Quarterlife Crisis: Quarterlife Crisis or Just Boredom?

I’m going to try to add songs to the next few posts.  Please enjoy Mariah Carey’s “Honey” for this post.  This video and sound marked the beginning of her “Quarterlife Crisis/Transition/Freedom”.  We’re still just waiting for her to recover…

I’ve officially been a 25 year old for a week now.  25 – It just sounds so grown up.  Not old.  I hope to have many, many decades to go but something about 25 just sounds like I should have my shit together by now.  I’ve been asked how I feel about being 25.  As with most birthdays, the hardest part that I can imagine will be remembering the new number when asked how old I am.  All I can say is that I feel just about the same.  Let me clarify: the actual birthday meant little.  I will have to admit though that this “time in my life” has had its impact.

Some would call what I’m experiencing a “quarterlife crisis”.  Considering the term is so new and popular right now, I won’t argue the point.  (I am, however, reading the original book published on the term in 2001.  I may change my opinion upon completion.)  Either way, instead of a crisis, I’d like to think I’m going through a “transition period”.  I’m transitioning from the 42 year old in a 24 year old’s body to a probably around 35 year old in a 25 year old’s body.  (I hope to break even around 27.)  I love my life but am bored by most of it at the same time.  It’s safe and comfortable but often uninspired and generally blase.  I’m the faithful employee, loyal friend and independent daughter.  But where’s the fun in that?  I need a little drama (preferably not self-created), some excitement, positive stress, butterflies.

My mother and grandmother came into town for my birthday last week.  It was wonderful.  My mother joked about me never really being a “child”.  Even at 8, I was a tiny adult, equip with strong opinions and the ability to intelligibly argue.  It’s funny to think about that until you realize it’s probably true.  Now, of course, I was a child and did childish things.  But I’ve always acted as if I “knew better”.  My mother even said that I wasn’t going through a quarterlife crisis.  We were both just going through our midlife crises at the same time.  (That math could make things very confusing.)  I’ve always been called an “old soul”.  I didn’t really do most of the dumb, excusable teenage/early twenties things.  There was always a plan, a goal and an ability to see past the temporary intrigue.  And while there’s nothing overly wrong with that, there is something  a little sad about it.  If I’m living like I’m 40 now, what’ll be interesting about actually being 40?  I’ve joked (but was secretly terrified) that I’d regress about that time and look and/or act like a Ricki Lake guest.  I need to act like I’m in my twenties while I’m still technically in my twenties.  And I’m already half way done with that.

I’m not quite sure what “acting my age” looks like but I’m taking baby steps.  Things like going out more than once  a month (I don’t have anyone waiting on me and as long as I can make it to work the next day, what’s the harm?), embracing shorts again (I’ve been avoiding them for years but my thighs are only going to grow exponentially from this point), giving into impulses (probably a full post on that later), taking care of my body (I’m still not excited about organic foods but there’s nothing wrong with paying a little more attention to what I’m putting into my body or working out consistently enough to actually see a difference), or being social simply for the sake of being social (fighting looks of boredom or indifference in public settings).

Maybe all of this is just a phase and I’ll revert to being 40 again soon.  If so, I hope I can cram 15 years worth of “being young” into whatever time I have left to enjoy this phase.

Consider this part one of my quarterlife crisis series.

Jo’van

July 1, 2009
Categories: Quarterlife Crisis, The World...As I See It (Everything Else), Whole Truth, The . Tags: , , , , , . Author: tjovand . Comments: 1 Comment

Romantic Cynic: Reconnecting

I keep daydreaming.  But not the kind of fanciful, wistful dreaming.  It’s the potential conversation kind.  You know preparing the answers for the questions you’ll never be asked.  How would I respond to statement 1 vs 2?  Does that warrant regal and stoic or just straightforward and unedited?  Shit. Not again.

I recently reconnected with an “ex” via Facebook.  (The term “ex” is relative to someone who does her best to avoid relationships but I feel it’s the best fit right now so I’m sticking with it.  Plus, “a little more than a friend” is just too long.)  The wonders of social media bring people you forgot, tried to forget, never really knew or have never met into clear view and easy access.  It’d been almost 3 years since we’d seen each other, 4 since we’d really talked.  So seeing his name in my inbox was a bit surprising, unnerving, intriguing.  He’d recently moved to the city my father lives in and wanted to connect the next time I go out to visit.  Unbeknownst to him, I had a trip planned out there the following month.  We didn’t exactly end on bad terms so I said “what the hell?”  Let’s find out what he’s been up to.

Of course at this point, you start to reevaluate your current situation.  What if he looks amazing, is married to a former supermodel-turned-broker, has a child destined for Mensa,  and an unbelievable job?  What am I going to be able to say/show for myself?  Sure, I am gainfully employed and enjoy my job but for how long? The economy’s still really shaky.  I think I look pretty good right now but I only had so much to work with in the beginning.  I’ve done pretty much all I can for myself for free.  I’m in debt up to my eyeballs but have still managed to maintain a healthy shopping problem.  My “music” is not moving in any direction.  I can’t really speak to any amazing relationships I have/had.  In fact, I haven’t really done anything that interesting since he knew me, just followed my short term plan and ended up in Austin, TX with a platonic wife (he knows), our dog children and two jobs.

