of these things relate to one another—God, writing, me, him, us, life. Writing still is affected by the transition I’m making in my life but I won’t even abandon it totally because deep down in one of the cockles of my heart it’s still there silently waiting to be my friend again.

I’m not going to proofread this because this is only the beginning of what I have to say.

Some Afternoon Mush

2009-11-19T12:24:00.001-08:00

Being in love is like floating on some imaginary bubble that will never bust or let you rise too high too fast. I never thought I would touch this feeling--these emotions that makes my world alright. With the bumps in the road, I become stronger and more confident in this gift that I've been given.

Each time I look, touch, laugh with, eat with, cuddle with, laugh some more with, argue with, and just be with him I know that this is it. This is crazy, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Nobody knows how much my heart will never be the same again. I'm open and ready to keep on falling.

It's easy to say you love someone, but to sacrifice like he has for me is a testament to why we can't be shaken no matter what.

Help! Like That Beetles Song

2009-10-29T13:26:00.000-07:00

Hi--All,

I'm writing, writing and scratching my head trying to figure out who the hell this women is. What kind of person does she sound like? What are any thoughts--seriously, anything.

Opening Prayer
… And I say unto you, Lord, you are my light and my salvation of whom shall I fear? You are the strength of my life of whom shall I be afraid?

The deacon will always be apart of me now that he’s gone. Storm clouds may rise and strong winds may blow, but he’ll still be here beside me silently praying for my soul. The deacon was my lover and also a friend. He was the one man I thought could change my world—make me a better Jamie and saint of God. But who was I fooling; being a saint of God was the last thing on my mind when he would stretch me across his alters of praise to devour my sins. Sometimes I can be a real jerk when it comes to faith and sex and believing in God and doing the right things like not sleeping around with husbands. But I’m trying to be honest here because that’s what the saints want to hear. The first time I heard him preach I knew I had to have him. Lila McCree and his three children were the last things on my mind. I didn’t care about a wife waiting by the phone for him to call or repetitiously peeking behind lavender Priscillas hoping he’d come home. On those nights, mornings, days I wanted him wrapped comfortably inside of me so that I could be his shelter in the time of storm. Some of the saints upon hearing my story might want to pick up a stone and Mary Magdalene me, but they would be throwing out of ignorance.

Some Things to Live By

2009-10-29T13:17:00.000-07:00

Two wise quotes from a wise women that I admire.

"It's not how much you make--it's how much you can save."

"It's not necessary to live paycheck to paycheck."

--Jackie S.

Speak to Me Jaime Thome

2009-10-27T13:09:00.000-07:00

Somehow I've become addicted to iced coffee and talking about people. This is not good. Sometimes I feel like a real jerk, sometimes I just want to say "and who are you again?"

Time goes by so quickly. I'm scattered and trying to find my writing identity. My life is different now. I'm not the same person I used to be. I like who I am. Somedays. I searching for something that doesn't want to be found--apparently.

I'll give $20 to the first person who can tell me what it all means.

Novel Here I Come

2009-10-01T11:43:00.000-07:00

Last week I received an email from a New York Literary Agency that's looking to expand their clientele and wanted to know if I was working on a novel. I think this is the question I need to get me writing again.

Question

2009-08-04T12:53:00.000-07:00

My Darling Diana,

Why am I prohibited from your blog--is there something I should know?

Remember Me

2009-06-16T11:11:00.000-07:00

It's been a while I know, but eveything's still everything. I'm still happy. I'm still alive and getting ready to venture into something new. I'm excited about the release of the Crab Orchard Review in a couple of weeks--it'll be nice to see my words in print. I'm still avoiding the novel (even though I told Slee I wouldn't). I'm getting better though. I visited a Barnes & Noble last friday looking for my darling Diana's (which they didn't have in stock--only the store in downtown Chicago) when I felt all writerly, like I should be doing it. But what can I say, my first love has shifted to something human that smiles at me when I smile at it. But I can say that my love for character and story isn't completely dead.

Walking With Love Under My Umbrella

2009-05-05T12:12:00.000-07:00

If it's raining outside I don't care. I'm going to walk down this wet and soggy street with joy in my heart and a sap song (that I'll hum to) in my head. This is me being free and in love, in love. Funny I never thought such feelings would or could creep up on me. Funny, I was always the destroyer of love--the girl who created stories about the silliness in the thought of being connected to one soul (that could be a mate). But now I don't care about any of it because I'm walking down this street counting the raindrops as that plop, plop on my umbrella with joy in my heart and love right next to me.

He was made just for me.
He's my passion right now and really the only one I see.

LUKE: The Robin To My Batman

2009-03-23T11:32:00.000-07:00

Luke n' Vodka
Aw Luke, you were drunk--this is true. You were saying some strange things about taking shots of vodka, disco dancing, and yellow thread. I appreciated your lack of equilibrium and shrugged it off saying, "His comments were the only ones that mattered in workshop." I miss those days of writing true (lol) and you. It's okay if your memory of me on that last night at AWP is somewhat of a dream because I was there and so were you.

On Writing
You're freakin' inspiring me to write. Since the last time we spoke all I've been thinking about lovin'. I've been lovin' so tough that writing has become somewhat of a distant cousin, but I remember those days in Mankato. I remember writing pieces that would 'ring true' to some in workshop. I remember you always telling me, send stuff out. And me shrugging before saying, yeah I guess. Reading your trials and tribs as your writing life blossoms is moving me. It is true that I'm on the verge of falling in love, not with writing, but with some flesh and bones. But how can I neglect the one thing that sets me apart from others? How can I say to writing, 'bye, bye love?" I dunno why things unfold the way they do, but you are inspiring me to go back to Toni Kay. We are suppose to exchange stories, but I have to actually work on some first. What do you think about the words I'm writing? Is there any hope for your thesis reading partner? Did ACM contact you? I was suppose to be going back and intern to keep you abreast on the happenings of your publication--I suck sometimes, and you can say this and not be afraid of any repercussions because after speaking with the editor at AWP I still haven't returned. Luke, what's wrong with me--do you know?

On Rejections
Let the rejections roll off your back, man. You've been published like eighty times so don't sweat the Nos. When you send your stories to the places where they want to call home they won't come back to you. Remember that night at Diana's and it was raining more cats than dogs and we were there to get our signatures and we started talking about rejections and Diana showed us the box of rejections (I think there was 30 rejects for one story) and we both looked at the box and felt a bit of relief because our teacher didn't let that dissuade her and we both knew she had made something out of her writing life? So now I'm saying to you--the person who will always be the Robin to my Batman--DON'T SWEAT IT! You are a better writer than that to result to the circle of people who whine about being rejected. Man up and keep writing.

Mind you, all these words are coming from a person who hasn't written in months. Like in workshop, take what helps.

Toni Kay

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!

2009-03-03T10:39:00.000-08:00

Hi Nettie, guess who? I want to wish you a happy birthday and also let you know that I finally figured out how to reach these kids. Love you lots and may your day be filled with smiles.
I miss you terribly,

Slee.

Tipping Towards Goodness

2009-02-16T13:18:00.001-08:00

"What do you like to eat?" she said.

"Anything that you cook," he said.

And like that they were in love. Simple.

The Other Third of Me

2009-02-05T10:00:00.000-08:00

Today I am not Antoinette. I’m drinking coffee to stay awake. I’m picking at the skin around my finger nails. Today I’m thinking, thinking, thinking. Today I’m emotional and barely running off an hour worth of sleep. This is crazy. Today I have a lack of direction. Who is this person I’ve become? Please don’t ask me what’s wrong. Please don’t try to get anything out of me. I’m doing things I shouldn’t, but I have it under control. I’m just thinking too much. I’m just falling in a hole, but not really.

Today I’m Neenah Barcelona; no one has met her yet. Today Neenah is trying to make a conscious decision involving her heart and what’s best for her. Today Neenah is wrapped up in a situation that could potentially cause some heartache, but will be a good learning experience. Learning experiences are healthy for human living, right? Neenah seems to think so. Today Neenah wants time to stop for two seconds to catch her breath. Today Neenah will crunch on cups and cups of pellet ice so she can shiver, so she can stay awake.

Sometimes Neenah and I create situations that will cause us stress. Toni Kay doesn’t like when we get this way. If it was up to her every day would be peaches and cream. If you’re reading this and wondering what it all means, just know that Toni Kay would tell you but Neenah and I won’t. This is just the way things are today. Sometimes we get like this. Sometimes we think too much about everything and nothing gets accomplished. Sometimes we allow stupidity to take the front seat to common sense—things we know better not to do. Humph, maybe we’re just pre-PMSing.

Yesterday, a boy told me that women are sometimes too emotional. He said something else, but I wasn’t listening (too busy trying to figure him out). Tomorrow I’ll forget about what he said. Tomorrow I’ll be better. Every body has these days when things just aren’t quite right—your selves not quite welded the way they should be. Don’t worry (Marie) if you’re reading this. I’m tripping. We do that a lot. These are just words with a little feeling mixed in between.

The Minis and Me

2009-02-04T06:26:00.000-08:00

I am in a state of horror—no, make that outrage. In the blistering cold I traveled from Starbucks to Starbucks searching for the one thing that would start my morning off right – a package of Starbucks black and white iced cookies. Out of the three franchises on North Michigan Avenue I came out each empty handed.

