'ello there.

Sorry if you're wondering where all the entries are. This journal is friends only. If you'd like to be added, by all means, feel free to leave me a comment. ;-)

"How much do we remember of what hurts us most?  I've been thinking about pain, how each of us constructs our past to justify what we feel now.  How each successive pain distorts the preceding.  Let's say I remember sunlight as a measurement of this story, how it changed the shape of the family portrait.  My father shields his eyes and makes his face a shadow.  He could be anyone then, but my eyes are closed in teh photo.  I cannot remember what I was thinking."
--Sherman Alexie, The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fist Fight in Heaven
 
People have asked me what it's been like to be back in the same country, same province, same university I studied at five years ago.  Has much changed?  Do you have a better understanding of how you've changed, if you have?
 
I think the best way to describe it would be to have you imagine with me a letter from a loved one.  It's written on simple lined paper, black ink scratching thoughts in impeccably straight lines across the page.  You've read and re-read the short paragraphs, refolded them again and again so that the creases in the page, like laugh lines on your mother's face, are just as integral to the letter as the words themselves.  You know, or rather you have held, interpreted, felt this letter repeatedly, so many times you know it by heart, by smell, by memory.  Now, years later, the author of the letter calls you.  You hear the same voice, changed over time, yet still familiar.  It cuts through your built-up memories yet also reinforces them--offering you another vision of something you'v'e come to know so well.
And that, pretentiously, is what it's like to be back--So much has changed in me, in South Africa, in Pietermaritzburg, yet so much remains disconcertingly familiar and eerily reassuring. 
 
This past week, the Zulu lessons marched on remorselessly, albeit in a change of location.  We were each placed in families in Imbali, a Zulu township on the outskirts of Pietermaritzburg (PMB, it gets long to write!).  Yet it was clear from the start that we were hardly dropped off at random--some of the largest, nicest homes in the township housed our new families (and us for the week).
 
Imbali is a township, a holdover euphemistic apartheid-era term for the gathering of blacks in a relatively controlable area.  Yet the location is hardly monolithic by class; our neighborhood, Imbali 3 & J, was situated in a far more posh end of the location.  The streets may have initially seemed haphazardly placed, but they were paved, connected to full sewers and the occasional streetlight where Pietermaritaburg's Georges and Weezy's enacted their middle class aspirations through second home-additions and following the seductive advertisements promising bourgeois security, glamour, or both that blared constantly from prominently placed televisions in every home.
 
Speaking of televisions, I watched more in Imbali than I have in the past year--the compicated, luxurious lives of the elites in South Africa's myriad primetime soap operas were a source of constant conversation for my family (one of the more painful discussions was mentioned in my last message) but soap operas also privided fertile ground for debates over urban versus rural Zulu identity--did the Zulu woman who moved to Johannesburg still have to follow convention morality dictated to her by ugogo wakhe (her grandmother) in KwaZulu-Natal now that she was a big-city graphic designer mingling with all ethnic groups and social classes?  These conversations took place over constant food--from semp and beans to curry and rice, to mealie-pap (a cornmeal porridge vaguely like grits) or ujeqe (steam-bread) and even the dreaded inyama yephakathi (tripe, liver, and other internal organs of the cow--which i tried to eat.  TRIED)--as we sat and discussed the crazy world around us and the relatively sedate neighborhood in which we resided.
 
Not that Imbali was totally ideal or bourgeoistastic.  Alcohol abuse is a daily reality for many of the families we met in Imbali, and there is a level of desperation in the drinking that is, well, sobering.  In my free time, I picked through my copy of Sherman Alexie's The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fist Fight In Heaven, and found disconcerting parallels in hopelessness, cycles of drunkenness, and tenacious bonds of love in Imbali.  There were several community celebrations the week we lived in Imbali, and the sight of families drinking into stupors, and several older men grabbing me affectionately and alternately crying over long-lost mistakes or previous issues was incredibly disconcerting and brought back awkward flashbacks to my own personal memories that I'd rather forget.  A worsening economy and increasing unemployment does not help the heavy drinking problem that exists in Imbali (and elsewhere), and it's a heavy reality indeed to understand.
 
Not all wine was for physical escape however; once a week, my teetotalling family took a trip for a sip of wine at the local Catholic church, in which they were dedicated and active worshippers.  So much was eerily familiar about Catholic services entirely in Zulu, and I knew the kneeling and standing times well from my years at Bishop Montgomery High School in California, but my continued learning of Zulu was readily apparent in my stumbling through the Lord's Prayer, Hail Mary, and utter inability to understand the priest's homily either Sunday I attended.  To make the experience perhaps more frustrating, the entire church service was 3 and a half hours long, although it was filled with a holy reverence, and a joyful dancing and communal celebration that is hard to really describe here.  Church was the highlight of our family's weekend social plans; but each school day we traveled from Imbali to Scottsville, the cozy academic suburb south of town that plays host to the University of KwaZulu-Natal (and by extension, us).  To do so involved travel on two different amakhumbi or minibus taxis, the most popular form of public transport in South Africa.  Riding a khumbi is definite an exercise in endurance and not for the faint of heart--you're crosed into a van that must ft about fifteen people, and forced to fill it rapidly, as the driver yells and shouts.  Then while beginning the drive, people begin passing coins forward, saying how many passengers and what distance.  God help you if you're sitting near the front, as your'e suddenly cramped between otehr people, counting bills and deciphering destinations, potentially dispersing change and keeping track of the hells of simple math--while house music rains down at the loudest human decibel.  Oh, and it's 7 am and you're on your way to school.  And you're tired.  Did I mention it's 7 am?
 