I must say that I know that my life does not suck.  I am blessed to have the people and things I do around me.  It’s just that people from the past really make me question my current.  What have I done since they knew me?  Have I grown up? Regressed? Sold out? Bought in? Conformed? Reformed? Calmed down? Gotten feistier? Completely done a 180?  Depending on who you talk to and how long ago they knew me, it could be any of these things.  Of course at this time, I was only concerned with the different person I might have been with/to him.

Anyway, I kind of stressed about it but gave up on that after a while.  I didn’t have it in me to buy into my own questions.  If I’ve changed, I’ve changed.  I can only hope it’s for the better.  I could, on the other hand, now concern myself with how he might’ve changed.  So what if he’s not the successful, beautiful husband and father?  What if he’s just normal?  Then what?  If he’s changed for the better or worse, I can pretty much handle that.  It’s a new person, a new situation.  But what if nothing much has changed?  What if I look at him and still see the person who caught my attention at a conference in Miami in 2004?   Then I could be in trouble.  I don’t know if/how I can prepare for that.

There are few people I loathe.  (I’d say hate but loathe seems more refined…) Those people have done something to hurt me.  Everyone else, exes, old friends, etc, has pretty much just faded into the past.  You miss the memories of being with them but don’t regret any of it or make any real efforts to recreate them.  But what about when they come back into your life?  How do you handle introducing the new you to someone who knew the old one?  I don’t have any answers or resolutions for this.  I’m just wondering.

Now, this “ex”, I don’t know what that was/is.  We saw each other and it was good, completely comfortable, almost too comfortable.  We’re talking again but I’m not looking for this to move beyond talking.   I’ve learned expectations are a waste of time.  Just to be talking again is odd.  I never thought I’d see him again so this is just an interesting situation as it stands.  We’ve both changed but not so extremely that we didn’t recognize each other or our connection.  It was more of a revelation that I hadn’t changed as much as I like to think I had.  He still knew me.  I wonder how many other people still know me despite the growing pains I’ve experienced and possibly blown out of proportion?

Reminiscing,

Jo’van

June 12, 2009
Categories: Romantic Cynic (Love And Lookalikes), Whole Truth, The . Tags: , , , , , . Author: tjovand . Comments: 1 Comment

Eye of the Beholder: LGN Diet

About a year ago, I was talking to a male friend.  We were just chit chatting, waiting for other people to finish or show up, I don’t remember exactly.  Anyway, we started talking about working out.  He has been known to be somewhat of a gym rat if the mood arises.  As I’ve said before, I know that I need to work out to look the way I want but I don’t love it.  And because of that lack of love, my gym kicks go in waves.  At that time, I was on a new one, only a few weeks old.  After talking for a little while about what we do and don’t do, blah blah blah, he threw me a curve ball.  As calmy as ever, he looked me up and down and said, “You’re working out.  You must be having sex.”

Now, sex is natural and beautiful and all that loveliness but it’s still something I consider to be private, for me and everyone else.  I had no idea how to react.  At that time, I wasn’t even talking to, hoping to flirt, or anything else with anyone, let alone concerned about anyone seeing any part of my body not already visible in work clothes.  The comment just blew my mind.  Is this why men or everyone thinks everyone else works out?  Is there anything wrong if that is the reason?  What are your real reasons for working out?

I’ve already admitted that my main reason is vanity, not naked vanity, just the normal kind.  I want to be a size 8 (occasionally a 6 or 10 depending on the cut).  I think this size looks good on me.  I’m still relatively young and have the available time and resources to exercise.  I really have no excuses not to.  I’ve never been the type to really complain about my current size/body but sometimes those glances in front of the full length mirror cause an unpleasant double-take.  What’s a girl to do? Complain or sweat?  I complain enough about other things.  I’ve decided to spare the people around me from another unnecessary topic.

Possible Reasons for Quality Time on the Elliptical Machine:

1.) Health: Okay.  That’s an easy one.  Who doesn’t want to be healthier?  The problem is that most of us aren’t willing to sacrifice to be healthy.  We’re just waiting for the big pharmacy companies to come up with a pill, or better yet a one time shot.

2.) Vanity: Yes, I’ll claim that one.  We all want to look better than we currently do, even the people who already look amazing.  But not everyone’s got Giselle’s genetics or LL Cool J’s personal trainer.  For most of us, our appearance is extra, not a part of our job description.  Famous people are famous for a reason.  We’ve got to stop comparing.  I’ll never look like Beyonce.  I’m just trying to look as good as I can, regardless of those around me.

3.) Muscles: Yes, this is tied to vanity but there are some people who work out for a particular goal, competing and such.  No real comment on this one.  But all of those sinewy muscles and veins popping out kind of grosses me out.