How is this possible? How could this be that in Chicago, on the Mag Mile I couldn’t find these cookies? It’s so not fair. It’s so not cool for Starbucks to suck so bad. I mean seriously, enough of the $5 beverages and $8 crust-less sandwiches—give me the damn cookies! My anger doesn’t only extend to the franchises downtown either. Yesterday I went searching for the cookies at a Starbucks in Lansing, IL. and came out of that store empty handed as well.

… let me tell you how the cookies and I fell in love. It was a cold Saturday night in January. I was feeling content, but had just a touch of melancholy while walking down the deserted streets of Schaumburg, IL. Like I said, my world was moving but it could have been better when all of a sudden I saw the sign, the big illuminated green lights and something inside of me fluttered. I was being lured toward green but I didn’t mind. Once inside I was greeted with the strong smell of coffee, but I wasn’t interested in that. I wanted something to lift me higher or brighten things up, so to speak. And that’s when I saw them—the cookies, both iced with white and chocolate icing in a moon-like shape. Instantly, I knew I had to have them, but refused to let the perky blonde cashier see my vulnerable side. So I perused the counter looking at other cookies for like six seconds before I picked up the package, handed it (along with money) for the check out. With the first bite into the spongy piece of heaven I was smitten. There will never be another coffee shop cookie that will make my heart sing like the mini cookies.

Damn you Starbucks, damn!

Come To Me Baby

2009-02-03T11:38:00.000-08:00

Oh, you were the one that always made the wrong things right. When my world was topsy turvy just one minute with you would make everything more than sweet. Sitting here typing, drowsy and sinking, I come to realize I miss you. We don't spend time anymore. I barely see you, sleep. This separation is killing me ever so softly. I need to feel your touch and the way things were when my life was normal and bedtime was at 9:15 p.m. I feel as though we've disconnected like a friendship that's fading fast. It's become apparent that I can't hang out with the late crowd. I can't be without you so come back to me.

Working

2009-01-28T06:02:00.000-08:00

In this place we all call home for eight hours strange things happen. Things that sometimes can't be explained. Things that sometimes leaves the world standing still just a little bit longer. At work people are expected to produce, negoitiate, lie, whine, eat, adjust their chairs in five minute intervals, clear their throats and try to be normal. Being normal is something Norm knows about. He's the kind of guy that will hit the back of a colleague's chair all while humming Another Bites The Dust. Norm is one of those cool dudes that hits the backs of his coworkers chairs as he passes by, and tells overweight, self-conscious women in the office, Hell, you sure look fat today. And after saying something like this to Fatty Patty, who avoids wearing stripes no matter what Elle says, normal Norm will scamper off to the water cooler to refresh himself. He won't think about office etiquette or the fact that men shouldn't ever bring up a woman's weight.

Working brings out the best in some of us, but in others it carves away our asshole centers. Being an asshole is something Ashley knows about. She's the kind of woman worker that believes in busting balls with a jackhammer motion. In the office, this women will dissemble a male co worker's ego without breaking a sweat. She loathes testosterone and thinks women wearing black DK suits are empowered individuals up for the challenge of life and moving ahead. Moving ahead is something Ashley knows about. She was the first woman in the office to crack her boss's balls with a nutcracker.

Sleeping Softly

2009-01-26T08:53:00.000-08:00

When on the job, the best thing you can do when sleepy is to not think about sleeping.
---Neena Barcelona

So I’m at work and I am dead tired. I cannot focus. I cannot think. I stayed up too late. My eyelids feel like two bumble bees have snuggled in tightly on each of them with their little bulb bodies wrapped up for warmth and comfort. I have contemplated twice of briskly walking to the bathroom, entering through the door, choosing the largest stall, cleaning off the largest stall’s ivory colored toilet seat and sitting down for a snooze. I’ve resorted to picking and biting the skin and exposed cuticle are my fingernails in this fight with the sluggish monster. He wants my blood and bones. I’ve resorted to being unproductive. He’s preventing me from getting on the phone.

This has to stop. In a desperate attempt to take back the control of my eyelids, I broke my water diet to drink a cup of Starbucks coffee with hazelnut cream. The hazelnut cream wasn’t a good idea. I’m not a coffee drinker, but my situation was and is dire. I continued to nod off until I went to the washroom not to sleep, but to douse my face with water. Before the water dousing, I sat at my desk trying to write down about twelve hospital names. During these attempts, I would jerk awake to find the blue ball point pen I was writing with relaxed in my hand at a slant on yellow tablet paper. It was embarrassing to look down at the words I had scribbled and not remember when I had written them.

Now that the coffee and water seems to be kicking in I can work, but I still wish that it was 2:15p and I only had an hour and forty-five minutes left to work. Today I’m going to change my 2009 life in several ways: 1. I will begin my writing regiment at 6p. 2. I will change my mind about attending AWP. 3. I will get some sleep. 4. I will think some more about my image and words post card idea. 5. I will be a better me. 6. I will remember how it felt when I had dreams. 7. I will smile when I think of how exciting my life is as an artist. 8. I will be grateful for the gift. 9. I will not be so Antoinette when it comes to creating and embrace Toni Kay. 10. I will, I will … I will be.

So like a thief in the night, the sleep that weighed on my back like a hog has vanished. I feel somewhat restored and ready to earn my pay. I feel like maybe there is some truth to the phrase ‘mind over matter’. Even though the sluggish monster has decided to lay dormant I’m still picking at the skin around my fingernails. Pick, pick, picking—well, maybe I’m half way there.

Stream of Consciousness - Flowing, Flowing, Flow

2009-01-22T10:41:00.000-08:00

I’m upset I bought these Timberland boots now. I’m upset because they gush all over my feet like slop or soup (if that makes sense) but it probably doesn’t because it’s coming from me. Me, this person that’s typing, writing these words that may not make a bit of sense now but one day they, me, you, these words will all come together in the end like a rainbow. I’m feeling good now and that’s directly related to one person. Person—a human being with feelings, faults, fun things to say, and failures. We all have these things because we are human and not perfect, but that’s okay that we’re not perfect as long as we strive to do the right thing. Thing—things are fun sometimes. Sometimes there’s so many things to do that I don’t know which thing is more important than the next thing. Then the next thing I know my world, life, existence is crowded and being slowly suffocated by things. Do you like things? I probably won’t care if you do so don’t feel obligated to answer or keep reading for that matter because this might be a complete waste of your time. Time—the most precious thing on earth that God could give besides Jesus and our life. Sometimes time can work against us or not be on our side like the song says, but maybe that’s a lie to. Lie—something that’s not the truth and can cause hurt and pain unnecessarily.

Now I’m upset I bought these Timberlands. There a light nubuck color and I don’t like light nubuck colors because they make my feet look big. Feet—feet are good for walking. Now the boots looks months old and I just got them on Sunday. My friend Marie bought some boots, Timberlands, but I bet they don’t look like mines—light nubuck color and big. Big on her feet—I bet they don’t look. This is stupid, but then isn’t a lot of things stupid? Who knows? Whenever I would say this to my godfather (who knows?) he would respond, “The shadow knows.” This is a line from an old television show before my time, before the dinosaurs. This is my time to figure out what’s going on in my life – what’s next career-wise, my motive for being—my purpose. Purpose—purposes are completed so lets glaze over this one unless you don’t want to glaze over anything that important, but maybe you don’t think it’s important. My friend Marie told me to re-read the Purpose Driven Life book. I told her I never finished the first time. She loves me and encourages me even when I don’t deserve it—I’m glad she’s around. Around—I’m glad you’re around too: Konahe, Tenika, Hannah, Niki, Slee, Luke, Diana, Steph, Diana (#1), Shirls, Candace, P. Martin, Kesha, Darryl, Denise, Laquetta, Lima Red, and others.

This is me being upset about a pair of boots that I thought I liked in the store, but after wearing them several times I think they are making me ill. Feeling ill, I tell my co-worker that I think the purified water in the purified water cooler is making me ill. I told her this yesterday, but today I realize that I’m just going through withdrawal from drinking so much pop. It’s been four days and I’m still making it without the fizzing devil. Sometimes I joke that I need some dirt in my water—good ole Chicago tap. There are four people that I need to call back this week. I don’t want them to think I’m such a busy person that I can’t return a phone call because I’m not. To the four people waiting to hear from me, my phone call is on the way. By the way, with a show of hands how many people are happy to be alive today? Okay, I know I can’t actually see the hands, but ponder on this blessing for a minute. Minute—it takes a minute to laugh, a minute to be born, cry and die. Okay, what’s next maybe the news—haven’t watch it in a while. Well, how about an international headline: “Woman Being Charged With First Degree Murder For Setting Her Sleeping Husband’s Penis Afire.” This is crazy. I read this yesterday and was horrified. She said she didn’t mean to kill him. She said he was cheating and she had an innocence hug he gave some woman as proof for her claim. She said she loved him, but what he had was hers’. This lady lives in Austria or Australia—I can’t remember, but I wish she hadn’t killed him or saw that infamous hug.