Alrighty, people, I realize I've written the longest update ever here, so I'll try and wrap it up quckly here with three final things.  First, one of my friends from back home that I've know for a very long time, Todd Sato, passed away last week.  My Zulu family prayed for him on Wednesday night with me, and it was really difficult to even imagine that one of the kindest, most sincere and loving men I have ever met was gone, so suddenly.  It's still a bit hard, as I'm sure it is for many of the people that wer touched by Todd's life.  The same day I heard the news about Todd I met with Dr. Jon Draper, a fantastic professor in theology and history who has written extensively on Christian missionaries in nineteenth century colonial Natal and Zululand.  We had a wonderful conversation and he both encouraged my work and urged me to get in touch with other professors, offering me archival materials and directions and guidance in the Pietermaritzburg central archives downtown (I'm checking them out tomorrow).  Finally, tomorrow I have a bizarrely fantastic opportunity--having met a high school history teacher, I will be giving a 90 minute lecture on Civil Rights Movements (black, Latino, Asian, women's, LGBT) in America to 70 twelfth graders.  I'm so excited and horribly nervous.  OMG, It'll be awesome.  And so begins a three day break from Zulu, which will be lovely....
...except we have midterms on Monday adn Tuesday when we return.  Damn.  And in about ten days we leave for the rural Zulu village where we'll stay for two weeks.  Holy crap!
 
Thanks friends for your awesome supprot and encouragement and emails.  I'll have more pictures next time, and I'm also posting some on both facebook and http://www.flickr.com/elefuntboy .  I love to hear how you're doing, dont' hesistate to write back.
 
Miss you guys and learning lots,
Teej

"Ukugwaza.  As long as someone's getting stabbed, it's -gwaza."
 
--Dr. Audrey Mbeje, our Zulu instructor, on the finer points of using the verb ukugwaza.
 
It's currently 8:35 am in Pietermaritzburg, I've been up for nearly three hours, I'm overcaffeinated, and true to form, my newly released afro is all over the place, including in front of my eyes as I'm trying to process and type this email.
 
It seems all manner of things have transpired in a few short days.  We've joked on a rather constant basis that being on the Zulu GPA is rather akin to being a contestant on a reality TV program; it feels a little too easy to say, "This is the story of fifteen strangers, picked to live in a university, to find out what happens when people stop being polite...and start learning Zulu."
 
That is to say, the fifteen of us rapidly bounce off each other in our tightened little artificial social circle, and frequently grate, wear, or otherwise impact each other as we move through the compacted social ether.  In a way, it's a lot like kindergarten, where forced proximity creates a heightened sense of angry conflict but then compels you seconds later to make up and reshuffle group dynamics.  In a word, it can be pretty damn exhausting, and I have to very frequently step back and remind myself that my identity is in no way wrapped up in the esteem of my fellow travelers and that we are all in a very strange surreal world.  It occasionally helps me to have grace in my interpresonal relationships, although I'm the first to admit that I still need work on that!
 
It is in this vein that the Southern African idea "umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu" comes to mind.  The term literally translates as "A person is a person [only] through other people," and the idea of existing as a human only in community with others is simultaneously very basic and profoundly challenging to my individualistic existence.  These things have been bouncing around in my head this week as I've begun to adjust to living with a new family and with taking in new cultural frontiers.
 
The first frontier was the celebration of Nomkhubulwane, an ancient Zulu fertility/virginity goddess, whose ritual had been revived in the mid 1990s particularly to check virginity with the rise of HIV/AIDS and as an effort to combat teen pregnancy.  I had no idea at all what to expect, and was nervous and confused as to what would occurr when we arrived.  We showed up to a vast empty field, filled with grass and the occasional goat.  The cleared space boasted three massive tents, and a large clearing.  And the arrival of hundreds upon hundreds of teenaged girls, all topless, wearing a small beaded skirt and many a beaded necklace.  It was definitely not in my usual cultural milieu, to be sure.  The amatombazane (girls), spent hours dancing in the hot sun before members of the Zulu royal family and local dignitaries following a traditional 'virginity inspection' by Zulu elder women (and a secondary observation from Department of Health officials).  The girls cleared as virgins were allowed to take part in teh dance, which was epic, long, and punctuated by men and women dressed as Zulu soldiers performing what coudl best be described as war dances.  (The idea of cross-dressing warrior women was absolutely fascinating, and I really want to know more).
 
It seemed we'd barely had time to process when we were driven out of the immediate limits of Pietermaritzburg to the township of Imbali, a Zulu township established during apartheid.  Each of us was to be housed with a Zulu family for the week, and adopted, sharing dinner and breakfast, before takgin two minitaxis into town every morning (a forty minute adventure every day).
 
My family is a female only household, not an entirely rare sight in either South Africa or the United States.  I have three sisters, aged 17, 16, and 8, N, Z, and L, the hardworking, sturdy and funny mother, E.N., and wise cracking ugogo (granny), the seventy-five, bed-ridden, spicy-tongued, G.S..  They are all devoutly Catholic, and I was treated to the experience fo a three hour Zulu-language Mass on Sunday, where I was one of three "white" people.
 
Speaking of, in Zulu parlance, I am a umlungu, or white person, just as much as the blond haired, blue eyed members of our group.  This is difficult to process when you've spent your life explaining to Americans that you're not *just* black, and that your white parentage should be understood; now in South Africa, my black father (and my phenotypical traits from afro to light brown skin) are ignored, or said "not real" markers of blackness.
 
