Maybe You Don’t Know Jordan Knight, But I Do

Published on by Lisa Category: Uncategorized

As much as I slam Big Media for its endless tyranny of pop culture force-feeding, it has further developed a mastery within my repertoire of emotional survival: learning to learn from everything.

Even as a cautious consumer, I am still a consumer. As much as I hate pop culture, it is still part of my culture. I love movies, and equipped with an embarrassingly sharp memory of all things unimportant, I quote like 14 year old boys in the locker room. “These are the ABCs of me, baby!” (‘Rod Tidwell,’ aka Cuba Gooding, Jr. in Jerry Maguire)

I learn from everything. It’s a great skill to acquire. It assures you that nothing is wasted. Nothing is wasted – from the stalkarrazi covering Paris and Lindsey to ‘the Hoff’ on America’s Got Talent.

I (used to) love Jordan Knight, the ex, ex, ex, ex, ex, ex, ex, ex, ex, ex, ex (times 76) billboard chart champion singer from the New Kids on the Block. And though I am fully equipped – right now at 7:30 am on a Saturday morning – to argue why the New Kids were a necessary part of the late 80s, it is more about one action of Jordan Knight that I want to think about this morning.

Whether or not you crooned I’ll Be Loving You Forever or Valentine Girl doesn’t matter, any person born prior to 1983 will remember the undeniable success and the multi-million dollar run of five young men from Dorchester, Massachusetts. The New Kids reached unprecedented stardom and wealth back then, making their mark at the Grammy’s and in the 80s history books.

As all great rollercoasters undoubtedly roll slow and eventually halt, so the New Kids. Washed Up, Has Been, Where Are They Now terms slide down their professional resumes with less credibility than Drew Carry. But Jordan Knight wasn’t done.

He tried to make it on his own and, to be honest, even I wasn’t really captivated by any of his efforts. But what stood out to me is his re-entry process. In trying to get back into his love of music, he faced some serious internal fears about public acceptance. He had stage fright, for crying out loud. But not just ANY fright, big fright. Intense fright. What weighed it so heavily was the previous astounding success he experienced and the yielding dip in self-confidence with trying to emerge on his own.

Jordan Knight began performing with a hat, in disguise. In small unknown places of the world, he tried to sing again and eventually overcame his personalized fears of the public and regained a sense of self.

Now, it’s not like I paid the $15 dollars at the Massillon Lincoln Theater to see this guy perform last year. I remember reading about his journey back to do what he most loved: music. And conquering a private fear that most would not understand is a more awesome feat than My Favorite Girl reaching the Top Ten.

Climbing back into the ring (Rocky series term), or getting YOURSELF in position to pursue your dream somersaults you to front and center your fears of failure. Or as Nelson Mandela has taught, People are more afraid of the brightness of their lights than the fear of failure. Meaning, the actuality of ourselves is more daunting than any project. The brilliance that lays inside of us is trapped by the cloaks we keep them under. We will never be fully human, fully feminist, fully happy, or simply full without confronting our Fear. Most people willfully choose not to pursue this.

How tragic yet understandable.

Blogging anonymously is my with-hat performance. This is my corner of the world where I get to experiement and battle my fears of Saying. There is a line somewhere in Les Miserables that says something to the extent of All I have is this corner of a bench. It’s a corner of a bench, but it’s mine.

I own my bench and I share it with no one.

No stage lights, no background singers, no flashy dollars, just me, a dream, and ‘Sudy’ as my hat.

The Alchemist

Published on by Lisa Category: Uncategorized

I find myself, at 1am, writing with bleary eyes.

My contacts have dried out but I still won’t take them out to soak for the night.

Adonis sleeps in our new home on the couch, falling into a quiet dream during the Colbert report. It’s the first time we’ve had cable and he’s drinking it in, late night.

I’ve betrayed my writing, keeping it and not letting it out. And now that I am trying to get it moving again, I feel rusty. Cranky. Like a door on a 70s Buick with no WD 40 in sight.

