Days in the Life…

I remember being in 7th grade English class being introduced to Ani DiFranco’s fine tunes. Ms. Jill Kelly, a Yale graduate, decided our world needed to be surrounded not by only Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 18,” Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” Neruda’s “Odes,” but also by contemporary folk artists like Ani. She called our small “J3″ Group into the fish bowl, asked us to be open, and pressed a tiny black button that certainly  was grand to perform. 

Ms. Kelly shared Ani’s “Tiptoe” with us. The first time I heard it, I felt found. Ani’s romanticless voice spoke the truth about a careless woman ditching reality for nature…and it was beautiful–the words, the pauses, the passion.

Weeks later, Stephen Bor, a then Rice University student, walked through our English class door. Stephen is the grand champ of most Slam Poetry awards, nation wide. He brought with him the tunes of his voice. He had a poem on his left hand, “Just in case I forget.” His poem was about assimilation within education, how his elementary school teacher believed he was mentally retarted because language was a barrier, and how that day he proposed to not be part of the stereotypical asian male community. He said he didn’t succeed–”asianness is my disease.” I saw him again at MLK’s death anniversary ceremony at Rice my freshman year. This time, his poem was about heroes. The level of greatness was oh so present.

I also remember being in front of Lamar High School’s flag pole, in front of my entire sophomore english class performing Ani DiFranco’s “Tiptoe.” The dull faces staring back at me prior to my performace was to cry for, but as I finished straight with  “…But i leave the view to the rats/ and tiptoe back,” I could see the same reactions I had seen in my seventh grade english class when I was first introduced to a real passionate poet. I received great feed back of my performance…but I didn’t take any of it. “I didn’t write it.”

I remember junior year, standing before Rice University’s Pub attendees performing my own poem. The Slam Squad had invited the Houston Scholars Program to their annual Pub performance. I was able to stand where Stephen Bor had stood before, screaming with anger—everything my poem needed. My poem was about my dad. Someone led him to believe his world stopped when he had kids, yet my world began when my mother had me. Great self-esteem booster!

The Intellectual

One by one
Born to succeed, wrong country
nine obstacles, different ages
Views, scholarly words, rice and beans
status, no humble taste
two by two
belligerent with seclusion
(seclusion: sans gens)

Lovely.three by three
Justice, genetic trait
striped top
d
e
c
a
y
e
d,
sour, bitter, pungent
that acrid aroma,
four by four
all the acrimonious relationships—yes
family made strangers
natural love, lovely, lovely superiority

five by five
Provocative declaration of Hostility
“I am it”
(it: le monde)
conniving time travel
Ten years…
person, present, no past

Compelling approval, nurturing teens
jail guard, depression
simple justification—date with the moon
an intellectual with angstand in due time little children with hungry tummies will cry

Que amargo –six by six.
Poetry rocks and right now I’m listening to Ani’s “Not a Pretty Girl.” I’m loving this poetry therapy. I guess my next poem should be “Fragile.”

It’s as though Chris Crocker speaks to me through most of his videos. He’s super fab.

A Self-Love How to

and one that I just love watching:
It’s the Hairflip

he has more awesome videos…so go look him up!

A friend sent me a link of an article from the New York Times related to my Fragile journey.Apparently, Hillary Rodham, a mid 1960s Wellesley College student exchanged letters with John Peavoy, a Princeton student that would later become a fab  Scripps prof.

So, this Hillary character would pour her thoughts onto these letters. On writing, she appeared egotistical, probing, polypolar, and concerned for her own youth…and now in front of America, she, Hillary Clinton, appears as an altruist concerned more than just herself. Hypocrisy? No.

Reading that article has delineated my present notions of metamorphosis. Though we’re so alike, if I had gone to school with her (Wellesley was my first choice), I wouldn’t have talked to her. Maybe she described me too well.  

Her letters rock, go read them.

While awaiting torture at a dentist appointment this past wednesday, a magazine, focused on pop culture/social awareness, provoked me to begin this project for myself. The addicting article chronicled the pursuit of self-acceptance of a pleasantly plump woman through bare photography—The Real Women Project. As Idesired ice cream at ten years old, three aging women craved to change the psychological health of women of the next century.

Here I am nine years later situating my own project as the  axis of my life: Fragile.

My objective does not include inspiring humanity to examine his/her existence, or question beauty, or convey negativism of self-criticism…or unstir the juices already mixed by the unset social committee of standards.  My objective is to expose visual elements of my physical structure in order to detach weakness from my persona…and as I see the results, I will be able to view my imperfections as a vital part of me.

Nonexistant perfection + imperfections = Mariam

This project, which does not include bareness, is figuratively a revolutionary shout against the limiting factors of my fragility. By Victorian definition, a woman is  “An animal usually living in the vicinity of a Man.”

Psht.

If that was the definition of my womanhood, Fragile would mean nothing to me! This project is about me, for me, by me.

As I posed for the camera, I knew this project would help me understand myself. First thing to get over–my nonself-consumption. I need to love me, to love others.