I coudl go on and on in my tragic mulatto whining, but I will only share an incredibly frustrating story from Imbali to summarize my feelings of intense dislocation on occasion.  Last night, we watched a TV soap opera, "Scandal!"  That featured a mixed marriage between a Zulu man and an Indian woman.  N, my oldest sister, looked at me and asked "Do you think different races should marry?"
 
I responded, "well my parents did, and I'm thankful for it.  Remember that I'm half black, half white?"
 
"Yeah, but do you think they should mix?"
 
"Um, of course."
 
"Well I don't," Z said, twisting a strand of hair loosely in her fingers.  "I could never marry a white man.  Our children would be coloured and they'd simply be unable to function in society." 
 
"That's right," seconded Nomkhosi.
 
I stared in open-mouthed shock, forgetting that culture, race, and identity are differing terms in other countries, adn English in this case has meanings that are unexpected and hide behind different histories here in SA.  And my cultural filters wen tout the window.  I'm feeling like bangigwaze right now.  They have stabbed me with loaded words that I'm not sure how to understand.
 
"I'm deeply offended, adn really hurt you said that, Z.  What does that make me in your eyes?  I exist, I function.  I can't deal with you both right now."
 
I shut down, and retreated to my room sitting there reading a bok, angrily, while I tried to choke back anger and confusion.  N knocked on the door, hesitantly, later.
 
"Ngiyaxolisa," she said. "I'm sorry.  I don't get why you're mad, but I know we shouldn't have said that."
 
And there's the rub, eh?  Yes, there are teachable moments, and if these were 15 and 17 year olds in San Diego, I'd be on sure footing and I'd be confident.  But I'm not.  I'm 25 and lost in a language I dont' entirely understand, translating words that mean different things in teh Rainbow Nation, and deciphering clues to my own identity and other peoples in the midst of a township where we spend our days playing soccer in the street and watching America's Next Top Model Reruns on SABC1 playing from 2006.  It seems I've been appointed America's Next Top Coloured.
 
That's not to say that I'm despondent or unreachable.  It means that in navigating my own vast positionality and personal issues, I'm struggling to make sense of where I fit into all of this, and even the colonial politics of a umlungu studying settlers learnign Zulu and carryign with him his own racial past, his own issues, and the reality of American might and imperial history in his own knapsack.
 
So I've much to process of late, and I'm sorry thsi may nto be the best of emails in terms of witty escapades, but I'm keeping this one real.  I've a lot to work through and a lot to think of, and I'm grateful to do it with you all listening.
 
Ngiyabonga kakhulu (thank you much),
 
T.J.

"Yebo, amabutho kaJoji waseNgilandi aqotho impela.  Okwempela uJoji nami singabanawe; usebanqobile bonke abamhlophe njengoba nami ngibanqobile abamnyama.  Akenisho, uJoji lona muhle njenganmi na?"
Inkosi uShaka kaSenzangakhona (1787-1828)
 
"Yes, the armies of George IV of England are strong indeed.  In fact, George and I are brothers.  He has defeated all of the white people whereas I have defeated all of the blacks.  But tell me, is King George good looking like me?"
King Shaka (1787-1828)
 
Yes, that was what I had to translate today.  The Napoleon of Southern Africa, one of the greatest military strategists of all time, and one of his first questions was whether or not he was hotter than King George.

[By the way, you be the judge.  Shaka:  http://www.whsliberalarts.org/zulu-king-shaka-zulu.jpg
George: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/d7/George_IV_van_het_Verenigd_Koninkrijk.jpg
 
 I know, I know.]
 
But this is a typical day in Pietermaritzburg now: I get up at 6 am , go for a run, shower, grab a cup of coffee at a local cafe while reading Zulu, then head to class at 830, where I either do grammar, read Zulu literature or stories, and learn tons of new vocabulary and tenses (remote past progressive, anyone?) before a tea break and then a lunch break at 12:45.  From then it's either Zulu writing or Zulu history from 2-4, then tutoring in speaking Zulu from 5-7, then homework from about 7-9.  That is, when we're not watchign the surprising successes of both the U.S. and the South African (bafanabafana) soccer teams!
 
This past weekend was a definite break from routine, however.  Saturday we all tramped out for a visit to Ecabazini, which is a traditional Zulu farm run by a white man (*i know*) who speaks fluent Zulu and has been accepted by the local community and even is in training to become a sangoma, or a traditional herbal healer.  The farm has two components, a real, self-sustaining farm populated by rural Zulus that make a living off their products and that is green and self-sustaining to the point that they make their own electricity and produce their own propane (from cow dung--which was pretty dang amazing), and the other part is a 'show' kraal or umuzi (homestead), that demonstrates rural Zulu lives, traditions, and cultural values.  It's a pretty amazing place.
 
We fumbled in our Zulu for words like cattle raising, government plans, and the verb to milk, but then we got hands on experience doing everythign from milking Zulu cattle to cleaning a traaditional Zulu homestead.  Zulu traditional homes (izindlu) are made with packed dirt floors often taken from termite nests for added strength.  And in order to clean these floors, after they've been muddied by rain or excessive tracking, you have to resurface them.
 
 
With cow dung.
 
Guess whose job that was?
 
Yep.  For those of you who have seen the film "Amelie,"  remember the early scene where she thinks records are made like pancakes?  As in they're spread on in a thick shiny coating that is then thinned and made even?  You don't?  Well, that's what T.J. did on Satufday, except using wet cow shit in his hands over a dirt floor.
 
And yes, it was awesome.  DOnt' be jealous.
 