4.) LGN Diet “Looking Good Naked”: I’ve got to admit the name is a new one for me but needs no further explanation.  Although, it seems that people are fueled by this motivation until the couple gets really comfortable and starts to gain together…

5.) Special Occasions and Summer: Closely tied to the LGN Diet, often times people work out to fit and/or look better in certain outfits for certain occasions; weddings, reunions, bathing suits, vacations, etc.  This motivation is generally temporary.

6.) Fun: Heaven knows why but some people actually enjoy exercising.  I wasn’t blessed with that gene.  But if you’ve got it, rock it, I guess.  I was blessed/cursed with the “eat good and sleep well” gene. (Note: Eating good does not necessarily mean healthily, just tastily…)

I didn’t really have a purpose for this post.  I just really wanted to write about the new term I learned, the “Looking Good Naked” Diet.

Wondering why everyone else at the gym is working out,

Jo’van

May 31, 2009
Categories: Eye of the Beholder (Self-Image), Whole Truth, The . Tags: , , , , , , . Author: tjovand . Comments: 2 Comments

Friendly Drama: Married to Another Woman but Straight?

Do you have that person that knows everything about you but drives you absolutely crazy?  Who understands exactly how you work and what makes you tick but seems to make no efforts not to set you off?  And you’re NOT romantically involved?  That would be my roommate, Mary.

I love her.  She’s the Puerto Rican sister I never had (or wanted). Aside from our bitchy-ness and complete avoidance of relationships, we are complete opposites.  I am tall, she is short.  I am permanently tan, she is perpetually pale.  I am a proverbial stick (or log as my mother says), she is a s bootylicious, kid-size coke bottle.  I am analytical and literal, she is creative and artsy.  I am loud and abrasive, she’s quiet and secretive.  When we travel, I book the travel and hotels.  She manages the activities.  As evident by the painting in our living room, she’s the yin to my yang.  (Or is it the yang to my yin? I don’t remember what they both mean.)

Opposister

Opposister - "Extremes create a balance, not power. Abstract meaning nothing without the concrete. You are as much my opposite as my sister." We worked on a project together in college titled "Opposister". She made the visuals and I wrote poetry about the nature of our relationship. Recorded with music, the poems played from a speaker built into the back of the frame. There was also a book that chronicled the process.

It’s interesting to have a friend who feels so much like family.  While I consider her my sister, sometimes it seems more fitting to refer to her as my wife.  We’re like roommates for life (but not really.  I hope one day both of us can be married to other people…).  All of the bills are split down the middle.  We’re “raising” our children (the dogs) together.  When I’m running late in the morning, she’ll make my coffee and put it in a mug.  If I know she’s drank a little more than normal, I’ll try to make sure we have Powerade in the morning.  Leftovers are automatically separated into tupperware for our lunches the next day.  She does most of the cooking and cleaning.  I get to carry the heavy items upstairs.  (To be fair, she’ll do this also.  It’s just easier for me to do it most of the time.)  When I’m going out or doing something, I’ll often say “we”, just assuming she’s coming along.  My friends are her friends and it only seems natural that they should be.  When we fight, we often try to end it and pout for a few hours or days then just get over it.  In short, we’re a married couple who’s not intimate.  (As much as I love her, that would just be gross and wrong. Ewwww.)

She’s the only person I’ve lived with since leaving home. (That is if you don’t count my semester in Florence with 8 roommates.  I had my own room and was the only person that showered at night.  Plus, most people seemed to just stay out of my way.  I haven’t the slightest idea why…)  She was my randomly placed freshman roommate at Iowa State.  My greatest fears about my roommate were that she’d be a whore or disgusting.  Lucky for me, she was neither.  Just a pretty little girl who seemed cool and had an accent I needed to get used to.  (I still translate for people that haven’t been around her that much.  It makes perfect sense to me now….Well most of the time 🙂 ) We were lucky enough to be roommates that became friends and not friends that decided to live together.  We understood how the other person lives and operates before really getting to know the person.  The funny thing is that we only lived together for one year in college.  I became an RA my sophomore year and we weren’t allowed to have roommates.  She graduated a year later than I did and decided to move to Austin.  Four years later, we were living together again.  But this time we had our own bedrooms and didn’t share a bathroom with 40 other girls, a major upgrade.  We just signed our lease for another year.  We’re going two years strong but way past the newlywed period.

Our weird dynamic seems to work.  As often as she wears on my nerves (and vice versa), we both know this is a good situation.  I don’t know if I’ll find a better roommate.  And I’m not hoping to have to look for one anytime soon.  She’s one of a handful of people who’ve seen me cry and I’m okay with that.  We’ve gone through things that will never be forgotten but need never be brought up again.  We’ve backpacked across Western Europe together for a month and although we got close near the end, we didn’t kill each other.  She’s my outlet after work.  I’m her “I have dumb question” person.  If something happens in public, we need not exchange words, just a glance.  We’re convinced we’re going to hell but find (some) comfort in the fact that we’d probably be going together.  It’s cool.  It works.  And I hope it continues to work.