Water N' Me

2009-01-21T11:54:00.000-08:00

This is a fight I'm determined to win. This drinking of water for an entire month won't be the end of me or who I am. Even though the taste of it disgusts me by the minute, hour, day I'm going to pressed through. I was challenged by someone to drink nothing but H2O for thirty days. At first I wanted to through my hands up and say forget about it, but then I thought "it's only water I can do it."
Before I go any further let me explain how much I love the acidic devil Pop. My relationshiop with this carbonated beverage is one of love and understanding. Ever since I was a child Coke Cola, Pepsi, Strawberry Crush, and Sprite has been there for me when ever I almost died of thirst or just wanted some comfort. When ever I sit down for a meal, a glass of those fizzing bubbles is right there ready and willing to be consumed. This is the kind of matrimony I've grown accustomed to. Even though this relationship maybe detrimental to my health, I still yearn for it. With Pop, I'm like a true lover living on the edge. Edges are good. I like edges.
Okay--stop, all this talk about letting go and water and thirty days is bringing me down. I have to go now. The water machine at my jobs is calling me, and like a lame dumb sheep, I must answer.

This Time I'm Gonna Treat You Right

2009-01-07T11:32:00.000-08:00

My relationship with the novel inside of me is complicated. Some days we're on one accord, and other days we live inside the one room shack, which is my imagination, like two clammed-up fish pissed to hell at one another. This is our life. On days when I'm feeling a bit in the mood for love, Novel woos me towards the computer with a little character here and the perfect balance of scene and summary there. It's on these days when I need a little literary healing that I fall head over heels for Novel, so much so that I become delirious by love and the look of his prose. Sometimes I might lie about my feelings for him, but deep inside I know he's the one thing that I'll always come back to like that Isley Brothers song, Voyage to Atlantis.

On other days our relationship sucks like an old sack of smellly balls. It's on days like this when he doesn't know what to say to me and I sure as hell don't know what to say to him, and we sit in our one room shack pouting like six year olds with our backs to one another and minds speechless. To mend the fence, Novel will eventually start speaking again and I'll give in, but relunctantly so because in my heart I know that this won't be the last time. With a couple flowing sentences, he gets me to think again, and things become good again like before the hurricane. During times like these when I'm high in the spirits, I'll sing to Novel so mellifluously because despite the way we fuss and fight, I know he my baby.

The relationship between Novel and I is quite complicated. We live in this one room shack trying to get love right day after day. We argue, fight, make peace, then argue some more because our worlds wouldn't be right without this type of unbalance. Sometimes we fly so high together that the ground seems days away, and other times we don't. But no matter how things fall apart we always say, "This time I'm gonna do you right, and we do."

Sing It To Me

2009-01-06T15:56:00.000-08:00

There's something about a Damien Rice song that makes one, upon listening to it, feel all raw and achy inside. Achy like a mid-December flu or cold. This is the power of music--this is the power of feeling an emotion so tough and wrong that you (meaning Damien) can't do anything but lose control on the track. With gut-wrenching screams, yells and wails this odd little white fellow sings to me. He sings in a way that I become lost in his world of heartaches, snot-slinging sobs and fast or slow heart palpitations that ensures the end is near. For this kind of pain is only fitting for lovers. This kind of hurt is what makes the world of good music go 'round. The art of communicating this kind of sadness is amazing to me. I absolutely love Damien's music and have to admit I'm quite surprised he's still alive. What manner of man can live his days singing in pain to a lover that could care less? What kind of person could sustain such misery?

Damien's songs, his hurt, pain--this train of thought, is leading me to think of an episode of Super Nanny where this couple, who were separate, was having problems with the kiddies when the father decided to leave the home. Even though the Dad would come by the family's home every night to tuck the children in they continued to misbehave because they could see how their Mom was falling apart. (Sometimes adults fail to realize how smart children are. Just when we think they aren't listening or couldn't possible understand what it looks like when Daddy doesn't love Mommy anymore they surprise us every time). Anyway, the heartbreaking part of the story is this, Super Nanny Joe, comes right out and asks Dad (who had been keeping his wife on the fence for months without any answer to whether their marriage was over or not) if he wanted to work things out, and just like a maverick without a care in the world he said, "No, no I don't." Cue the Damien Rice song--"I Remember" perhaps. Needless to say, the wife was devastated. How do you cover up that kind of hurt? Here's a woman loving a man like living water, and here's the living water refusing to quench her thirst. On television with thirty million people tuned in--again, how do you cover up that kind of hurt? The look of the wife's face made me shiver. I wanted to quickly play her a song from the O album and let her cry it out. One good cry is what she needed, this I knew.

What is anyone to do when the one he or she is loving turns that love off like a faucet? No lingering drips to offer some since of hope of maybe they'll come back. Damien knows the answer to questions like these. He screams the remedy with pain on track after track, but who can hear when heartache thumps in their ears so loud like water?

Here's Something

2009-01-04T18:44:00.000-08:00

Hey, never tell a crazy person they're crazy--they won't agree with you.

Short, But Meaningful

2009-01-04T18:20:00.000-08:00

In 2007, I decided to send Toure', the author of "Never Drank The Kool-Aid and "Soul City", an email of the craft analysis I wrote for (my Darling) Diana's F&T class. Recently, I was going through some old emails and found what Toure' wrote back to me. Even though his response only consists of a few shabby sentences I think it's cool he actually wrote back.

Nov. 3rd
What I wrote:

Greetings,

A couple of semesters ago I read your collection of essays, "Never Drank The Kool-Aid" for a Form & Technique class in prose. The book was "dope" as the cool kids say. The essay about you fearing for yr life with Suge Knight was hilarious.

Anyway, I wanted to show you my craft analysis for the book with an emphasis on the essay "What's Inside Us Brotha." I love this one. I think it's important for you to see what an actual student thought of your work, yo. Enjoy--I hope.

A. K. Cole
Form & Technique
Diana Joseph 102606

Toure' – "What’s Inside Us, Brotha?" In his collection of essays, Never Drank the Kool-Aid, Toure—our modern day griot of Hip-Hop, our oral historian of an infectious culture that literally set both east and west coasts on fire in the early 80’s, when some dope rhymes over fly beats not only rocked the house, but banks accounts alike. The beginning years of this culture has always been a bit shady for me because I was an 80s baby, so at age five I didn’t know what Run-DMC meant when they said “It's Tricky to rock a rhyme, to rock a rhyme that's right on time—It's Tricky...it's Tricky (Tricky) Tricky (Tricky),” but I knew I liked it, and when my cousins would bust cardboard boxes down in the funeral home parking lot, and break-dance to “Crush groovin-body-movin,” I didn’t know how to do those moves, but I felt some sort of delicious-attraction. At that tender age, I knew 80s Hiphop had that energy that kept my ear to the speaker, and my eyes glued to the breakers contorting limbs.

In this collection of profiles and reflective essays, Toure gives readers a huge slice of Hiphop pie by examining these famed artists to uncover their true-self beyond their public persona. In the introduction, he explains the importance of listening to subjects in order to get them to tell him things he wouldn’t have thought to ask. The one thing he didn’t ask his subjects directly was the one thing they told him indirectly, by expressing the hunger, need and conviction of their life-stories—their “What’s Inside You(s), Brotha?” Toure struggled with this question and fought with himself to answer it. As a reader, this question speaks volumes because it challenges everything I thought I knew about myself.

In this essay, Toure lays himself on the chopping block for a decapitation of his three heads—you, I (me), and he. His reaction to this question, and the way he structured this essay to answer it is unique to him, but the stories of Biggie, Pac, 50, DMX, and even Caushun revealed their story, which is largely responsible for the art they create, created. The boxing metaphor in this essay reinforces Toure’s choice to write with shifting point of views. Here he’s fighting with the punching bag, Jack, past experiences that include a physical fight and mental regrets, and himself. The rotating P.O.V.’s, as a literary technique, allows Toure to see himself from the outside and inside, simultaneously during the fight. On a more global level, this question allows readers (if they really are reading) to examine themselves to find the source of what is driving them; what is making their yearning for public recognition, or familial recognition like fire in their loins. Like Toure, I hesitated to ask myself this question because I was afraid of what the answer would be, and I should have been—we all should be scared when seriously dissecting ourselves for the truth. This question is bigger than the obvious, I am Black, I am White, Woman, or Male—it’s about where you come from that made, and is constantly making you who you are.

You ache with the need to convince yourself
that you do exist in the real world
that you’re a part of all the sound and anguish,
and you strike out with your fists,
you curse and you swear
to make them recognize you.
-from Invisible Man, Ralph Ellison"

Nov. 23rd
What Toure' wrote back to me:
Thank you for sending that and for carefully reading my book! That was so nice.

Luke, This Wag is for You

2008-12-15T11:21:00.000-08:00

I was thinking of something clever to say to you. Something that wouldn't necessarily sting your soul, but some words that will bring your finger wagging to a complete hault. I don't accept your finger wag, sir--not one bit. I didn't submit to the send out party because I didn't feel like it. I'm really in no rush to submit anything right now. And anyway, a better idea would have been to announce this let's-all-get published event at the beginning of November rather than the middle-to-the-end of the month.

Even though you wrote you results of the challenge weeks ago, I'm responding to you today because I dance to the beat of my own drum (when I feel like it). So if you won't retract the wag, I will because I'm just that cool.

On a lighter note, will you be in Chicago for AWP?

The Biggest Fight I Ever Had

2008-11-17T12:11:00.001-08:00

Well actually I'm still having it--this fight between the novel and me. All this morning on the bus listening to songs that filled the space around my head, I was fighting. Fighting with the idea of putting my fingers on the keyboard to type. This story inside me is fighting to get out, but I continue to think/say/feel--I can't let 'you' out. Like a spirit child that travels from generation to generation trying to be born, this novel is trying to get out of me, but I won't let it.

