Saturday, December 19, 2009

Liquid Zen

I saw a documentary yesterday about the place you told me of. Your hand in the shower with its glow-- the universe flowering, infinite connectivity.

I want to go there, perhaps with you.

My left-brain has been threatening to take over my right brain. It has made me a whore to endless lists. I carry fears and anxieties never once materialized. Reservations clip my tongue when I go to speak. Chatter in my frontal lobe wakes me in the middle of the night.

I am OCD and schizophrenic 15 minutes past every hour. I must write fast and quick, for the hand is surfacing around the clock again.

Hurry.

Monday, December 14, 2009

Choices

I tried to quit my job last week. I fired off an email at 12 o’clock in the morning rambling about my needs, my wants, my needs, my wants—oh, how terribly constricted I felt. And then I waited for a response.

The next morning my principal came in to the office, sat down in front of me and said, “What do you want?” What do I want? What do you mean, what do I want? I thought. You are my principal—for goodness sake, tell me what I need. Tell me what I can’t have because of blue tape school district bureaucracy. Give me a reason to yell, “ I quit” and storm out of the building in a blaze of glory. This was not the way this was supposed to go.

Get it together—quick, think…but I was caught off guard. How was I to articulate an appropriate professional response? Like, oh, I want more professional development or more support as a new teacher. How was I to tell him the truth--that I wanted to leave not because I don’t like teaching—but because I want to check out of life.

I had it all planned out. Six months to myself. Six months to nest—take classes in sign language, photography, and creative writing. Explore the recesses of my mind. Dabble in the unknown. Conduct personal experiments. Document life furiously. I was finally going to have my black girl backpacking trip to Europe, without the backpack or the Europe.

Reality was my boss in front of me trying desperately to make it work. And for that, I couldn’t leave. I’ve got responsibilities and obligations and real world commitments. This feels familiar—going, moving, working, doing—because what else is there to do, strong black woman?