 
We also had a fantastic day trying Zulu steamed bread (ujeqe), and roasted beef (inyama yenkomo yosilwe).  We then were tricked into attempting Zulu dancing with everyone.  Mercifully, I do not believe there are pictures of this.  I will be including pictures of me spreading poop on a floor to clean it in the next email, however.  So be excited!
 
Finally, Sunday dawned bright and clear, our first free day of the trip.  Even more coincidentally, my advisor at Illinois was in Durban (40 miles or so away), and we made plans to hang out, because, quite frnkly, nothing is more awesome than meeting your academic hero/life coach/friend/life-urger whilst sitting on the Indian Ocean.  I took a khumbi, a tightly packed taxi (that in the past five years since I was last here are now officially regulated vehicles, interestingly enough), that took an hour to drive to eThewkini, the coastal city of Durban, at the amazing price of 40 rand (approx. $5).
 
Professor Burton had her entire family in tow, and we frolicked along the boardwalk and aquarium of uShaka Marine World, the very South African complex of tourist spot/odd historical statement, named after both the Zulu king and the loan word for 'Shark.'  We then dipped our toes in the Indian Ocean after a day filled with manata rays, sharks, and lengthy complex conversations on postcolonialism and positionality.   It restored my energy for anotehr week of learning.
 
I think that wraps this update up, but next week I'm leaving for a weeklong stay in Imbali, the Zulu township outside of Pietermaritzburg, where I'm staying with a local Zulu family.  I won't lie.  I'm nervous.
 
And excited.
 
Your poop smearing comrade in arms,
 
T.J.

Sanibonani abangane bami, umndeni wami, futhi umuntu omuthandwa,
(Hello there, my friends, family, and people I love):
 
For those of you who might not know, I am currently in KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa, for the next two months, on an intensive Zulu language program, sponosred by Fulbright-Hays, the University of Pennsyvlania, and the University of KwaZulu-Natal, Pietermaritzburg (where I studied abroad for six months in 2004).
 
I left the U.S. on the morning of  Thursday, June 11, and began a ridiculously long cavalcade of flying, missed connections, getting lost, and racing to places.  I spent a week and a half or so in Los Angeles before leaving, saying goodbye and hello to friends and family, and then began this crazy ride.  I nearly missed my connecting flight from Atlanta to Johannesburg, and then endured the fascinating reality of fifteen hours spent traveling in one single plane flight with no stops.  Gah.
 
I emerged, disoriented, on Friday night with nine other students whereupon we discovered we'd missed our flight connection to Durban, and would have to spend the night; the plane company put us up for free at a local hostel, and we landed on Saturday afternoon in eThekwini (Durban in isiZulu).  Meeting us at teh airport was Doctor Audrey Mbeje, a professor at UPenn and our instructor here, a bright bubbly woman with a halo of curls and a piercing, warm laugh.  We spent the weekend tryign to make sense of our extreme jet-lag and our new location in South Africa by exploring the city, practicing our tentative Zulu, and rejoicing in the plethora of mistakes we made with a new language adn a new country.
 
The minute we arrived at the motel we were staying at for the weekend, the staff (informed that we were isiZulu students), greeted us entirely in isiZulu and stressed that they would be helping us practice.  Nothing helps you learn words like key, door, flight, wake-up, juice, help, and pillow like a full immersion hotel stay ;).
 
Also, one of the waitresses at the hotel restaurant asked us all eagerly what our Zulu names were.  I hadn't received one in class, so I said tentatively, "Anginagama lwesiZulu" (I don't have a Zulu name), to which she responded, "Ngifuna ukuqamba wena." (I want to name you.)
 
So she did.  Zulu naming is often based on immediatley visible physical traits, which can be a bit distressing, so I was a little nervous.  However, Phumuzile looked at me, sized me up, and pronounced: "uS'dudla."  Which literally means....  The Thick One.
 
I am a winner.
 
So, my Zulu name is basically "The Thick Guy."  I prefer to think of myself as a brick house, mighty mighty. 
 
Sunday saw us taken around on a tour by a woman named--I kid you not--Shiny Bright, a sixty-odd British woman who doubled as a tour guide and had lived in South Africa for over three decades.  Her white skin was wrinkled and threaded with laugh lines like a crinkled piece of paper, and her frizzy red hair stood all around her looking ever so much like the mane of a rogue lion.  Shiny's eyes darted back and forth like goldfish in a bowl as she energetically explained and itemized and discussed every facet of KwaZulu-Natal, Durban, apartheid, and race relations---not without her own awkward commentary, such as "The Zulus are such a happy people, it's so good to see them working!" (what the hell?)  Still, her royal Shiny Brightness won points for effort and heart, and it was hard to not be won over at least partially by her (somewhat misplaced) good cheer.
 
Monday we left Durban and headed for Pietermaritzburg, which made me feel entirely confused and delightec to see the city and university I called home for six months in 2004.  I realize now that I was very much changed by that experience, adn the research goals and life path I have now is in part due to what I saw and experienced in ungnumndlovu--The City of the Elephant, the Zulu name for Pietermaritzburg.
 
Life here has been utterly surreal so far.  We have class from 8:30-4:00 every day, with a break for tea, and a break for lunch.  Then we have Zulu language tutoring from 5-7 with language tutors Monday-Thursday.  Fridays are rest days, although we do have writing practice in the afternoons.  Saturdays are generally marked for cultural trips, and Sundays may or may not be for resting (or more travel).
 
