ny1 you are such a tease. way to poo all over my dreams.

the dining-room table

i don't remember the last time i ate dinner at the table with just my mother. sometimes, we clear off the piles of papers which make it their home, and entertain guests, doing our best to mimic what families do on t.v.. i don't remember the last time my mother cooked, but now i remember why she stopped: overcooked chicken with burnt sauce, turnips whose skin had not been removed, and success rice with unmixed in chunks of season-packet. i had three bites and was full. perhaps more sad than the meal was the conversation. without the t.v. on, we were left to each other; even when we eat out i do homework and she brings a book.

just when i was beginning to fear that this is what’s left of family, i realized i still have my dad’s. suddenly the constant noise and being made to look after the siblings didn’t seem so bad.

then i ordered some take-out.

february 25th

february 25th four years ago my brother died.

—i'm sitting cross legged on the floor at my mom's watching my third re-run of the m.t.v. movie awards when my mom answers the phone and i hear from her end "graham died?"
—my brother's laying in the doorway of his room at my dad's house with uniformed people circling him. my dad has his head on the kitchen table. jennifer is buckled next to the windowsill.
—i'm trying to explain "i don't want this to be happening" but i can only stammer "i don't wanna go in the ambulance."
—the people in the waiting room at the emergency room are watching xena the warrior princess, as i wish it was their brother and not mine.
—a nurse asks my dad if i'm old enough to see him, and i wish i had been younger.
—my mom finally breaks down in a little glass room they keep in the hospital, and i assume it's soundproof for that purpose.
—i tell jennifer i'm done crying.
—the next morning i throw my lamp on its side because i can't find the right sweater to wear to the funeral.
—my dad says "they don't dress things up much at jewish cemeteries." i stare at a hole in the dirt and the rosewood coffin with a gold jewish star.
—my aunt says "he's not in there, sweetie"

---

now, february 25th my family becomes as kind as the brady bunch. no one brings up the bad tasting dinner, the bills, the channel on t.v., or the giant pink elephant in the room. i turn the shower on and curl into a ball at the other end of the tub, so no one in the house hears me cry. i don't think i can ever take seeing my father cry again, and i think my doing so would encourage it.

i don't know if i should feel guilty because i don't go through those moments every other day or because i've never been back to the grave, and the rocks i put there the first time have probably disintegrated or blown off.

when people ask, i tell them that he was handicapped all his life and died of cronic pneumonia. i don't tell them that he loved early rolling stones and had the warmest smile i've ever seen.

random deep thought

the fact that people make a living operating trains and planes and working in airports and train stations is the most major proof that i can find that i am not the center of the universe. think about it. when you pass some one on the street, don't you feel sometimes that they must just go around the corner and disappear? that the person exists only for those few moments in which you are looking at them? (and, if you only got a glimpse of their shoes, that they are just those shoes and nothing more?) yet the fact that there is a business based on their being enough daily need to get people from city to city, state to state, means that people must travel when i do not, so, clearly, i am not the center of the universe.

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

v-day

valentines day is just a stupid fucking made-up holiday to discourage being independent and increase consumerism.

that is of course, until some one dedicates "such great heights" to you on the radio, tucks you in to bed on the phone, and sends you an oversized, will-surely-take-7-girls-to-get-through box of godivas, and covering your mouth all day becomes necessary as you are so damn smiley.

hi, i’m tracy, and i’m a hopeless romantic. . .

fuck me.

the secret's out

i go to hip-hop class at broadway dance. for so long, i've managed to keep this vice of mine a secret, but with the advent of less homework and consequential more free time, i've been going so often that "i just feel like staying in / i'm too lazy to get off my couch" would not be effective. why did i keep it a secret for so long? now, i have to admit this has plagued me for some time. i am certainly not ashamed of my calorie burning, aggression releasing, leave sweaty and feeling ultra-sexy (minus the probable smell) activity. but it is mine. and, as any dirty little secret, the secret factor was an added thrill. since it's all out in the open now, i may as well...

--

in each class, everyone is either black, or asian and pretending to be black. it is no shock that for me the most challenging section of warm up (besides the grueling sequence of crunches) is the "attitude" section, comprised of menacing head bobs, grimaces and walking with a self-imposed limp. it's the part of the class i really feel my race. but the uncomfort doesn't last long, nor does anyone else in the class seem to notice.

perhaps it is this inherent vanity of the class that i love so much. it is the only point in my day when i am not only encouraged, but required to be self absorbed: "look in the mirror. it's the only way you're gonna see if you got it, because just prayin' ain't doin' anything for you. don't look at the people around you, they don't know. they just as clueless as you because they ain't lookin' in the mirror either." how could you not relish the invitation to make eyes at yourself while shaking your hips?

bev b., the teacher, has the power of a celebrity when she strides into a room. she yawns through step combinations i can't begin to understand. she somehow keeps a class laughing during the turn series and throws in comments on race and politics when demonstrating. she has the most loving way of singling students out when they are doing something wrong, identifying everyone by their race plus a defining article of clothing: "black girl with the pink scarf, it's left right not right left...love yourself, baby, kiss yourself if you wanna." she's just as excited as you are when you're nailing choreography, and, when she walks over to your side of the room, you push yourself even further.

favorite moment from saturday—
bev: "come on black girl with red shoes, white girl over here's got it, damn white girl's got it, don't be too sexy now, girl..."

the problem with blueberries

funny thing, blueberries. you could be eating a bowlfull of them, just-bought and just-washed, munching away without paying attention to which exact berry you are eating, content with the uninterrupted stream of sweetness into your mouth, and there it is: the sour one. you feel confused. you know every blueberry you saw when washing was lovely and round and sweet. you feel betrayed. you can't enjoy eating your blueberries any longer as you are suspicious of each one. you do though (why waste blueberries?), but the experience is certainly not the same as it was.

i think this must be a metaphor for something. for what i don't know.

note to self: get a gracious-loser face.