I'm sitting in a sunny cafe of "the Castro", in San Francisco, California. I'm drinking a chai latte. I want to write about so many things...
Like waking up before sunrise in yet another one of the myriads of quaint - and often luxurious- apartment in the city. Loading a grey Saab with boxes of stuff to go store them in "my employers" garage (as I often put it, though generally followed with "but you know... they've been more... like friends...like... you know... angels?"
I want to write about going to church in Oakland that same day, at 9am. I'd like to convey the experience, but I doubt I could...
There is something about singing, early in the morning, with an assembly of black people and white people, kids and teenagers, young adults just like me, and people "in their prime". And there is something about the presence of elders...
So we sing:
"I woke up this morning with my mind, set on Spirit
I woke up this morning with my mind, set on Spirit
I woke up this morning with my mind, set on Spirit
Hallelu... Hallelu... Halleluuuujah"
(this is Oakland, California)
At 2pm, I'm playing dress up with CoiCoi. She's an old man and I'm a boy, and so we laugh. We head out to 19th & Franklin for an afternoon at Oakland Pride. "I wonder what we're supposed to do here," she comments, "you know?" "Yes," I answer with a smile, "you mean you need to know what's expected of you?" I hope I didn't say something... inappropriate (this is a euphemism, by the way). But she replies "oh is that what it is?" We laugh. We don't really know what's expected of us; it's true... Should we check out the information booths, the food vendors, the artisans... Should we consume? Well, I guess it's what they call a market, isn't it? It's a place where people come together and exchange, it's the place where we inter-act.
At its best it's also a crossroads where we celebrate and where culture happens. It's a place where consciousness changes. And in the consciousness of this fact, it's an event within which we get to witness our collectivity.
And we dance!
It's sunday afternoon and the sun is bright. Dancers and singers, drag queens and women hip hop duets, poets and djs are blasting their creativity out to crowds of curious passerbys and drunken teenagers, queers everywhere! There's now more or less four of us, Phoenix and Fei have joined and we're meandering the streets aimlessly, dancing here and there, moving on and catching up...
We head to an after-party around seven, and of course, the place is quite empty. But my dancing shoes are possessed. ('Cuz after all I did wake up this morning with the Spirit on my mind, which is my body.)
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| Ecstasy, at Octavio and Hayes, SF. |
Sometimes I think that my dreams are my reality.. at least it has seemed this way for a short while now. How can I be so blessed to encounter such abundance? How can I be surrounded by so many angels, in a region of the world so gorgeous and magical, in the sunshine, writing alone, waiting for the next time I'll get to dance? And what am I to make of my privilege?
And I want to write about "my job", which is not quite what I would call "a job."
My role is to answer the questions of a "three and three-quarter"'s year old while taking a walk, kicking fallen leaves and smelling the flowers! My role is to make sure she is safe, physically, but also it's to not screw her up too much psychologically... my job is to remember that we are each other's teacher, and to learn to relax (it is such a contradiction). My job, is to not beat myself up too much when I think that I'm not good enough, that I'm not present enough.. that I'm tired and lazy, and... un-creative (? - Unimaginative is the best antonym for creative.)
You get the picture.
My job is directly related to my Masters degree.
And is there even such a thing as unimaginative?
-These thoughts I have while I'm with Claire, isn't that imagination too?-
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| with Claire and Grandma, at Stern Grove |
My role is to be one of the teachers in a young child's life. I hope I've done okay. I hope she remembers the times we picked plums off the trees, I hope she remembers the laughs we shared, the music we made, the banana breads we baked, the physical comedy and the finger paintings, the songs and the stories..
My heart swells when I think of all the things I wont get to see her learn and grow into. I don't think I'd had this realization before. It's a loss, a deep letting go.
But as I've often sang to her: "Things they come, and things they go. And that's what thing you ought to know".
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| Freedom?! |
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