My brain feels stretched to bursting each day, like I've had a heavy heavy meal, and then I must process, file, consume, and extract all the information as necessary in order to continue to the next day.  We're breezing through tenses, learning Zulu songs, and rehearsing and repeating Zulu folktales.  It's a lot, but damn is it worth it.  I'm glad to be doing this, and I'm really looking forward to seeing how this changes my research.  I'm also fortunate enough to be in a place specifically hosting much fo the nineteenth century archival research I want to get my hands on, so you know I'm goign to spend a day or two poking through archives with a nerdy cackle of glee unknown by sane peoples.
 
It's been an utterly surreal year so far.  I find myself at a strangely circular point after having finished a year of graduate school and launched into another adventure that takes me back to a life-changing location in my personal history.  Yet more than ever I find myself grateful to be able to study the topics I care so much about, and I feel encouraged as a student, scholar and friend by those of you I'm writing to.  Thank you for your love, and your support, and yoru friendship, and the ridiculous times you've helped me through or listened to me relate.  I'll be sure to keep you in the loop with all my madness as time goes on.
 
Hamba kahle, (Go well)
 
T.J.

Copying Yumi, I'm going to show the top 25 artists I listened to in 2008, according to my last.fm (http://www.last.fm/user/elefuntboy). It's addicting, get one.

Here we go:

25. James Blunt (117 listens) - A constant standby, particularly when I'm feeling down.
24. Beth Orton (121) - Central Reservation is, in my opinion, one of the best albums ever.
23. Kimya Dawson (122) - Leah Smith and the Juno movie made this one happen.
22. Jars of Clay (140) - Constant standby choice when I'm down.
21. The Envy Corps (152) - a new band for '08, and one I've been in love with here in IL. Check out "Keys to Good Living"

20. Natalie Merchant (159) - Pretty consistent again
19. Lily Allen (170) - I finally listened to Alright, Still and realized it's pretty damn good.
18. Enya (175) - Don't judge me.
17. Yann Tiersen (178) - Like you don't love Amelie.
16. Alanis Morissette (180) - She had a new album out, and it was good.
15. Dido (182) - Entirely listened to in the past month, thanks to her new album.
14. Farewell Flight (189) Again, new music for the year, and entirely IL for '08.
13. Eileen Ivers (203) - Acoustic Irish fiddler. Great for paper writing.
12. Coldplay (209) - I did like the new album, but I still love Rush of Blood to the Head
11. Jennifer Knapp (219) - A chick with a guitar who sings about Jesus. Score.

TOP TEN!

10. Tracy Chapman (245) - Always, always love Tracy.
9. Madonna (249) - Hard Candy may have been a let-down, but i gave it an honest effort.
8. Death Cab for Cutie (256) - Loved them so much more after I saw them live.
7. Skye (318). Two years in a row for this amazing British songstress.
6. A Fine Frenzy (346) - recommended by a dear friend, this singer rocked my 2008.
5. Alana Davis (561) - I've loved her now for ten years. 'Nuff said.
4. Regina Spektor (638) - loved her even more in 2007 than 2008, particularly Soviet Kitsch stuff.
3. Shawn Colvin (730) - folk singer i've loved for 15 years now.
2. Sufjan Stevens (741) - What can I say? I moved to Illinois and the album makes sense now!
1. Sarah McLachlan (770) -Hey, she released a best of--And i like it! :)

1. What did you do in 2008 that you'd never done before?
Drove by myself cross-country, stopped teaching at a fantastic high school, began a PhD program, dated a girl with mental illness.

2. Did you keep your New Years Resolutions and will you make more for next year?
No, because I don’t make them.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Yes, three friends, all of whom I know from church. Odd.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
My cat died on New Year’s Eve. He was about 20. I’m a bit heartbroken.

5. What countries did you visit?
Mexico

6. What would you like to have in 2009 that you lacked in 2008?
A greater sense of security/confidence in Illinois and in California.

7. What dates from 2008 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
February 8: I got into PhD programs.
February 15: I went to look at the University of Illinois
April 15: I had to choose a program.
August 1: I moved out of San Diego
August 8: I moved from California and drove across country.
August 12: arrived in Urbana
August 25: 1st classes!
November 30: First snow in Urbana

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
I think getting into 5 PhD programs and picking one that I am very happy with.

9. What was your biggest failure?
This is a hard one to answer in a public journal entry. I think the hardest one was the way things went with a certain someone, and the fact that I still feel guilty for her behavior, even though that’s ludicrious.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Well, I did have the most severe asthma attack since junior high where I passed out in a gym bathroom in November. Awkward. I also got food poisoning on my birthday. Ick.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
Hrm, I dunno, a plethora of clever T-shirts?

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
My mother for being frighteningly supportive. My great-aunt for driving me from Michigan to Illinois because she wanted me not to be afraid of snow. She’s 85!
Antoinette Burton, for being the best advisor in the history of ever. Tholani Hlongwa for making me love Zulu.
Friends in San Diego (Ryan, Ginny, Anna, Greg, Yucan, Diane, CTK), Los Angeles (Kevin, Lori, Chris, Jon), NorCal (Kirk, Gillian), and Illinois (Pradeep, Gloria, Danielle, Esther, Joey, Archana, Nicolle, Liz, Rachel)

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
Evonne. Friends who voted for Prop 8 and tried to cover it up or didn’t want to deal with bigotry. Someone who called me the N-word here in Illinois.
My father, 24 years running.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Rent and food. Ridiculous t-shirts.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Starting my PhD. Driving across America!