So for anyone that’s heard me talk about “My Wife” and wondered, there you go, the full explanation.  Yes, I have a platonic wife but I’m technically single and into men.

Watching “the kids” play,

Jo’van

May 7, 2009
Categories: Friendly Drama (The Ones You Choose), Whole Truth, The . Tags: , , , , , , , . Author: tjovand . Comments: Leave a comment

Shades of Understanding: Being “Just Black”

“The African-American experience” has been a hot topic in the media for the last year.  With Barack Obama running for president (and incidentally being elected), black hope, deliverance, equality has been all over the print, TV, radio and online media.  Some feel a black President signals the day African-Americans have become fully equal.  Others consider it to be a stepping stone but not the finale.  Either way, being Black has been discussed but not really examined.

What does it mean to be black/African-American?  It’s really a personal definition.  There are some common traits/histories that the group shares but YOUR experiences are the most important definers.  Rather than speak for a rather large group, I’ll just try to explain my feelings about it.

For most people that I know (that aren’t black), being “something”, whatever it is, is defined by a history, what your particular group has “gone through.”  While you may be American, you’re also Greek, Spanish, German, Italian, Panamanian, Indian, Canadian, Nigerian, Irish, Brazilian, etc.  Just being able to claim a country and culture outside of the U.S. seems to empower people to be something extra, justifying failed attempts to learn a second language, perfecting one “authentic” dish or a trip you can’t afford to the land of your forefathers.  I’ve realized that over the years, I’ve grown almost bitter about this lack of extended identity.  Yes, African-American culture is rich and thick.  But it’s short.  What’s 300 years in the grand scheme of things?

Let’s say a generation is 25 years long.  300 years is roughly 12 generations.  Growing up, I was blessed to spend time with great-grandmothers, grandmothers and my parents.  We represented 4 generations, a third of African-American history.  That kind of realization helps put the reasons I feel the way I do into perspective.

The roots of “my people” were ripped up and displaced.  Sure, I could “go back to Africa” to visit the land of my forefathers but the continent’s just a little big and somewhat diverse.  True, most slaves brought to the Americas were from West Africa but that only narrows it down to a minimum of 5 currently sovereign nations.  That’s like saying I could be German, Swedish, Turkish, Italian or Austrian.  Just a little different, right?

Like my family, the vast majority of African-Americans have family members of different, usually European, connections.  The only part of my family that I can trace back more than 5 generations is Irish.  There’s nothing wrong with that.  It’s kind of cool.  But for some reason, I don’t feel a strong connection to Dublin, U2 or redheads.  I giggle when I say it out loud, especially around St. Patrick’s Day.  I’m African-American.  Our family also has Cherokee roots.  Unfortunately, I know very little about Cherokee history or culture.  It feels almost wrong to claim it.  Everyone from the South, seems to have a Cherokee great-grandmother somewhere in their family tree.  So I go back to being just black.  What is that?

In college, I had several conversations with African immigrant students about identification while in the US.  Their ethnicities covered every major region of the continent, different languages, religions, cultures, histories.  But one thing most of the students I spoke with agreed on was the fact that they didn’t want to be considered black or African-American while in the States.  At first, I thought it was because they’d like to be identified with/by their home country.  And while that’s true, several people explained to me that it was equally important for them not to be tied to the sordid, unfavorable image of African-Americans here.  How could people who ARE the African part of my African-American identity be SO against being what I am?  What’s wrong with it?  Unfortunately, many of the stereotypes we peddle here are bought around the world.  But there’s enough to say about that for a separate post.  Suffice it to say, I was surprised, hurt and later educated about how we’re seen by our theoretical brothers and sisters and fully get where they may be coming from.

There’s nothing I can do about having a limited history.  And I’m not ashamed of any aspect of the history I can claim now.  It’s just that I sometimes wish I had more I could claim, hope to embrace, love enough to teach.  African-American history is completely American history.  While parts are often (intentionally or not) left out of our traditional K-12 history books, African-American history is nothing but American history.  There is no and never was an Africa-America.  Our history is just red (blood, sweat and tears), white (captors to coworkers) and blue(s).  Every now and again, I kinda wish “we” could share the same kind of specialness other cultures do, being able to claim (if only partially) somewhere/something else.  Not complaints, just thoughts.

Singing “Follow the Drinking Gourd”,

Jo’van

May 6, 2009
Categories: Shades of Understanding (Race Relations), Whole Truth, The . Tags: , , , , , , , , . Author: tjovand . Comments: Leave a comment

The World…As I See It: Why I Should Really Celebrate Cinco de Mayo

A repost from last year but it still works. 🙂

Yes, I just love this song and Carlos Santana’s Mexican so it works, right?  Haha.