Maybe it's fear of failing or succeeding or not getting past the first page. Maybe it's the idea of breaking the lazy pattern my life has grown accustomed to. Maybe it's something I haven't thought of yet.

Whatever it is I know the story inside of me won't rest until it's out (damn you spirit of storytelling--you're like a hog weighing on my back, but I love you--you're like a needle in a haystack I can't find, but I need you--you're like a cute man with a cocked-eye, but I can't stop looking at you--you're like everything in this world that I need, love, want but I misuse you so.)

I Like The Part About Finding YOur Own Way

2008-11-14T05:23:00.000-08:00

Letters to a Young Writer
In our Letters to a Young Writer series, Narrative’s featured authors respond to comments and questions from younger authors reflecting on the nature of the writer’s work. We inaugurate this series with a correspondence between Dennis O’Reilly and T. Corghessan Boyle:

Dear T. C. Boyle,
No one can accuse you of shying away from the most onerous issues of our time. Perhaps that’s why I’m reluctant to take Ty Tierwater at his word when he says, “I’m not preaching. I’m not going to preach. It’s too late for that.”

In a culture in which the presentation of all opinions has all but eliminated rational discourse, would you encourage young writers concerned with the problems our society faces to lay it all on the line, as you have done? Or is it too late for that?
Thank you for your time—and your work.

Best regards,
Dennis Thomas O’Reilly

Dear Dennis:

I wouldn’t want people to throw in the towel after reading A Friend of the Earth. Certainly Friend is not a book of advocacy (in fact, when I came back from that particular book tour to access my website, I was amazed to find that people there were debating whether or not I was an environmentalist), because advocacy and fiction do not comfortably coexist, though my sympathies should be clear to anyone who has read even a handful of my stories or novels. Not a single environmentalist holds out much hope for the future of our species or of the myriad other endangered species out there, given our overpopulation and destruction of the environment, the zero-sum game of capitalism that posits infinite product and infinite consumers, and our unsustainable lifestyle. The crash is coming. You’d have to be blind not to see that.

So what do we do? I am socially engaged, unlike many of my contemporaries, and I take on a whole variety of issues, yes, but increasingly I have found myself coming back to the central one of the environment, and, by extension, the meaning of our lives in the face of an indifferent universe. How and why do we master the other species? How long will our tenure be? Why have we evolved the power to contemplate our own future? Why do we exist? Why does anything exist? I write fiction in order to think deeply and to assuage my fear and my pessimism through the act of creating art. This is redemptive. And while I have no advice for any artist, young or old, other than to find his or her own way, I will say that each of us must create art in order to address the central questions of human existence—for our own sanity, and, we hope, for the sanity of our readers. (I Like this part).

Buena suerte,
T. C. Boyle

We're Living This Moment

2008-11-05T05:23:00.000-08:00

All I have to say is God is moving this nation towards a change that I can believe in. It's true that America can change and it is. With all this joy and fair tidings, I know that this America we're moving towards won't appear over night--it will take some and I'm willing to wait and work and make the sacrifices necessary. It brings me exceeding happiness to know that my five year-old niece will know a different America than myself, as I will know a different one than my mother.

It's a good day to be black, white, asian, hispanic, native--united in America. In 77 days I will know how it feels to be represented in the highest office in this country. In 77 days my nine year-old twins cousins will have living proof that nothing is impossible--not even becoming president of the United States. We made history.

Do Not Mind the Bombs

2008-10-28T13:35:00.000-07:00

by Benjamin Alire Sáenz

I N B E LGI U M , I remember
they called this day White Monday. Belgium was my
home when I was learning words like God
and doubt and faith. Belgium was my home
when I entered the country called Man. There,
in that land where I’d learned to fall in love
with learning, winter always stayed and stayed,
the days too dark, the rains incessant, pounding,
pounding—and all the sleepers dreamed of sun
and shirtless days. Shirtless, shoeless days.
I remember: trains, leaves, trees. Remember
too that aging, tired woman who’d told me why
the trees grew straight and tall in rows
in Belgium’s rain-soaked earth.
I remember what she’d said: “The trees,
we planted them in rows. When the war
was fi nally won.” I pictured her young,
a handsome husband at her side. At last the war
was done! At last! And before they planted crops,
they planted trees—the trees the war had stolen
from the earth. “What the bombs had not destroyed,
we chopped for fuel. Their stumps and branches
gave us warmth. The land was bare and spent.
The earth, it reeked of guns and blood and rotting
fl esh. And so we planted trees. And as we worked
we found reminders of the war. A rifl e, empty
shells, the remains of a man, a bullet through
his chest, his uniform turning to dust. We called
the priest and blessed the bones. A boy! I knew
he’d been a boy. Belgian, English, French! Bah!
He was a boy! I cried that night for all
the world had lost—then woke and fi nished
planting. And through the years, we watched
the growing trees. Before my mother died, she went
from tree to tree, kissing leaves and branches.
‘Have you gone mad?’ I yelled. And she screamed
back: ‘I am, at last, in love!’ She smelled of leaves
and bark the night she breathed her last. The day I buried
her, I leaned against a tree and wept. I swear, I swear
I smelled her breath as I leaned against that tree.”
Today, I hear that woman’s voice as I
read the morning news—the news of bombs,
of all the deaths, Americans, Iraqis, children, women,
men. Dead. Like π the blood and bodies
run into infi nity. I walk outside, the sky as clear
as simple boyhood words mamá, papá, y agua. Oh
for a day when this would be my only task—to sit
and memorize the blueness of a sky.
Better now to study
trees that grow on desert sands than to study war.
So I begin to count the leaves on limbs
of waking trees. I know that wars are raging
everywhere. Even in my heart. Do not mind
the bombs. Do not mind them, not today.
I wander through my yard,
examining the plants. I lost some to the freeze—but
most survived. I touch and kiss the tender leaves
and speak to them, half lost, half crazed,
and half expecting trees and plants
and shrubs to kiss me back. Perhaps, today,
they’ll kiss me back. I touch a desert bush—yellow
fl owers bursting like a fl ame, spring’s fi rst blaze
of light. The dog running up and down and up
and down the yard, then rolling on the grass
to scratch her back. I laugh and speak
to her. The wars are everywhere. I’ll plant
another tree. Something to survive the torture
of the sun. Something to withstand a thousand
years of drought.
I touch a tree I planted
years ago. I touch and touch. Oh, do not mind
the bombs today. Kiss me, kiss me back.

From Dreaming the End of War

Sorry, No Maxwelling For Me

2008-10-10T05:27:00.000-07:00

So disappointed. He's coming to Chicago, and I didn't hear anything about it. Tickets have been on sale since last month. And I didn't hear anything about it. Damn it! I like love this guy.

Ugly City, Ugly Street

2008-09-24T06:30:00.000-07:00

This morning I saw something ugly. I was standing in front of the Walgreens on North Michigan Avenue waiting for it to open when this homeless man (equipped with dirty white t-shirt, rumpled pants, unlaced shoes, and packed plastic bags) walked up to the garbage can a few feet away. At that moment, I and the man who was waiting with me both turned our heads so quickly like we were two puppets on the same string. At that moment, we were both a part of the harsh reality of this man’s life—a life of walking down streets digging in garbage cans for food.

Minutes before Mr. Homeless entered our worlds, I watched the man [waiting with me] impatiently check his watch because it was 6:59 a.m. and the store opened at 7:00 a.m. Minutes after Mr. Homeless entered our worlds, I remembered how—as the man was impatiently checking the time, I was thinking about shopping for shoes after work. We were both caught up in our own worlds of important things that mattered to us, but why did we look away? Why couldn’t we face this ugly thing that was in front of us so clearly?

I guess in some way Mr. Homeless could sense our uneasiness because instead of digging for food in the garbage, he dug in one of the bags for a skinny white women’s belt to put on. Even as a stranger to our worlds, Mr. Homeless was sensitive to our inability to experience a moment in his shoes without second-guessing the trivial things that made us impatient and/or happy a few minutes earlier. He wanted us to enjoy our happy-wednesday without having to reflect on the goodness of God’s tender mercies of not being so low that we needed the dirty leftovers of others to live. Sometimes I say we, but I’m also guilty of turning my head to ugly things in life like homelessness. In a way, I know it exists but I don’t want it to touch my world because I can’t change it. When I walk to work some mornings and see others like Mr. Homeless tucked in the hidden corners of a city that’s still asleep, I wish whatever situation that got them to slumbering in Grant Park could be reversed. I wish these things wouldn’t be, but I can’t change their lives. The only thing I see to do is just be a little more grateful than I was yesterday about what and who I have in my life.

At 7:03 a.m. the doors of Walgreens were opened. The small crowd that had gathered during our time of wait filed in the doors like shuffling schoolchildren on a bus. This made us happy and able to get on with the day. This made us push the ugly thing to the miscellaneous part of our brain. As I entered the doors I looked back for Mr. Homeless, but he had moved along to the next garbage can down the street where he dug for something good to eat. Something that was left there for him by somebody like me who doesn’t think twice about where the next meal will come.

Let love be without hypocrisy. Abhor what is evil. Cling to what is good. Rom. 12:9

Dreaming of Words to Say If You Were Here

2008-09-23T07:45:00.000-07:00

The other night something happened to me. The other night I lied awake in my bed thinking about my father. Ever since his birthday, which was September 4th, I’ve been dreaming, thinking, and wanting to talk to him. And when I hear friends talk about their dads or go to weddings and see friends being walked down aisles by their dads, it makes me wonder what kind of relationship I would have with my father if he were still alive.