My office is in boxes. My home barely unfolding. The toilet seat cover broken.

It’s 1am and my feet are dirty from wearing flip flops around the city. Urban living, I must get used to it.

The older I get, the more I realize life’s power – it’s whims and its intents. Never would I have guessed I’d be back in Boston, neotiating jobs and salaries, and driving down Beacon Street again. But here I am, drunk with nocturnal fatigue, wondering and wandering in mental etceteras and run-ons.

How did I get here?

I came here to pursue my writing. I came here to build.

It’s much harder to believe in yourself when there are no voices distracting you and the only obstacle is the stability of your commitment.

A few months ago I thought it was hard to admit that I was afraid to be a writer, and what that would entail. Now, it is much harder to stop admitting it. I am afraid. I am afraid. I am afraid. Paralysis.

Over the past few years, my ceiling and I have had hundreds of stare-downs at night, unable to rest. No blinking, no answers, just silence.

Today someone told me a quote that slightly helped me move past my paralysis, “Tell me what you will do your one, wild, precious life.” I think the poet’s name was Mary Oliver.

One, wild, precious life.

You, I, we…we only get one. One life.

Paralysis is wastefulness.

If I could recommend one book to read by the end of 2007, it would be The Alchemist. A simple, few hours duration of reading, powerful book. A graceful story about a boy, destiny, and fear.

If you are a searcher, read this book. If you are wanting to give up everything for a dream, read this book. If you don’t know what you want, read this book. If you believe, read this book.

I re-entered the world, after finishing it, believing again in myself, my ability to control my fear, signs, the Universe, power, and the gift of Choice.

If you are anything like me, trying to win a battle against fear, hold fast this book.

Always Gendering

Published on by Lisa Category: Feminist Photojournalism

In my travels to the west coast, I traveled to the most indulgent city EVVVVERRRR, Las Vegas.

Despite my first time luck at the slots, I was more interested in the surrounding images. My feminist camera clicked clicked clicked to make the seemingly unknown connections between images, power, and gender for the common gambler. The sexualizing of everything woman, the porn industry mainstreaming into shopping malls – it’s enough to make one feminist crazy. What do womyn do with all images, money, gendering, cheapening, and power?

Well, there’s at least one billboard that tries to help. After a while, this feminist photographer started getting a bit sick to her stomach and stopped clicking. It’s hard to imagine how some folks still don’t GET IT when it comes to the sexualization of women.

As with the rest of the world, I left Vegas loving it and hating it. I’m awesome like that. I do a great job of living in the grey.



Always Gendering

Published on by Lisa Category: Feminist Photojournalism

In unraveling the mystery of gender roles and understanding the impact of imaging through cultural messages, I took pictures of a few of my findings in Vegas.

Roll money and gender, power and sex, pleasure and alcohol and you have the most sexualized images for consumers. It’s not news that the sexualization of women is positioned to sell ideas, experiences, and objects, but it’s difficult for the feminist mind to wrap itself around the ubiquitous nature of sexualization found in Vegas. And when faced with gigantic pictures of women, there’s plenty of reminders to buy your way to fulfillment. RIGHT.



My Bridge with Gloria

Published on by Lisa Category: Feminism, the Writing process

I wrote this several months ago after reading portions of This Bridge Called My Back.

I sit on a quiet evening, at a white desk with a light, transparent curtain filtering out the summer sun with the scent of strawberries on my breath. In this space, I realize the world is imperfect. I am not, should not be the one to tell you about feminism. We should be hearing it from those who experience the harshest edges of this life. They are the ones who need be telling, who need to be talking. Am I qualified to write this? Am I enough? Who am I to say, demand anything from anyone?

DAY ONE
I write this because Amazon just delivered my ordered feminist books written by women of color. Their covers simple, their language comforting, I tore into each one, fumbling, excited, completely unaware of anything except the feel of their legacy in my fingertips.