Cinco de Mayo!!!  For many people, May 5th has something to do with a Mexican battle and is a perfect excuse to gorge on chips and salsa, inhale soft shell tacos and drink a lot of (if not too many) Corona’s and Mexican Martinis.  Traditionally for me, Cinco de Mayo celebrations are about finding the most colorful dress you have and preparing to drink to oblivion (or most often in my case watching other people drink to oblivion).  There’s been very little history or real knowledge associated with the date.  But today I learned something new about the holiday.  Who knew Cinco de Mayo had a (near) direct relationship to the emancipation of slavery?

I learned this through a post titled “Market Research: Cinco de Mayo Isn’t Indepence Day” on Advertising Age’s The Big Tent blog.  According to the Fayetville Observer (North Carolina):

“During this time, Confederate General Robert E. Lee was enjoying success, and had the French defeated México at Puebla, France would have aided the South in the American Civil War in order to free Southern ports of the Union Blockade. The Mexicans had won a great victory that kept Napoleon III from supplying the confederate rebels for another year, allowing the United States to build the greatest army the world had ever seen.”

While there’s a lot more to it, the success of the Mexicans over the French aided in the Yankees over the Confederates.  Viva la Mexico!

Toasting her Corona,

Jo’van

May 5, 2009
Categories: The World...As I See It (Everything Else), Whole Truth, The . Tags: , , , , , , , , . Author: tjovand . Comments: Leave a comment

Romantic Cynic: Sexy Equals “Reading in Bed”

I recently wrote a post wondering if a partner up to your physical standard was important.  I haven’t exactly figured that one out for myself but had a recent epiphany (as painful as it might have been).  The physical is very important being the first thing you (and your friends) notice and sometimes being strong enough to temporarily  blind you to everything else.  But sometimes it’s just not enough (no matter how badly you may want it to be).  There has to be something else to keep you intrigued when you’re not looking at each other.  What makes you smile when he sends you a sweet message?  Or when she calls just to hear your voice?  Probably not her ass or his abs.

Sure, the physical image and moments are important and can have lasting effects but what keeps you happy may not be that shallow.  For me personally, I need another ( and by another I mean additional) form of stimulation.  Talk to me.  Tell me something I didn’t know.  Make me think.  Make me smile about more than just your body/face/arms/etc. (Oh, in case you didn’t know, I’m an arms woman.)

I met a guy last year that was/is absolutely beautiful; handsome face, perfect body, good times.  I won’t even pretend or try to find another way to say it.  Being pleasantly average, I was intimidated by his good looks.  Yeah, I know that I’m an amazing person, worth the world, and all that jazz, but that wouldn’t stop me from being the ugly one in the couple’s photos.  My sparkling personality would not stop strangers from wondering “How’d she manage that/him?”  But I figured since he didn’t seem to notice he could find a better physical match, I wouldn’t bring it up.  What’s the point in planting unnecessary questions?  🙂

As we talked and chatted online, I started to pick up on some not so attractive qualities, at least to me.  Not every woman is as picky as I am, especially when the physical is so impressive, but I kinda like signs of a deeper person, and by deeper person, I pretty much mean inner nerd.  What motivates you?  Pisses you off?  What books do you read?  Music do you listen to?  I need conversations, challenges, not just words thrown out there for entertainment.  Regardless, after a little more time together, I realized I couldn’t deal with just the physical for any real amount of time.  Sure, in those desperate/lonely moments, he’ll sound amazing but that’s just because he’s familiar (and gorgeous).  Maybe if he just never spoke, wrote, tried to communicate with words…

Sadly, I know I can’t function like that.  As much fun as it may sound, I’m just not the trophy type.  Physical just can’t do enough for me.  I am entirely too complicated to be so easily satisfied.  I need that “mental standard”.  In comparison to the physical, I’m less willing to compromise.  We BOTH need to be at least slightly above average on the “smart scale”.  (And yes, I do consider myself to have above average intelligence.  Feel free to disagree.  And becuase I’m said that, I’m sure these post will be riddled with ty-pos and grammartical errors. 🙂 Feel free to point them out.  I’ll adjust accordingly.)  If the proverbial “he” was significantly less intelligent (or just less eloquent) than I am, I believe I’d get frustrated.  I fear the thought of him being stupid would cross my mind and I might treat him accordingly in difficult situations.  That’s very shallow and mean of me but I just don’t think I’m that big of a person yet.  On the other hand, if I knew his intelligence was leaps and bounds beyond mine, I fear I’d be permanently intimidated.  Unlike looks, there’s little I can do to match intelligence.  A gym membership, regular hair appointments and plastic surgery’s not going to help me.  You can’t pay to be smarter.   I don’t like feeling less.  I need a balance.  We need to be close enough to provide good conversations and do so without feelings of superiority or inferiority.  It sucks but I’m just being honest.  I don’t need a rocket scientist or a doctor and could be very happy with a truck driver or a maintenance man. Your occupation (and paycheck for that matter) doesn’t define your intelligence.  Not everyone has bankable “book smarts”.  I just want/need someone who likes to learn and who’ll continually challenge me to do the same.