Sometimes I consider my ways and seldom moods swings and wonder would he even like me? Would we talk on the phone everyday? Would we still go clothing shopping in his rushed-kind-of-way? Would we be the way I sometimes pictures us being in hazy dreams running down some unknown street to Long John Silver’s, running so we’re out of breath but laughing so hard because we’re happy. Would we hug the way we did in this dream just before entering the restaurant through glass doors? Even as I write these questions it seems like a piece of me is missing because I will never know these answers. The other night I wondered did my father know how much I loved him, even though sometimes I didn’t know how to show it—could he feel it? Those twelve years ago in April when he closed his eyes in death did he get a glimpse of my face and think to himself, I know she loves me?

The other night I cried when I couldn’t remember the last thing my father said to me or what he looked like the last time I saw him and he said goodbye. These things may seem so insignificant to some people, but the other night I needed to know these things. I said I would only keep these feelings between Jesus and me, but since I’m still dealing the guilt of not being there for my father, for not spending more weekends at his apartment, for not saying “I love you” loud enough so he can hear it—I’ll share this because it might help someone else (just maybe).

It’s silly to say that sometimes I pray to dream of you so I can do and say the things I should of when you were hear. Things like: I’m sorry for being embarrassed by you—I was young and dumb and didn’t know the clock on your life was ticking away. I was happy that day you showed up to my pre-school with a pair of blue, red, and yellow 1,2,3 skates. I was sad that day on report card pick up and you had a seizure (I was six and didn’t want you to die). I was scared the day you sat me on the lap of a white Santa Claus at the mall. I was happy every time you said ‘yes’ to my Air Jordan sneakers requests. I was scared that night you were drunk and I ran down the street and away from you. I was foolish the Sunday I skipped church because I knew you would be there, and I was lost the day I sat on the pew hearing you be eulogized.

Love Be Making Me Blue

2008-09-22T12:50:00.001-07:00

This is me trying to be a girl in love. This is me wanting some attention from a man who’s not afraid to give it to me. When I say it—I mean all of it without one drop left in the bottom of his heart’s cup. In a way I think I deserve it. In a way, I think love has done me wrong for so long and for why? I’ve done nothing wrong to cupid or his rosy cheeks. I’m not the one who cursed the day the color red was made, and to be honest I practically worship this color and all it stands for.

This is me being too flaky and perhaps too picky. Is it my fault that I haven’t met a guy yet that can hold my attention longer than two blinks? (Well, there is this guy who I sometimes spy with my brown little eyes from time to time. And grant it, he may look better going than coming but there’s still something there that keeps me watching). Anyway, is it my fault that I want men to worship me? Is it my fault that men are sometimes intimidated by me? Is it my fault that these men don’t have the balls to approach me?

This is me trying to figure something out. Why is it that homeless-lower Wacker drive type guys be trying to woo me? (“Seriously,” I want to sometimes say, “you live on the street.” Is it something written on my face that says, “Ooh you dirty, dirty man, I want your love?” Is it the way I switch my hips that makes men old enough to be my dead grand papa want me? I guess I’ll never understand why these men are offended when I walk away. I guess I’ll never understand why love be making me blue. I guess I won’t figure it out until my next lunch break when I’m eating pasta and needing something to do.

At Last

2008-08-23T08:33:00.000-07:00

Well folks, I got the job.

My prayers were answered.

And now my real life starts.

Yea!

Okay, Exhale Now

2008-08-21T15:42:00.000-07:00

After the interview I was really excited and satisfied. It actually went better than I expected, and the managers genuinely seemed as though they liked me and working for HIMSS (the company). And Ande, yes I did ask questions. At first I was a bit intimidated when I arrived at the conference room and saw the setup of the table and chairs. Basically, it was like they were going to tag team me, but it turned out to be the complete opposite. I arrived early so I was able to breathe and center myself (giggle), but seriously I did do some breathing exercises I picked up in Tai Chi to relax myself and it worked. When the managers were seated around me everything seemed very natural and I wasn't tense. After the interview, one of the managers took me upstairs to her desk to show me the software I would be using. During this demonstration, the Senior Director came by and gave me her card before offering me a cookie, which I took. So yeah, this was a good experience and I can't really compliant.

Here are some questions from the interview:

1. How are with keeping deadlines?

2. What type of decisions are most difficult for you?

3. In what type of environment will you be most successful?

4. Where do you see yourself in 10 years?

5.What three things do you think makes for a successful call center? (When I answered this I actually gave four things).

6. What was the best/least thing I like about school?

7. Why shift from film to fiction?

8. What is your greatest strength?

This is what I wrote on the bus after leaving the company. Overall, I felt very confident and assured of myself. Thank you, Jehovah. I believe I made a lasting impression on the managers. Despite the outcome I'm glad I had this experience. Favorite part: asking managers questions. Least favorite part: looking up at the ceiling twice during the interview.

So now I wait. The director told me that they were going to do a background check and let me know within two weeks.

Listening to: House Music

"Ms. Cole, The Managers Will See You Now"

2008-08-18T13:10:00.000-07:00

Is there any right way to prepare for a job interview? Should I read all I can about the company on their .org website? Should I practice facial expressions/the proper handshake/my posture in the mirror? Should I get a voice recorder and say "My name is Antoinette Cole, and I am ready to work!" over and over until I'm sure it's the right blend of honesty and professionalism? Should I put on my World Flutes CD and center myself and meditate on getting the job? Should I agonize on what to wear buying going back and forth on the lively color of salmon or New York black? Or should I ...

Okay, tomorrow I'm going on a job interview at a company that contracts IT work for health care facilities, and I'm trying to creatively visualize what will be the outcome. On Saturday at about 1:30p, I was feeling very confident about going and wowing the three managers I have to meet with out of their seats until I spoke with my godfather at 1:31p and he basically laid out the facts for me very bluntly. (Sidebar, this is a guy who always gives it to anybody (and especially me) straight). At 1:33p on Saturday, he told me how I had to live up to the high recommendations that his wife gave to her boss on my behalf, he told me that I have to impress these managers with my charm so they'll like me, he told me that I have to go the extra mile because I don't have any experience in the field I'm applying for so it's important for them to like me enough to want to hire me, he told me that I have to concentrate on being concise and answering the question, that I should bring a writing pad and pen so I can jot down names, that I should not be weird, that I should REALLY sell myself, that I should walk in the door confident, and finally that I should just be me.

After speaking with my GF on Saturday I started thinking differently about the interview and a little worry begin to set in. Yes, I know that I have to sell myself and make these people understand that even though this is a marketing position I can do the job. Sometimes ... well, a lot of times my godfather tells me that I'm not as confident in myself as others are in me. There was a time when I would say that he was on to something with this statement, but now I'm different and know that I have potential and abilities that I haven't even tapped into yet. In a way, I'm glad my GF pointed out some of the things he did on Saturday because in a way I know that I needed to hear (maybe two) of those things.

So in closing, please pray for me. Those of you who know me can attest to the fact that I can go off on tangents when answering a question. Tonight when you all lay down to sleep say, "God, please let Antoinette not fumble and mumble, and Savior please let her just be concise."

Listening to: The hum of library lights

After Four Rejections a Final Yea!

2008-08-15T10:52:00.000-07:00

Dear Antoinette K. Cole,

I wanted to let you know your entry "Water Mommies" made it to the final three entries in consideration for this year's Jack Dyer Fiction Prize competition (out of three hundred and eighty-nine entries). Since you were one of our finalists, we would like to offer to publish your entry (if the work is still available for first publication) in CRAB ORCHARD REVIEW, Volume 14, Number 1, which is scheduled to appear in Winter/Spring 2009.

--Hey all, I still can't believe I'm going to be published in this magazine. When I received the call from Mr. Tribble the other day I was very surprised because I had forgotten all about the Jack Dyer submission. Anyway, he made my day when he told me how much Carolyn Alessio (the fiction judge and prose editor for COR) loved the story. This one acceptance makes all the rejections that much sweeter.

The Next Time You Say Those Things Think About Me

2008-07-16T11:31:00.000-07:00

Isn’t being racially ignorant something of the past? Isn’t it 2008, and time for the American man to take a stand and live a life of purity minus the need to throw around offensively charged language without a clear justification of such behavior? Or maybe it’s me just wanting to be free and shit. At any rate, I’m kind of over white artists, writers, filmmakers or other likes thinking it cool, hip and straight dope to dip in and out of black culture for a) comedic effect, b) comedic effect, and c) comedic effect at my expense. When is it okay to make comments like one that a good friend and I heard in an indie film (that is much about nothing) how a little white baby couldn’t be considered a monkey (even though he sort of resembled one) because he wasn’t black? What the hell is that?

Okay let me give a bit of backstory on the happenings surrounding this WTF moment. There’s this film (that is much about nothing) that played tonight at the Gene Siskel film center and my friend asked me to tag along, and I complied. So we get to the theater and are watching this film (that is mediocre at best) when there’s a scene where a white couple is chatting away with their friends, fun stuff right? Okay, one of the friends asks to hold the couple’s kid and they of course oblige and laugh when the boy starts to crawl down the holder’s leg like what—right, a MONKEY! So then one of the actors says, “He looks just like a monkey.” And at that moment, the director of the film who also played the kid’s father said the statement of the freakin’ century that there’s no way he could be mistaken as such because his skin wasn’t black. (But aren’t monkeys hair brown?)