16. What song(s) will always remind you of 2008?
I’m so glad you asked, here are my top 10 songs that make me think of 2008:
10. Justin Nozuka “After Tonight”
9 Charlotte Sometimes “I Could Just Kill A Man”
8 Jordin Sparks “One Step At A Time”
7 Farewell Flight “Widower”
6 Kate Nash “Nicest Thing”
5 Tracy Chapman “Taken”
4 The Dandy Warhols “You Were the Last High”
3 Say Hi To Your Mom “Let’s Talk About Spaceships”
2 Adele “Chasing Pavements”
1 Dido “Don’t Believe in Love”

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a. more happy or more sad?
both. I’m happier with where I am, but there’s a much deeper struggle there.
b. thinner or fatter?
Definitely heftier
c. Richer or poorer?
Considerably poorer

18. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Enjoying my proximity to the ocean.

19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Stressing, or avoiding issues by doing extra work.

20. How will you be spending New Years Eve?
I spent it with friends in Oakland, drinking wine and celebrating.

21. What was the most embarrassing thing that happened to you in 2008?
I can’t narrow it down to one.

22. Did you fall in love in 2008?
One big crush.

23. How many one - night stands?
I’m gonna have to say none.

24. What was your favorite TV program?
Heroes was replaced by Dexter, Weeds, and 30 Rock

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
I don’t know if I hate anyone currently. Although there are one or two I don’t’ think I’ll ever speak to again.

26. What was the best book you read?
Too Late The Phalarope by Alan Paton, Lying Days by Nadine Gordimer, The Reader by Bernhard Schlink, and The Grass Is Singing by Doris Lessing.

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Oh maaaaan. Hrm. Farewell Flight. Mason Jennings. Envy Corps. Charlotte Sometimes. Adele. Kate Nash. Little Jackie. Be Good Tanyas. Rosie Thomas. Jonathan Coulton. Lykke Li. 2008 was a fantastic year for me to learn more music.

28. What did you want and get [in general]?
into a PhD program. :)

29. What did you want and not get?
Proposition 8 to not pass.

30. What was your favorite film of this year?
I don’t think I had a particular stand-out this year, honestly.

31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I turned 24, and went to teach high school as usual. My students made me cakes and gave me hugs. I ended up getting rather inebriated and food poisoned that night, however.

32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
More time to sit and appreciate what I was leaving behind. And no snow.

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2008?
Edgy t-shirts, excessive bracelets, and a hankerin’ for flip-flops and uncombed hair.

34. What kept you sane?
Jesus, amazing friends, and Vh1’s trashy reality shows, which I watch constantly.

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Kate Winslet replaces 2007’s Helena Bonham Carter.

36. What political issue stirred you the most?
Presidential Election/Prop 8.

37. Who do you miss?
Here goes: Kevin, Lori, Mo & Jason, Anna, Greg, Yucan, mom, grandma, Griggs, Ginny, Gillian, Kirk.

38. Who was the best new person you met?
Pradeep, Gloria, Archana, Joey, Danielle, Josh, Janine, Natalie. Thank you, Illinois.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2008.
Sometimes you need to take that leap into the unknown and embrace what happens next. And pray.

Current Location: Sacramento, CA
How am I feeling?:: curious

I am so lucky. So lucky.

I stepped off the plane Friday night, cold, tired, exhausted, confused. And took one look at my mother, who just smiled at me simply and said, 'welcome home.' And I teared up wearily, thankfully.

I slept fitfully and woke up to a beautiful crystal clear Saturday. Josh Callow came up for breakfast, and we sat at Gaffey Street Diner.

"How are ya hon? We've missed you, and we're proud of you," the waitress said, refilling my coffee. "I'm glad you came back!"

Josh and I stood at the Korean Friendship Bell and looked at the ocean, placid and blue and vast, while we talked about life and hopes over the rolling green hills. Pradeep sent me a text message. I felt odd that friends in Illinois miss me. I felt happy.

Mom and I had dinner and watched movies together. Kev called, and we went to the pier and walked, got coffee and talked, went and saw Milk. Pontificated on silly life stories. Reflected on fifteen years of friendship.

Drove Mom's car on Sunday. Driving an SUV with the license plate "TAZ MOM" is a bit irregular. Prayers at starbucks followed by church at gvbc. Hugs for people I consider near-family. Left quietly after church, went to coffee cartel, favourite spot since high school. Drank espresso, thought about life. Sat and looked at the beach and teared up while listening to Kate Nash on the iPod.

All I know is that you're so nice. You're the nicest thing I've seen... she whispered as I watched waves echo back and forth, dancing over sand, ebbing and flowing. It's 0 degrees in Urbana today. And sixty-three here.

I am home, and I'm crying on a beach in Redondo remembering mistakes in the past and the man I want to become somewhere in the future. Vaguely I realize there's sand in my afro.

I wish that you needed me. I wish that you knew that when I said 'two sugars' actually I meant three

Sandwiches with mom. Funny stories. Laughter. Worry about the cat. Why is he nearly 20 and so thin? He eats ravenously, yet is skeletal and feeble. He is losing control over his bodily functions, to the detriment of the couch and rugs. We mention putting him down. I pretend not to notice the tears in my mom's eyes and she doesn't point out my hands are shaking.


Monday morning comes. Rain nonstop. Laugh at the fact that I feel cold. I get dressed and realize the cat has peed on the pair of jeans I left on my bedroom floor. I swear silently and change. Adrian picks me up. Go to Rex's Diner. Jose the waiter hugs me and asks about my mom, totalmente en espanol and refuses to hear me in English. I comply and decir que voy a estar aqui por un mes. Estoy feliz aqui. No quiero regresar. Adrian stirs his coffee and talks about hope while the rain continues to fall. Mom calls and I tell her about the cat. We pretend we're not worried. Pradeep texts again.