I realized a few year ago just how big of nerd I was and the fact that I was looking for one.  One night, I decided it was best to crash on a male friend’s couch rather than going home.  It was a little late/early.  Now, to be honest, I was a little more than “interested” in this friend but nothing was happening (at that point, at least).  Anyway, I walked into his room to ask him a question.  Keep in mind we’d known each other for a few months and I’d seen him in a bathing suit.  He was cute and I was attracted but what I saw when I walked into his room that night pretty much melted my heart.  Imagine.  Imagine.  (I’m sure the title of this post probably gives it away but) NERD ALERT: I saw him sitting in bed with his glasses on reading a book.  Having a class with him, I’ve seen him read before but there was something different about seeing him do it for pleasure.  The glasses bit didn’t exactly hurt, especially since I was coming in to see if he had an extra contact lens case.  Who knew reading could be so sexy?  Then he proceeded to tell me about the book.  To be honest, I couldn’t tell you what it was about now but I do remember how earnest he was about whatever he was saying.  He’d read the book before and thought it was great because…..

Look, yes, I really appreciate the hard work guys put in in the gym.  And yes, I love the way a man looks when he’s well put together.  Massages are amazing.  The random “just thinking about you”s can stop me in my tracks.  And don’t even get me started on the effects certain colognes have on me.  But if you really want me to get excited about sharing a significant amount of time and a small (possibly rectangular) space with you, read for me, baby.  It’s not all I need but it certainly can’t hurt.  (Wow, I’m such a nerd. Haha)

Dreaming of her reading buddy,

Jo’van

May 3, 2009
Categories: Romantic Cynic (Love And Lookalikes), Whole Truth, The . Tags: , , , , , , , , . Author: tjovand . Comments: 1 Comment

The World…As I See It: Respecting Your Guards

Growing up in Nashville, TN, you were either black or white.  While there is diversity in the city, my family, schools, church, etc were pretty much one, the other and a little gray in the middle  (at least not in the ’90s).  The city’s changing but I no longer live there so I can only speak to my past.  Although Nashville is a mid-size city and the capitol, there is still an underground Deep South mentality.  In addition to hospitality, sweet tea, and greeting strangers, racism and prejudice run deep in the veins of our culture, on both sides.  Black and white may be equal but they’re still not the same.

I don’t mean to make the South sound like the worst place for minorities to live, you just have to be aware of your surroundings.  There are places I will never go by myself or pull over.  It’s just that simple.  I grew up in the New South, progressives slowly outgrowing grandpa’s law.  While things are not comfortable, I can’t imagine living in any time period other than now.  I am SO thankful not to have to deal with the things my grandmothers did.  That type of fear and simple determination are humbling.  But with my appropriate guards up, I felt comfortable in Nashville.  I knew my boundaries and what it meant to be Black there.  It just meant not being White.  Slavery, hip-hop, jazz, civil rights, baggy clothes, turnip greens, sweet potatoes, cornrows, rims, weave, etc were just parts of it.

Attending Iowa State University in Ames, IA was a bit of a culture shock.  All of the sudden, I was in a (nearly) all-white community of people who’d never grown up around “others.”  While there are endless numbers of “others”, I feel African-Americans have to be the best understood minority group in the U.S.  If not understood, at least exposed.  Not everyone at Iowa State was naive or uncultured.  There were endless numbers of people that I met that had either been exposed to or proactively sought out diversity and even more people who were at least open to learning. But some of the things I heard and saw from the people who hadn’t/weren’t  just broke my heart.  A seemingly intelligent 18-year-old boy telling me that he knew black people have an extra muscle in their legs.  That’s why they always ran past him at state track meets.  A 19-year-old girl who had no idea who Malcom X was.  A 22-year-old woman who thought black people must not believe in personal hygiene because we don’t all have to wash our hair everyday.  Rather than get worked-up, I realized I could take these opportunities to educate these people.  I’d want to be corrected, educated, talked to, not yelled at.  I could only imagine they hadn’t been exposed to the truth, or at least alternative truths.  I could play “pissed off black woman” or “patient mother.”  I chose the second.  It seemed to work out.  Ames, in many ways to me, was naive but innocent until I was attacked on campus.  Well, attacked seems somewhat extreme.  Let’s replace that with scared.