What is so frustrating about situations like this when artists take certain liberties without adding some cushion around these ethnic sensitivities so readers or viewers are clear that these aren’t views of the creator, but a statement that he or she is trying to make about what’s still wrong in the world today. And it’s doubly offensive to viewers like me and my friend when artists like the one tonight try to switch the focus from him being an ass and not working to develop his character to the point that when I heard this remark that it would be clear to me that ‘of course this guy would talk like this,’ but instead after being confronted by my friend the director informed her that there’s racist remarks in all of his films because he hates ‘that stuff so much.’ Bullshit. It’s so surprising that he wants take up the cross of racial stereotypes and bear them for all black people, but my reaction to this scene would have been totally different if the other characters in the scene would have showed some inkling of disagreement that would have revealed something about this guy’s character (which I told him).

It’s always a fun time when you’re like two black girls encased in a circle of white people and they’re all looking at you like you have the problem. A simple question of my friend asking the filmmaker his reasoning for dropping such a statement in his film without making it clear that this is showing how politically incorrect this guy was, turned into him trying to beseech us—his brethren on how this statement was really included for our benefit and not detriment. Again, WTF! What this filmmaker (and others) doesn’t understand is that blacks and other ethnic groups take offensive when there isn’t a clear reason why racially charged language is used. As a writer, I’m all for self-expression, but I also believe that as an artist I too must be accountable for the work I produce for the world to hold in its hand and critique, like, love and hate. So after this whole fiasco maybe the director will take into consideration that maybe there’ll be someone like me in the audience and maybe be more responsible in bringing these things to light that ‘millionaires still say’. I can’t hope for any miracles, but just maybe.

Listening to: Adele “Daydreamer”

Something New, Something Not Borrowed or Blue

2008-07-07T10:33:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Dick Terrill (The Terrill, as I always referred to him) I have an internship at Another Chicago Magazine!

A couple of weeks ago, I sent around an e-mail with my new google address to MSU's English department, and Dick e-mail me back asking how things were going and I told him about applying to Purdue University for an academic advising position (which I didn't get bytheway), and he responded saying that he has a good friend who teaches in their MFA program, and I e-mailed him back asking if he could tell her about me because I would like to keep in touch with some local writers, and not only did he tell Sandi Wisenberg about me wanting to possibly meeting her, he also told her that I would be interested in interning at her husband's (Barry Silenski's) Another Chicago Magazine. So one thing lead to another and Wisenberg sent Dick an e-mail telling me to contact a specific person from the magazine, but after a week went by and I didn't hear anything from this contact I took matters into my own hands and e-mailed Wisenberg about twenty minutes ago and she just responded--hence this post.

So even though the internship is unpaid, so even though I will only be sorting submissions for now I'm still excited and optimistic that this will be my chance to gain some publishing experience (any way I can). And since I've been the bearer of crappy news for a while now it's time to shed some good news on this blog, and give readers something new to ingest.

Listening to: 'My Same' by Adele (Lesley introduced me to this artist and she is fantastic!)

Watermelon Rain--(Not Even Sure If I Should Post This)

2008-07-01T13:20:00.000-07:00

First off, let me say that I don't like watermelon-- its texture and consistency just doesn't work for me. Second, let me say that the previous statement or declaration (which ever works for you) has nothing to do with why I'm writing. I'm writing because I've turned into a bitter old lady in the last month. Maybe that previous sentence might be stretching my condition, but really I've morphed into the biggest crab-cake on this side of heaven. Maybe I'm just going through the motions of being anxious and jobless. Maybe I'm tired of these famous lines, "Something's going to happen--you'll get a job--it's only been a month--can't your mother take care of you--and--keep the faith." Even though I know these things were said out of love, it seems like I'm still being a bitch when I hear them because as much as I would like this to not be so: bill collectors could give two shits about my present situation. It's just so frustrating. I think this is the most frustrated I've probably ever been. And some may be a little bit "over" my whining, but I just can't stop complaining how sucky this is.

Okay, I didn't spill my guts so I can get comments or calls that will tell me everything will be "okay." I just want authentic understanding minus any consolations that may include the famous lines.

Even though I rather keep things bury inside--to myself--I feel like I should say something because when I'm my regular smiley-self, people might think that everything is alright.

On Being a Bitch, okay I'm not saying that everyday I'm this way, but I have my days. It's not something that's even like me because I like to think that I'm fairly easy going. I have tried to think positive, be happy, and other things but when I get e-mails like "we regret to inform you ..." it's like seriously who's playing this sick joke on me. So yeah, I'm trying to be better most days.
_______

Post script,

Isn't life grand.

Listening to: The sound of cars zoom down the street.

If They Don't Scream, They Will Squirm

2008-06-18T10:49:00.000-07:00

On Monday, I volunteered with my niece's kindergarten class on a trip to the aquarium, but why? Why did I say yes to so many little voices saying things to me that I didn't care to hear? Why to a bus ride where my legs were cramped? Why to sticky hands wanting to touch me? Why to teachers wanting me to take some initiative and tell children with no direct link to me what to do? I'm not sure why I agreed to a day of wondering around in clammy rooms filled with exoctic fish and turtles in tanks (of all different sizes) with little people (who were filled with how-come questions) tugging on my pants, but I did. I did say, "Come on lets go this way" to a little girl who wanted to be the tour guide and boss. Yes, to being patient and not pushing when soccer moms refused to move their asses. Yes, to a ot of walking. Yes to lunch in a seagull infested area. Yes to more noise (screams, yells, and other things) on the bus ride home.

Even today, I said yes to a morning of yells and cries and "Can you fix this?" as I waited in a baby seat, in a colorful room to join the class on a walking field trip to the fire station. Today wasn't as bad because while I wasn't doing my job and making sure no little people slid under the fire engine, I could steal some glances at some middle-aged, but very hunky firefighters. That was fun. Also, this might make me seem a bit dumber than usual, but I didn't know that there were both a fire truck and fire engine. Until 10:00a this morning, I was certain that there was only a fire truck equipped with both hoses and a ladder, but with the help of fireman Joe I learned that both the truck and engine work together as a team (along with fireman of course) to battle fires. I guess you do learn something everyday.

So after these two days of hanging out with shorties and snot, I learned that the teachers of these little people are either godsent or constantly in a serious mood to control children by yelling. My doubts about teaching grammar school was affirmed because even though not much was required of me there were times when I little voice in my head said, "Can we go home now?" Another thing that has become clear is that children are very funny and interesting in a i'm-not-sure-I-like-you-yelling-so-much-but-okay kind of way.

Anyway, for those who care--yes, I am still jobless.

Tulips Are Roses Too

2008-06-10T12:41:00.001-07:00

Okay, I wasn't going to post anything new until I had some new and exciting news to share. Though seeing as I don't, I guess I better write something anyway. Time in Chicago has been very interesting. Even though I've been away for so long it's like I'm really bored here. I'm not in a big rush to do any entertaining things either (I really don't know where I'm going with this sentence).

Other Stuff. Yesterday I spoke with the Senior Editor for Recruitment at the Tribune, and she basically gave me the low-down on journalism jobs. It seems as though no large or small presses will look my way because I don't have any journalism experience. I'm not sure if I have journalist blood pumping through my veins, but I thought it wouldn't hurt to give this avenue a try. Yesterday I learned the harsh realities of "you need experience even though no one is going to give you the chance to gain any, you need it anyway." The Trib editor explained that even though I might have a gift for the written word that it's totally different in the field of reporting the news. And as I sat on the other end of the phone listening to her speak I contemplated the idea of "Do I want to report the news anyway?" The Trib editor said to contact some non-profit agencies and volunteer. The Trib editor said to spend some money that you don't have and come to a convention for African American Journalists and make some connections (connections with people who won't hire me anyway because I'm not a member of their club). The Trib editor said you need to figure out what it is you want to do after telling me that no large presses are hiring anyway, and if they were I wouldn't be considered over a person who wrote for their college newspaper. So yesterday after I hung up the phone and replayed the conversation in my head, I started to feel like the biggest loser. Like why did I go to grad school only to come home and be treated like I didn't graduate high school. This entire employment situation sucks major balls because it seems as though there are no teaching jobs, there are no jobs dealing with writing, and I will eventually have to follow the yellow brick road back to the Hard Rock Hotel and answer ringing phones.

Almost Good News. Today I visited some of my old stomping grounds at the University of Chicago and almost had some good news. In high school I was a participant in an college enrichment program called the Office of Special Programs (OSP for short). So I go in and talk with the director only to find out that yesterday they hired an English teacher for the summer. She was bummed and I was too that I missed the position by one day. I hadn't thought of working for the program before today when I discovered my friend had given birth just down the street on U of C's campus. It would have been exciting to work with teens in this program because I was once one of those kids who had Saturday school and had to spend their summer vacations on campus going to school. On the upside, the director said she would talk to some of her friends and figure out if anyone knew of something I would be interested in.

So now I'm at a day in my life where I'm trying to figure out what the hell it is that I want to do. In what way will I leave my fingerprint on this earth or at least a couple of people I know?
On the upside, one of my best friends just had a baby boy and that makes me smile.
I know that something will give, but right now I just want to roll my eyes.