Come home. Adrian's given me a pie. I sneak a taste. My dad sends me a text message. He knows I wont' call. He asks tentatively via text if I'm home. I say yes, he writes "I miss u" I wonder if he realized that choosing mistresses and beatings over quality timewould come back to him some day. i text back noncommittally. Edwin calls. He's late. He comes, looking irritable. We go to the Loft for lunch. Sweet Jesus, I've missed spam musubi and hawaiian lunch plates. no one knows what saimin is in Illinois. Philistines. Edwin pours his heart out. I listen detached. We go for a walk. He probes on my fears and dreams. He looks at me intently. Are you happy? I grow silent. We share deeply over poorly made lattes in the del amo starbucks. Christmas rushes make everyone impatient.



i wish you couldn't figure me out, but you'd always want to know what i was about


Edwin hugs me before he leaves, thanks me for hanging out. I can only say the same, and mean it. Daniel calls and picks me up. I'm beginning to feel a bit like a d-level celebrity, one meriting pick ups. We get Mexican food. We laugh, exchange ridiculous inside jokes. I realize I've seen nothing but awesome people today. We plan on seeing Slumdog millionaire, but we're waaaay early for the show. So we get coffee. Then go to del amo. Then I run into random people. andrew butt; stephanie, my dental hygenist. other friends. Buy christmas gifts. feel broke/excited--brokecited?--anyway, get ready to see movie. Get emotional, excited, angry. Love every minute. Run into high school friends, matt, megan, myriam. Realize they're old like me. Feel so lucky.

Daniel and I talk about deep stuff on the ride home. I thank him and tell him he's a wonderful friend. He murmurs a response. Walk in front door. Start to cry. Mom sleepily asks what I'm doing at 1 am. I tell her I'm loved. She smiles and says, "did you ever doubt it?" I smile and shrug away the doubts. I tell her I'm lucky to be loved by a family and have friends that pick me up and talk to me about life. She concurs. We avoid the cat topic, save for a lighthearted joke. I tell her I love her. She tells me igualmente and sleeps.

I sit down at the computer and listen to kate nash and ani difranco and regina spektor and stare at the christmas tree. the lights twinkle and i feel loved. I wonder if this is all a dream. if im going to wake up and feel cold and lonely in illinois in the morning. i decide to pray. my mom yells from the bedroom if i'm on facebook again. perhaps it's time to go to bed.

sufjan stevens comes on and i sit in the quiet glow of the living room, surrounded by twinkling lights. i've made a lot of mistakes in my mind. i gingerly pick up the cat and pet him. if i was crying in the van with my friends, it was for freedom--for myself and for the land.

How am I feeling?:: curious
What's playing?:: Kate Nash - Nicest Thing

i am home. it is emotional. weird.

Current Location: los angeles

Just so Mo knows that I read LJ about every two weeks now :)



List the ten most random favourite things of yours you can think of (in the order they come to mind). Then tag up to five people.

1. The feelign of a fresh new book, as it is opened for the first time.
2. The British spelling of words, like above.
3.The moment you leave the shower after working out.
4. Drinking hot cocoa while wearing flannel pajamas while it rains/snows outside.
5. Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.
6. Lighting candles.
7.Pea coats.
8. The moment before we sing "Silent Night" in the Christmas Eve service, when it's all dark and quiet.
9. My grandmother.
10. An omelet with mushrooms, bacon, cheddar cheese, avocado, and more bacon, served with hashed browns and flour tortillas.


Least favorite thing - Racism. Hopelessness. Wind chill.


I shan't force anyone to participate, but you are highly encouraged to do so.

Btw, this Joanna Newsom song is fucking amazing. Like serious.

How am I feeling?:: contemplative
What's playing?:: Joanna Newsom - Cosima

It's fall, and the business of colors and coldness are in full swing.  Every day when I walk outside of my house I wade through a pile of crunchy, beautiful flakes of gold beneath my feet and with the smoky tendrils of my breath trailing behind me into the crisp autumn air.  So, this is what they mean by seasons?  I guess it's not too bad.  The colors are fantastic, and the fall is strangely calming in its beauty, even if it is getting a bit cold.

The Fall weather here is even more erratic and temperamental than the high schoolers I used to teach.  Two weeks ago, I left my house on Monday morning to 31 degree weather, only to find that Friday that the weather had soared to 73 degrees.  It's no small wonder that I got sick.  Fortunately, all is well in my house, as my heater works, I have obtained a winter coat, and I'm learning this strangely counterintuitive layering process.  (We 'layer' in California, but not the same way--and what a pretentious thing to say, "dress in layers!"  Doesnt' everyone do that to some extent?)

My classes have been getting even more awesome, and the learning is somewhat overwhelming if freaking fantastic.  Zulu is becoming even more interesting, and Tholani, my self-described "language mama" and Zulu teacher is helping us learn quickly.  The only other graduate student in the class, Rick, is a PhD student in music, focusing on Southern African musical styles.  He was planning a large class lecture on African music in the course he is a Teaching Assistant for, and he asked me and a few other students (as well as Tholani) to perform a Zulu song for the 200 seat undergraduate lecture.  For those of ou tha tknow the pitiful extent of my vocal ability, it was daunting.  But I'm glad I said yes.