I wonder if I will fit. Will their words find me? Will I be loved between these pages? Will I finally, somehow belong, even if it just to a ghost speeches, to thunder that clapped before I was born?

For some reason, I begin remembering the way I used to sign letters. I would write “With you,” I thought this was the most intimate form of goodbye that I could muster. I had never known or witnessed anyone else to bid farewell and I often asked others Do you like it? I was always concerned with if it was acceptable. No one ever gave me a straight answer. I stopped writing, With You and went back to tradition Sincerely, Best, Much Love and hated signing my name to such commonality, such Insincerity, not MY Best, and it wasn’t ALL my Love, just much of it. But I never wrote With You again. I didn’t want to be over intimate, too much.

I opened Bridge and read a stirring letter from Gloria Anzaldua. My heart breaking off into pieces of joy with each resounding verbal explosion.

I thought my heart vanished for a moment when I read her signature farewell. She signed off:

Contigo, Gloria.

Contigo.

With You.

Euphoric joy over such simple and trivial alliances can usher the outsider inside the room, away from the door, away from the cold air of isolation.

DAY TWO
I am pacing, my self-doubt returning. My shelf is screaming, pleaing with me No More Books. Stop Buying your worth and knowledge! I close and lock the door, unpack groceries and eye Bridge. I put it down. I feel schizoid. Comfort. I need comfort. Quickly, pulling off my clothes and bra, my butt covered in my favorite underwear: a green dinosaur on the hip of coral satin. Falling in love with the soft sunlight streaming through the apartment windows. Do I write that I write naked? What would people think after such a disclosure? Who in the world would understand how I feel a sense of liberation when I feel the heat of a screen on my breasts, or loving the cool slick paper against my stomach? I almost reach for my shirt, but reach Bridge instead. Casually, without direction, the book opens itself.
Ah yes. Another letter from Gloria. It begins

Dear mujeres de color, companion in writing – I sit here naked in the sun, typewriter against my knee trying to visualize you.

It is at this moment that I no longer wonder if I am qualified, insane, misplaced. I have so much to say, it matters not in how I say it or in what attire I address the world. What matters is my voice, my ability to record what is happening in my lifetime, to note the progress, to annotate the struggles. It is at this moment that I am no longer fearful if I am accepted or acceptable. What I have to say is worth three rocks at the moon, and cupful of the ocean. What I am is worth more than my body, outlasting even the most beautiful meadows, and stronger than any quake. There will be interruptions. I do not know everything. I am so very human and real. True equality evades me, us, women of color, and I cannot pretend otherwise. The denial of such a truth is no longer passivity and reluctance, but swallowing and stirring the spoon of poison and evil.

Gloria, you saved me, with your nakedness and Contigo, you built a bridge before I was even conceived. And as I cross the bridge you built, I know you will accept what I have to say when I write that you were mistaken about something. You write We can’t transcend the dangers, can’t rise above them. We must go through them and hope we won’t have to repeat the performance.

I, we, the women of color of this generation are living through what you hoped would not come to pass again. But we are not afraid. I know the movement is far from over and my time has arrived to speak. My truth has been delivered. I would rather die than be silent anymore

I’m Not a Slacker, Just Extremely Transient

Published on by Lisa Category: Uncategorized

As you can tell, I am going through what most would call a transition.

I would call it a neck breaking rollercoaster of deep seeded life changes. Everything hurts.

I am leaving for more travels for the next 12 days and my blogging likely will reflect that.

Foolishly, I have underestimated the fatigue associated with travel and newness.

Moving, healing, and resting. That is my current cycle. The last one is difficult to find time.

I’m doing my best.

Transition’s Velocity

Published on by Lisa Category: Mixed Media and Poetry

Tomorrow is my last day of work and I am unprepared for it. For as keen as I am to move on, that doesn’t mean I want to leave it a mess for my successor.

While my travels and exhaustive job ‘n moving process continue, art delivers much therapeautic relief lately. My new photoproject, “Transition’s Velocity,” will explore the driving forces of my emotional psyche these days.