Listening to: The security officer in the library repeat "Single file line," like the kids on the other side didn't hear him the first twenty times. Some people.

Down Baby Down

2008-05-28T13:03:00.000-07:00

Today marks the official job searching day. I looked for about an hour at possible leads on the internet. Tomorrow I have an interview with a suspicious company, Healthcare Solutions. Has anyone heard of this place? Wish me something.

Listening to: Random library noises like whispered conversations that I can still hear, clicking of the computer keyboards, some guy outside the door talking way to loud, and the clearing of throats.

The Reasons Why I Will Always Love Luke

2008-05-18T15:42:00.000-07:00

He's one of the program writers who's comments I always respected and looked forward to reading.

His peculiar voice.

His stories are always so luke-like and lyrical (e.g."Palestine Boy").

He always liked when I would let my "Soul Glo" with a song.

He always signed me up for Writer's Bloc.

He's the nicest person I know, and the only one who would put up with Dodie's bullsh*t.

He's just Luke and doesn't try to be anyone else.

In August when I'm not packing up to come back to Mankato, he's the one I'm going to miss then, and the one I miss now.

The Sun Also Rises

2008-05-17T08:19:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I read three encouraging comments that made me feel better about things even before I learned that I did not get the fellowship. I'm grateful to have people in my life who truly care about my well-being :). And although I won't be going to Washington at the end of this year, the e-mail I received was pretty encouraging. I'm going to take this missed opportunity as a good thing because maybe it is time for me to go home--maybe there's something I have to accomplish there.

Anyway, thank you guys for all your support because I need it.

loveandlight, A.

Inside of Me Pt. 1: Smells Like Rejection

2008-05-15T18:08:00.000-07:00

This is long.

Hmm...

2008-05-15T09:27:00.000-07:00

Today I probably should mail my other boxes home.

Listening to: Nothing

You're Not The Only One That Hates To See Me Go

2008-05-14T08:28:00.000-07:00

In August it's going to be weird not saying goodbye to my friends and family and packing up my Sable and taking that dreaded drive to Mankato. In August it's going to be weird not leaving my hotel job as the PBX operator early to come to Mankato and be broke for about a month. In August it's going to be weird not being in school--not coming to play my life here in Mankato with the friends and faculty in MSU's English department. (Tear, tear).

Last night, I said goodbye to a friend and it really hit me that things are changing and that I will have to leave myself in a couple of weeks. And after some minutes of weeping, I realized that even though my time is up here in Mankato (and that I can no longer live the fab life as a student), this chapter of my life is complete. What I'm about to say next may come as a shock to some, but I can be very sentimental about major changes like moving. It's funny because I had the same reaction when it was time to move to Mankato three years ago. I guess the program and the friends I've gained here can be to blame for my melancholy because you all have made this experience better than I could have ever expected. (Smile, smile).

With that off my chest, I'm ready to start the next chapter of my life. And to the surprise of a particular faculty member at MSU, this next chapter of Toni Kay will involve the writing of a novel. Yes, you read right! This person knows that I've resisted this idea for about a year, but now I will wholeheartedly admit that this format has been calling my name for some time. So yes, I am excited about the writing I will do, the jobs will work, and the next group of people I will meet. I've come from the big city to no city at all, but it's been fun and I owe it to my friends and advisors. (Live, laugh, and love).

Listening to: LIGHTS--February Air (I love this song)

Whenever You Think of Love Think of Me

2008-05-13T10:09:00.000-07:00

Once again another title with absolutely nothing to do with anything, really. Well, this morning I'm feeling kind of fine. Got a call from a friend that made me smile. Discovered some computer games on my computer that I didn't know were there. Didn't wake with a headache after last night's fun (How do I reach these kids?). So yeah, I'm feeling good.

After viewing some of my fellow MFAers blogs, I noticed that there were lists made about "5 Things I Expected/Remember/Hated about Graduation." Some of the things listed were entertaining, but I'm not going to do that here. Instead I will offer some parting advice to the first and second years that I'm leaving behind to pick up the torch and not make the dynamics of this program so damn weird. We are/were all here to write (laugh, love, fu$k, and drink liquor--in the words of Coup) so things should never get complicated. These three years for all of us should be a time of discovery, shaping, and growth as writers--human things--and artists. Basically, we should be forming writing groups and not alliances.

So now to the good stuff.

5 Ways to Survive Grad School (the creative way)

1. Learn early on how to weed out the bullshit from others (and sometimes yourself).
2. Write true to who you are. Write what you want and disregard any workshop comments about believability, commercial appeal, or whether your story will make someone happy or not.
3. Be direct.
4. Get started on your thesis as early as possible.
5. Be in love with your characters in a "Fatal Attraction" kind of way because the more you know about the people you create on the page the easier plot choices will come.
6. And this is a bonus, but remember no one writer is better than the next because everyone was accepted into the same program.

Listening to: Duffy--Mercy

Woke Up This Morning and Got Urself a Gun

2008-05-12T09:45:00.000-07:00

First let me say that the title has nothing to do with what is going to be read here. Sometimes I can be very random, but anyway.

Today marks the official day of "I'm done with school so now I have to get a life." Even though I don't have a job, am not madly in love with anyone, and still don't like mussels--I have to move on and become somebody or something.

As I think about the Antoinette from three years ago, I smile because she thought there was going to be some magical thing to take place that would jumpstart everything. The Antoinette from three years ago was a dreamer for the sake of dreaming. Although being a dreamer is not a bad thing, there's something different with the Antoinette of today. She knows that dreaming helps those realize what they want out of life, but it takes more than just looking up into the sky and hoping for the best. The Antoinette from three years later knows that it's going to take some diligence and time to get to where she wants and needs to be.

So with that in mind, the Antoinette from three years later will continue to write and wait, wait and pray, pray and trust that God will lead her to where He wants her to be.

Listening to LIGHTS--February Air

P.S. I'm Leaving You

2008-05-11T17:48:00.000-07:00

Mankato, Mankato how much do I love thee. O let me count the ways... Well, it's time to say goodbye to my life as a student, to the place where I've met so many interesting and inspiring people (inspiring might be a bit much), but I will indeed cherish the friendships I've built here.

I'm leaving grad school and it's time to get a life basically. I'm ready to live as an adult who contributes something that the world needs. This time in Mankato has been a growing experience that I'm so blessed to have endured. With all the good times and not so good times, I will say bye bye to go live life in the real world.

P.S. I'm Failing You

2007-12-18T11:13:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure why students back instructors into the attendance corner. Why can't they just come to class like normal people. This semester I had a student who I gave more than enough chances to remain in the class. Even after I let her back into the class after five absences she missed again. Even after she signed a contract stating that she wouldn't miss any more class she did, and lied about having a doctor's note (a note that I never saw). With the realization that I had to fail this student I felt bad, but what else could I do?

My Favorite Papers

2007-11-30T08:05:00.000-08:00

There is a student that for her synthesis paper wrote about how oxytoxin affects the fetus' brain during delivery. I think this topic is very interesting because it's explaining something to me that I didn't know anything about. Another paper from the synthesis batch is one about how video game violence affects adolescent children and their ability to control aggression in school. With this paper I was more interested in seeing what studies were out there explaining how continual video game interaction affects children socially. The student writing this paper plays video games on a regular basis, and agrees that this is a problem.

The Surprise in the Not-Revise

2007-11-09T09:15:00.000-08:00

As others who were expressing their concern about students not revising, I too, have the same issue. Its very depressing to get final drafts back after I've thoroughly commented on them to see nothing has changed. I take a lot of joy in showing my students line edits (for clarity), in hopes that they will understand how important it is to make your sentence structures coherent and readable. Countless, times I've reminded them to read their work aloud because it's the easiest way to check for mistakes. Even when I asked about their revsion techniques, most of them explained that they make changes on the computer than prints out a copy and reads it. I really have difficulty in believing this to be true because there are so many obvious mistakes. I use this phrase a lot in my end comments, "I'm not sure you ..." When I say this, I'm trying to be as sincere as possible without letting my true feelings of "seriously, how could you turn this in?" come through in the comments I give. I believe I am a chronic reviser. Even on final drafts I still give feedback and line edits because I think maybe they will look back at my suggestions and learn something. As it is, the extra work I've given myself has seemed to be futile because we've just completed the third paper and still getting papers with very obvious mechanical and grammatical mistakes.

Woe is me, the grader. Sad face.

What Mrs. Lorenz Said To Me

2007-11-02T09:37:00.000-07:00

I know we're suppose to reflect back to a time in college, but I honestlly cannot remember any positive or negative experience. So, I'll talk about something that happened to me in high school as a junior. I'm not sure why I immediately thought of this experience when Anne said "a bad classroom experience." Okay, it was eight years ago and I was a junior in high school, double-honors English. I had this teacher Mrs. Lorenz who was a very sarcastic, but funny lady. She had some personal problems that I knew about like her baby dying from crib death, which ended her marriage, the custody battle for her kids, and the growing tumor in her abodomen that she refused to get removed (I think she was afraid). So when she would have these random mood shifts, and be very bitchy I would like it slide and say, "Hey, this lady has some serious issues." This all changed one day I came into the class and told her about my recent submission to a playwriting contest, and she blantly told me "What for you're not going to win?" I was completely taken aback. I don't think I could close my mouth yet alone respond. I hadn't had any bad experiences with Mrs. Lorenz so I didn't know what to do. Should I talk to my advisor or division teacher? One thing I can say is that it really pissed me off because she wasn't being her sarcastic-joking self, she was dead-serious. It made me feel like rubbing in her face the fact that I won second place, and two hundred dollars, but I didn't.