One night, I was walking across campus around 11 pm.  Yes, I know walking just about anywhere by yourself late at night is not a good idea but I was getting off of work and needed to get home.  What were my options?  Anyway, about halfway there, I heard someone behind me.  I turned around to see who or what it was.  I saw an average looking white guy, medium build, blond hair, probably 6’1.  He didn’t seem to appreciate me looking at him.  “What are you looking at, black bitch?”  From his slurred speech and not quite straight gate, I could tell he’d probably been drinking.  Quick, what should I do?  Keep walking normally, speed up, run, say something, stay quiet, try to find my cell phone in my backpack?  Shit.  So I just stayed quiet and sped up a little.  He picked up on that and sped up behind me.  By this point, I’m officially scared and pretty much going blank.  He kept coming and trying to get a rise out of me, yelling obscenities.  At one point, he grabbed my shoulder and tried to turn me around. Being November in Iowa, I had on a pretty thick coat.  But he didn’t seem to be playing around.  I could feel each finger through the leather and down of my coat.  As soon as he touched me, it all became real.  I was alone and he was bigger than me.  We were in the middle of campus with absolutely no one around.  He could beat me, rape me, just about anything and there was probably nothing I could do unless he was more drunk than I thought.  But for whatever reason, after he’d grabbed me, turned me around, yelled some more ridiculousness about being a worthless black nigger bitch, and pushed me around a little, he lost interest and walked off, like a kid who’s thought of a better idea.

I was uncharacteristically speechless.  All I wanted to do was get home and be around someone I trusted.  I didn’t even want to talk to someone, just be around them.  Vulnerability is not my strong suit.  After the initial shock wore off, I went from vulnerable to disappointed…in myself.  How could I let this happen to me?  Why wasn’t my guard up?  Why did I not see this coming?  Why weren’t my keys with the pepper spray key-chain not in my pocket for easy access?  Shit.  I would have never let this happen so easily in Nashville.  I would’ve never made myself that vulnerable.  Black, white, whatever.  How did I let this happen?

I saw him on campus a couple of times over the next two years.  I’ll admit the first time I saw him I freaked.  It didn’t matter that we were in central campus surrounded by 500 other students, my heart jumped into my throat.  While I’ll probably never forget his face, he seemed to have no recollection of mine.  I thought about trying to find out his name, telling some authority figure, something proactive but it all seemed lame.  I just wanted to forget about it.  He hadn’t really done more than what people do at the bars on a Saturday night.  He was by himself and felt bigger, tougher, cooler, whatever.  If he’d actually injured anything more than my pride and comfort zone, I would’ve done everything I could to press charges.  But in this case, I just wanted to forget his idiocy but never forget it exists, even in Iowa.

Guards are important.  We have them for reasons.  Are most of our reactions due to stereotypes?  Yes, and that’s sad.  But there’s nothing wrong with being prepared.  Awareness of your surroundings is always very important.  Did that incident happen because I was black?  No, probably not.  That was just a factor that probably emboldened the drunk ass.  But being alone, female and black are all things I would have kept in mind at home where racism can be blatant and therefore expected, somehow making me feel safer because I was always prepared.  Go figure.  Because of culturally recognized racism, my guard’s already up to other -isms.

Thankful for her Tennessee Titans letterman style jacket and sturdy legs,

Jo’van

April 27, 2009
Categories: The World...As I See It (Everything Else), Whole Truth, The . Tags: , , , , , , , , , . Author: tjovand . Comments: 3 Comments

Romantic Cynic: Not the Type to Take to Prom

I’ve been recently thinking about my perpetual (largely self-induced) singledom and remembered something a friend told me in high school that makes me wonder if the guys I meet think the same way today and whether that would be such a bad thing.

In high school, I remember approaching a male friend to ask about something (who knows what).  For some reason, he thought I was going to ask him to prom.  (To this day, I have no idea how he came to that conclusion.  Going to prom with him still sounds like a horrible idea 7 years later.)  Anyway, he stopped me and kind of stepped back.  “You’re cool but you’re not the kind of girl I’d take to prom.”  What?! First, I was confused why he would think I would ask him and second, I was offended.  (Oh, high school drama).  After being stunned, I laughed and then got angry.  Realizing he’d completely misread my intentions, he kind of stammered and tried to talk his way out of it. (Typically a bad idea with me.  Stop, collect your thoughts, and proceed.  I pay too much attention and will tear apart every stupid comment you make in explanation.)  He proceeded to tell me that we’re good friends and all, but he doesn’t see me like that, blah, blah, blah.  Well, good.  I didn’t seem him that way either.  But since he’d brought it up, why didn’t he see me like that?  What type of girl was I?  Was it because of my race/ethnicity?  Height? Weight? Personality? Religion? What?  After realizing he’d have no choice but to be honest, he told me, “You’re not the type of girl to take to prom.  You’re the type to marry.”

Well, okay then.  What do you do with that?  Knowing him and his interests, I had no choice but to translate that to mean I’m not the type to take out in hopes of immediate sex.  I’m the type to actually date.  There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.  It’s actually a good thing.  But where does that leave someone like me 7 years later?  I’d like to believe that statement still holds true for me but are there new dimensions to add as I approach 25, not 18?  At what point do girls/ladies/women like me start to become the goal and not the concern?  And is there a middle ground for us?  Does this type of statement mean you respect us but realize you’re not ready for us yet?  Or that we’re more effort than you’re willing to expend in general?  Or does it just sound like something a girl you’re not interested in should like to hear?

