David and I went to a poetry slam Saturday night in Lemeirt Park. It reminded me of my high school days when I used to attend poetry slams in the rural town where I grew up--only Lemeirt Park is a cultural hub of South Central and Railroad Square in Waterville, Maine is the tiny 50 person theater where independent films are shown--an arduous attempt to bring diversity to a very monocultural Central Maine.

The poetry read in waterville circled around local politics, love, and good old fashioned teenage angst.

I had never been to Lemeirt Park before--except for a few times driving through. When David and I walked into the tiny studio called The World Stage I had that initial feeling of awkwardness I get when walking into a place where I am the only white person. This feeling of being out of place only reaffirms in my head how long it has been since I've been out of "this world." I used to live in South Central, I loved it. I loved the people. But now, three years removed from that time, all feelings arise w/in me that I don't belong. It is nothing that the people do, it is my own internal battle. I'm face to face with who I am and what I represent to this group. I am very self conscious. I want to run home and dread my hair so that I kind of look like I belong.

It is good to force myself into these sometimes uncomfortable situations. IT makes me face my own demons. My own stereotypes, my own issues. My compassion grows. I wonder to myself if this is how African Americans feel upon entering groups that are predominately white. I finally realize that maybe David is telling the truth when he says he feels out of place in Newport Beach and other such places.

The poetry read circled around slavery, oppression, civil rights, discrimination, and Aretha Franklin. The last woman who read prefaced her reading by saying, "This is something my friend wrote." She went on to read the passage of scripture when Jesus talks on forgiving others--70 times 7. This was followed by the story of the rich man who shows mercy on his servant who owes him a great deal of money. The servant in turn does not forgive a servant under him and is killed because of it.

I've been processing the stark difference between the things read that night. I realize that there is still so much pain on the side of African Americans. Then we hear a story about forgiveness. I wonder why no movement has been made in America to actively seek to reconcile with African Americans and ask them forgive us for the atrocities committed by our ancestors. I wonder what it would be like to have a truth and reconciliation commission a la South Africa here in America. What would that look like? How would it be brought about? Am I to begin walking up to any black person I see and ask that they forgive me? I wonder. Any ideas out there in the great blogosphere?

I used to sing and write myself into a vision of changing social structures--
you know, the kind where the poor have at least beans and rice
and the street kid from Bolivia with the flu can get a shot instead of death.

at the young age of 23 my idealism has been smashed--I didn't anticipate this apathetic
onset until at least my 38th birthday.

instead I find myself waffling along in a political climate where I have no niche
I can cast a vote for Pol Pot or Milosevic.

can I do either in good conscience?

Bush, Kerry, they both need redemption. As do Rumsfeld, Tenet, and Ashcroft--
oh yeah, I can't forget Castro or ME.

We're none without fault. I'm not looking to cast a stone, only a vote--
if I can find time in between building my 5 year old's conscientious objector file
and reading the sermon on the mount.

Sunday evening. I've been listening to good music that reminds me of old friends and just began reading Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling. We returned from a trip to Mexico a few hours ago. We arrived to Ensenada late on Thursday night and took off for San Felipe mid Friday morning. We happened upon San Felipe for the first time last August. It was like discovering a bit of the Caribbean within driving distance. I was reminded a few times throughout the few days we were there of how grateful I am for our two friends that came with us, not just their company but what they represent to us. Solid, quality people are hard to come by and it is such a gift when it happens.

Friday was full of swimming, eating tacos, and steaming the clams we dug up as the tide went out. Our conversation was mindless, profound, and silly depending on the moment. As we set up our sleeping bags in the sand to go to sleep that second night I'd realized I forgot what stars looked like having lived in L.A. for this long. The night sky was covered with more stars than black space and in the course of a few minutes I saw at least 2 shooting stars.

We were the only people on the entire beach for the entire time except for one other family of locals. It was peaceful, relaxing, and restful--all very needed.

I saw a black widow and a scorpion for the very first time. (I think the locals got a good laugh as I jumped over a divider made of tires faster than I ever could have under normal circumstances because I thought the scorpion was chasing me.)

We headed back to Rosarito on Saturday afternoon to break up the drive. Rosarito is annoying during its tourist season as it seems to be a nothing more than a breeding ground for 18 and 19 year old hedonistic drunkards from Southern California. On the one hand I am glad that this area has been able to build a decent economy over the past few years due to tourism, but its sad that it has to cater to the obnoxious teenagers that destroy the beauty of the area and the culture.

Stupid Blog. I suddenly feel like I'm back in high school and have just managed to erase an entire term paper.

Life.

The Smashing Pumpkins have seen a reemergence in my car CD player recently. Ke'ano got a kick out of their name as we were driving to school this morning.

Bernardo has to go to the Doctor tomorrow per the request of the county. I'm a little leary about taking him to the referred doctor. I went to see her last winter. Perhaps it was her pajama pants, hooded sweatshirt, lab coat, and leather biker hat that made me question her credentials. Or was it the fact that there was no heat on in the entire office in mid-January while the germ infested waiting room inhabitants sat hacking away sitting on a checkered floor that hadn't been mopped in months. I suppose one can't be too picky when it comes to government subsidized health care, but I often wonder if it isn't better to visit the old man in the farmacia downtown L.A. and get some medical advice from him rather than wait for hours in an alleged physician's office. I've had better health care attention in third world nations than this office.

We had a rather mundane weekend. Drama ensued when Cola, the dwarf hamster, bit it. I discovered him flat as a pancake in the bottom of his cage. Not quite sure how to tell Ke'ano, David took that privilege. Ke'ano wavered between being sad, wanting to die so he could visit Cola with Jesus, and having an all out boyish voyeurism of wanting to play with the dead carcass. After giving Ke'ano a lesson in the decomposition of hamster bodies David was finally able to convince him that he couldn't keep the dead hamster in his bedroom. Ke'ano didn't want to bury the hamster either. His choice? He committed Cola to the depths of our dumpster--sure beats all the painstaking time I used to put into making tombstones for my dead hamsters I had as a kid.

I met up with one of my favorite teachers from college for lunch today. When I told her she looked good she reprimanded me for never telling her that the high wasted, tapered jeans she used to wear went out of style in the early 1990's. (Apparently this is something she just discovered). We had such a great time over Argentinean empenadas. I went with her to a pet store where she bought a lab. She insisted on a female though, saying that she hates the way male dogs pee. It was humorous in the moment. Not sure how that comes across to the random blog reader.

Yesterday marked our first wedding anniversary. I highly recommend marriage.

My neighbors are blasting obnoxiously loud Banda at 11 am.

Bernardo stood up to his teacher yesterday when she made a comment that all Latino men are severely machista and only want to control their girlfriends and wives. He said he knew a couple where that was not the case and that is entire idea of family was in the process being redefined...The teacher has thought him to be a communist since she caught him reading Che Guevarra's biography.

I am contemplating a comment Dietrich Bonhoeffer made that the people who will be prepared to fight injustice when at the crossroads of a moral challenge are those who fully trust God as the ultimate righteous and just judge.

Who stands fast? Bonhoeffer asks. Only the man whose final standard is not his reason, his principles, his conscience, his freedom or his virtue, but who is ready to sacrifice all this when he is called to obedient and responsible action in faith and in exclusive allegiance to God--the responsible man who tries to make his whole life an answer to the question and call of God.

wow.