Thoughts on the Re-structuring of class.

2007-10-12T09:39:00.000-07:00

I feel very strongly about wanting to incorporate the personal narrative into my section for next semester. To give students the opportunity to reflect on something in their lives (or about someone), will more than likely make the transition from high school to college writing a bit easier.

A couple of weeks ago, I heard something in a group teachers' meeting about one of the reasons students aren't as eager to participate in class that I thought was very interesting. One of the gentlemen in the group pointed out the benefit of beginning the semester with peer interviews as a way of getting the students comfortable with one another. With this exercise students will be more forthcoming in class discussions, and on assignment introductions days.

This idea of beginning the semester with this sort of personal look into the students' lives seems to be very interesting. As an undergraduate, I participated in numerous of group projects. One of the reasons these assignments worked is because I knew the people in my group, and trusted them. So as for next semester, I want to begin with the personal narrative as a way of easing the students into this new experience.

When I Say "Synthesis" All They Hear Is "Blah, Blah, Blah"

2007-09-20T10:09:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I introduced the Explanatory Synthesis, and a left class feeling as if it could have went better. On last Friday, I told the students to pick one of the three candy bars we decided we would use, and eat them for homework and jot down some initial impressions. When I gave them this assignment, all seemed very enthusiastic, but of course on yesterday nobody wanted to talk. After some teeth-pulling, I got them to start telling me things to jot down on the board, but then everyone kept giving the same information about how the candy was chocolatety, or just plain good.

So, I abandoned this topic and switched to some discussion on cafeteria food.

This topic produced a few more sparks than the candy bar one. Even though I was able to get a fair amount of input, it seemed as though I was losing them when we started to combine the sources. At first, I simply thought I had failed in the delivery of the exercise, but after talking to a somewhat veteran of comp 101, I learned that when you say the word "synthesis" to the students all they hear is "Blah, Blah, Blah," like what the children heard when the adults would talk on that Charlie Brown Show.

With that, I've decided to take a slower approach to this assignment and ease the students in.

Below is an e-mail I sent out today with some general reactions about yesterday's class, and some examples of topics.

Class—

Tomorrow I will hand out the assignment sheet for the junk draft. I've decided to wait and give you the official assignment sheet for the Explanatory Synthesis until the week before the rough draft is due.

My thinking behind this decision—I don’t want you all to feel overwhelmed by this assignment. With that said, we are going to take a more process approach toward this paper to make the transition from just simply writing a summary, knowing how to paraphrase, and incorporate some quotes to actually: narrowing down a topic, researching, and finding ways to combine your sources into a cohesive whole that will explain your topic.

It is important for you all to let me know when things are not working. If telepathic abilities were apart of my genetic makeup I would be a very happy person, but they are not. A large part of what you all will get out of this class is what you put into it. So if at any time, the introductory exercises we do in class are confusing or just not helpful don’t hesitate to let me know.

Below are some working topics. Don’t feel obligated to any of them if you don’t want to. The purpose here is just to exhibit the possibilities you have with this assignment. With any topic you choose, it’s beneficial to perform a Google search or topic search at http://www.dmoz.org/.

FILM
How color determines mood in Tim Burton’s films
How the song “Fight the Power” is a motif in Spike Lee’s film Do The Right Thing

MUSIC
How Bob Marley’s music can be considered “Rebel” music
How sound effects the ways humans’ process information OR How classical music effects the developmental growth in infants

ART
Explain how Salvador Dali’s art is considered surrealism
Explain how Romare Bearden’s art of collage imitates everyday life
Explain how Ralph Ellison’s “Invisible Man” can be categorized to be Black Classicism

SCIENCE
How the brain processes elements of sound or smell, and allows humans the ability to connect that to memory
Explain the phenomena surrounding Stone Babies

The Long and Winding Road

2007-09-20T09:47:00.000-07:00

That leads back to a class session of deep-review. Last Thursday, I read through the summary rough drafts for class, and to my surprise a fair amount of students were just not getting the process of reading their articles and extracting the author's main points. So instead of introducing the Explanatory Synthesis assignment, as I had planned, Friday we all drowned-deep in heavy review of how to read and identify the main and sub points, and how to paraphrase without plagiarizing...

Last Thursday afternoon, I had sent out a very long and detailed message about my reactions to their rough drafts and a way we were going to work through the process of how to improve their drafts.

It was very cute on Friday morning how one of the students looked at me and said, "Were our papers that bad." In which I replied, "No, it wasn't that they were that bad, I just think some of you blew-off this assignment and didn't give it as much time as it needed." So with that, I broke the first and second plagiarizing paragraphs (on pg. 50 in the book), on the board and had students go up and paraphrase them. After the first student volunteered and wrote her paraphrase, I showed another way to paraphrase the same sentence and abandon the original language all together. It was like 18 to 23 little light bulbs had been flicked on as I explained my example of the same paraphrase. My initial thought of the plagiarism I saw in the rough drafts being unintentional was affirmed. For some reason, the students thought paraphrasing just meant switching the original source words around to make the sentence appear different.

I realized that allowing the students to look at my comments and ask me questions about them proved to be beneficial.

Topics I Can Stand Reading Explanatory Synthesis Papers About

2007-09-14T09:10:00.000-07:00

Friday, Sept. 14th - This is my list

Explain how Romare Bearden used his art of collage to imitate everyday life.

Explain how Ralph Ellison's novel Invisible Man, can be categorized as Black classicism.

Explain the research surrounding the study of Stone Babies.

Anything that explains how sonic qualities effect the way individuals process information.

Music

Film

Black Literati
Anything on how the brain works

My Expectations for Essay 1

2007-09-07T09:12:00.000-07:00

I would like the students to show that they fully understand how (and when) to summarize, paraphrase, and quote in their essays. I expect the drafts I will receive on Wednesday, Sept. 12th will be better than the average rough draft because today we work shopped their junk/discovery drafts. This exercise actually proved beneficial to the students because it allowed them to discuss writing with one another in a relaxed environment. They also shared with me how much they enjoyed being able to have the junk/discovery drafts first.

Learning Pains

2007-09-06T11:07:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I planned for the class to distribute their junk/discovery drafts for workshop on Friday. (Sidebar, up to this point I have been pretty organized w/this class, which is a blessing for me because I, sometimes, live for chaos and havoc). So about an hour into class, I asked the students if they wanted to assemble their own groups, which I thought would be a piece of pie because most of them seemed to know one another. WRONG, big time. They all looked up at me when I said, "Hey, I was wondering if you all wanted to form your own groups for workshop," and said "No, we think you should do it." At that moment, I wished for a sheet of paper with their names divided into groups, but I didn't have that paper because I didn't follow my first-mind the night before and create the groups.

So okay, I had to create the groups. While I was doing that I told the students to start printing their papers. Of course, there had to have been someone who couldn't print, didn't have their draft saved (even though I sent around like thirteen e-mails saying, "Make sure you have your papers saved on yr MavDisk or some portable storage device for Wednesday's class), or needed more staples for the stapler.

Very quickly I formed three of the five groups, before running down to the English office to inquire about the printer (mysteriously) not printing anymore, and to grab more staples. While downstairs, I made more copies for one student who didn't have her draft saved, out of my own dinero, which I will never do again. When I got back upstairs I was so hot. About fifteen minutes before class was over I started announcing groups for the paper exchange. I'm not sure why I just didn't make all the groups even, but I didn't and somehow we had a slight problem with the last two groups. After numerous of e-mails, uploads to D2L, more e-mails of papers to respective groups I think everything is under control.

This will be one of my learning pains about teaching, "Never assume anything because it makes an ass out of me, out of me."

My First Day

2007-08-31T08:14:00.000-07:00

On Wednesday, August 29th was the first day of class. I arrived about twenty minutes early to write an outline of the class session on the board. When the students started to arrive, I tried to make myself look busy by reviewing something in my journal. All the while, I was saying internally, "When should I say something--when do I break the ice and speak." My memory fails me now as to what I actually said to get the class going, (it probably was something like "So, who likes 8 o'clock classes). Come to think of it that's what I said, "So, who likes 8 o'clock classes" and some students begin to smile.

The night before I struggled with the idea of what to do for an introduction activity. Finally, I decided to read the class a piece of flash fiction by author Sandra Cisneros, from her collection "The House on Mango Street." The idea behind the activity was solid, I would read the story and explain the changes the main character Esperanza encountered as she both hated and loved the house she spent most of her childhood. This would lead into the introductions of the class, we would each state one thing we loved and hated about where we came from being with me. The purpose of this was to get to know the students and for them to get to kow each other. One problem that I encountered was as the students were talking I was too busy writing down their names, and really didn't get to learn their names.

First Day of Blogging N'Stuff

2007-08-06T09:44:00.001-07:00

This is my blog. This is me. Goodbye :)
This is going to be so much fun--can't you feel it? I can.
Ok, let's go.

Something about the reading ...

In the Teacher's Assistant Handbook, I found the discussion on the conflicting roles TAs generally face very interesting, because as a first-year teaching assistant separating the two can be challenging. It's also encouraging to know that there is literature out there about this concern most newbies fixate on, so the feeling of "going at it alone" transforms into "going at it together" with the help of mentors and other departmental staff.