Never hoping to be a whore, does the idea of dating someone worth marrying scare men my age the same way the statement scares me?  Yes, I do believe I’m the type to marry but please don’t discuss marriage with me within the first few months of knowing each other.  I believe in the institution but don’t see it anywhere in my near future.  Telling me you’re looking for a “mate” on our third date (yes, it has happened) is a sure fire way to guarantee there will not be a fourth.  Have I switched places with my friend from high school?  Does my fear of someone looking for a wife in the short term mimic my friend’s fear of a girl looking to actually date before giving it up?  While I’m not looking for a one-night stand, I would like to date for fun and get to know you, no future agenda immediately in mind.  Do I still want to be the type to marry as the men I encounter are in search of wives and the future mothers of their children?

While it creates awkward situations, I think yes.  I’m afraid of what the alternate descriptions might be.  Plus, in addition to the “ready to get married yesterday” guys, there are plenty of the “after I’ve seen everything, I hope to never see you again” as well as the “let’s see where this goes” guys.  I just have to make sure I’m not judging them all by my insecurities and assumptions.  However, for the record, can I request that I be seen as the type of woman to marry (after an appropriate, comfortable length of time dating)?

Admiring a ring-less left hand,

Jo’van

April 13, 2009
Categories: Romantic Cynic (Love And Lookalikes), Whole Truth, The . Tags: , , , , , , . Author: tjovand . Comments: Leave a comment

The World…As I See It: JT Objectifying Black Women, Really?

I read an interesting article on SoulBounce.com a few weeks ago that has stuck with me.  In “How Can Justin Timberlake Still Objectify Black Women and Get Away with It?, the author is frustrated with what he/she sees as a trend, Justin Timberlake continually objectifying black women.  The title threw me off guard and I had to read it.  I get that Justin Timberlake has embraced and capitalized on aspects of black culture but to single him out as objectifying black women just seems odd.  In my opinion, Justin Timberlake hasn’t done anything a number of African-American artists haven’t done a hundred times.  And yes, I realize there are certain things that are not socially acceptable for people of different races to copy but surrounding himself with sexy, scantily clad ebony beauties is not comparable to uttering the N word.

A passage from the post:

“From behind a wry smile and with his hair faded he actually tarnished a reigning, Black Pop star’s image arguably beyond repair by exposing her breast on national television and then built his street cred further by bringing sexy back, Middle Passage style. He’s transitioned from the post-racialist’s pop culture dream of somewhat harmlessly lusting after beautiful Black love interest in the video for “Like I Love You” into something more sinister. He uses the scapegoat of S&M edginess in which he is the aggressor, the dominant force, to subordinate his object of desire when she is Black.

He distanced himself from those undertones in using shackles (why not a different two syllable kinky word like handcuffs, Justin? Or latex, like the piece you tore off of Miss Jackson?) and whipping in the song by making himself the slave, and in the video by making lusty faces with a White woman. But all of the soft edginess and ambiguous sexism and racism has become the central M.O. for him in the video for “Love Sex Magic.”

Maybe it’s just me but I don’t get it.  Janet Jackson and Ciara are grown women.  The infamous wardrobe malfunction, if planned, has to be as much Janet’s fault as it was Justin’s.  While he could have taken more of the blame, it was her breast and therefore her final decision.  And if it was in fact an accident, what more could he say than “I’m  sorry.”

“Love Sex Magic” is a very typical music video.  Justin and Ciara slink around and imitate sex while dressed.  Yes, the opening scene features the silhouette of Justin pulling on a chained Ciara.  But for some reason, I didn’t immediately jump to slavery. It might have been the fact that I saw a preview for the video a week earlier that featured just Ciara dancing around in a tiger print full body leotard performing stripper like acrobatics on multiple poles.  The chain, while in bad taste, does make sense as the video progresses.  She’s a sex kitten that wants to be tamed by someone equally sexy, not a mulatto house slave in search of a modern day master.

“Love Sex Magic” is Ciara’s video.  While Justin is the bigger star, she had to have had a bigger say in how the video would appear.  She’s the one that’s half-naked and giving the Pussycat Dolls a run for their money on the pole.  If she agreed to the chain, why aren’t we questioning her judgement as well as his?

Another passage:

“Yes, Ciara is grown and autonomous. So is Janet. But that just makes his ability to exploit their collaborations to the point that they are subjugated to his dominance, wittingly or not, more protestable.”

Does he really have that power?  Is he that convincing, sly, manipulative?  Or are we just looking for another scapegoat?  What makes Justin so special?  His bank account or his skin tone?

This blog post garnered so much interest that the author and editors of the site hosted a roundtable to ” dig deeper and officially claim ownership of our position.”  That discussion can be found HERE.

There are definitely issues we have with the image of black women in entertainment but I don’t think Justin Timberlake should be our target.  He’s simply bought into the hype and found a way to make it work for him.

Shaking her head,

Jo’van

You be the judge.

April 10, 2009
Categories: The World...As I See It (Everything Else), Whole Truth, The . Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , . Author: tjovand . Comments: Leave a comment

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