Rick had us sing "Shosholoza," a call and response song remembering one's distant home, sung by Africans who were going to work in the mines in the early twentieth century.  Later, the words were used by anti-apartheid activists, and the text has taken on quite a different meaning than its initial statement.  The lyrics are, roughly:

Shosholoza

Ku lezontaba

Stimela siphum' eSouth Africa

Wen' uyabaleka

Wen' uyabaleka

Ku lezontaba

Stimela siphum' eSouth Africa

Which roughly translates to:

Move fast

on those mountains

train from South Africa.

You are running away

on those mountains

train from South Africa.

If you're curious about hearing a fantastic rendition of the song [read: not by me!], click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=saJmOw0GGyI

In describing the song, Tholani told us, that the word "Shosholoza" means to hurry up, or move quickly, but it's also directly related to the way that a train moves.  It imitates the sound of a steam train ("shoo-shoo-shoo") winding its way through the distant mountains on the way to its destination.  Zulu often creates words that are related to their sound (i.e., motorcycle is "isithuthuthu" pronounced "ee-see-too-too-too", the rough approximation of a motorcycle engine), but these also create interesting meanings.  Tholani pointed out that "Shosholoza also means to move forward but in a cursory or winding way, not necessarily in a straight line, in a way that is confused and perhaps disorganized, although full of energy.

"Shosholoza," on that note, seems a fitting way to describe life lately both here and in general.

I'm working on writing a research paper on white anti-racist novels in Southern Africa in the the 1940's and 50's and looking at the ways that white masculinity features prominently in them.  It's pretty dang fun, although I feel a bit overwhelmed in the research and Shosholoza would be an apt way to describe my movements through the labyrinthine stacks of the U of I's 10 million-book library.  I'm basically a less interesting, overweight Indiana Jones of color as I dart and dodge and weave through stacks, looking for books that give me clues to understanding more about the minds and hopes and dreams of these South African and Rhodesian authors.

Of course, on a different note, I'd be remiss if I don't talk about events that are happening on the larger stage.  It was an amazing night for me to watch Barack Hussein Obama win the election and become the 44th President of the United States (eventually).  And I was in the proper state to watch it, as BHO is Illinois' senator.  While I live 120 miles south of Grant Park, we had our own minor celebrations.  I headed to the center of Champaign's "Campus Town," which had been blocked off by impromptu marches, and rallies of joy.  I watched a bunch of college students pull out a huge American flag and shout "U.S.A!" and sing patriotic songs.  And for the first time in a long time, I wasn't immediately, knee-jerk suspicious or uncomfortable or angry.  It was a weird feeling to watch democracy "work" on some level to repudiate the policies of a Presidential administration in hopeful favor of another.  We'll see how this works out, but for that moment, it was deeply beautiful, and wonderfully symbolic to see happen.  I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the simple moment.

Of course the joy and energy and delight of that moment quickly faded in the morning upon hearing of the passage of Proposition 8.  I'd voted absentee from California to help defeat the proposition, and it was incredibly disappointing to see what had happened, even more so to be surrounded by the euphoric joy of Illinois residents, young and old, black and white (and Asian and Latino), who were ecstatic to see what they saw as real change.  It fell to us few Californians to console each other after a devastating loss.  I am still upset, to think of it.  That the legal rights of a group of people are removed from them via a constitutional amendment is just, simply, staggering.  Absolutely staggering.  And what wounds me even more is that people who share my faith, the thing that grounds me so much and governs my actions, used Jesus as their reasons to remove legal rights.  And that some of those self-same people would then tell me that my Christian faith was defective or broken or faulty because it didnt' match theirs.  It's a strangely disolocating feeling to see people celebrate and realize that while for you personally, some barriers have been taken away, for others, the door has slammed shut on their rights.  The next day, while reading the writings of Cuban patriot and revolutionary Jose Marti (whose work is central to the 1895 revolution that began Cuba's final war for independence from Spain), I noticed in his writings he said that the United States was particularly guilty of "the attempt to prevail in the name of freedom by means of ruthless actions in which the rights of others to freedom's methods and guarantees are set aside."  And the phrase "Shosholoza," immediately came to mind.  The wandering notion of traveling in a slow, laborious, often circuitous route, as if by a stimela entabeni (steam train in the mountains).  As freedom is given to some, or at least hope, for others, it is firmly slammed shut.

I found myself bitter on Wednesday morning, and angry at a lot of things, and disappointed in further others.  So I decided to pray.  And go for a walk.  At seven in the morning.  It was cold.  I immediately regretted my choice.  But I'd brought my camera, and the fall colors were beautiful, beckoning, hopeful.  And so I embarked on my own morning shosholoza.  I wandered and prayed among the tree line streets of Urbana, Illinois.  I prayed for the new President.  I prayed for the nation.  I prayed for those who in the arrogant positionality of their own privilege, forgot that it wasn't "just politics."  These were the rights of fellow human beings.  I prayed for my own self-righteousness.  I prayed that I might understand my own identity as a straight, Christian man of color and see my own privilege, my own selfishness, my own arrogance.  And I snapped a heck of a lot of pictures.  I meandered along streets for awhile, and snapped shots, and voiced my frustration, and impatience and anger and annoyance and hope and delight and irritation and sadness.
(If you'd like to see most of those pictures I took, feel free to venture here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/elefuntboy/sets/72157609004455063/)

So how have I been?  On some levels, great, others are strange.  I'm still far less comfortable here than I thought I'd be.  I'm developing friendships that are meaningful, and I like being here, but I don't feel "safe," or "secure" yet.  In other words, it's still obvious to me that I'm not from here.  I'm more self-conscious than I was in L.A. or San Diego.  And that leads me to be occasionally impatient, or tactless, things that weren't nearly as common back home (I think--you all may believe differently!).  And it's frustrating to realize that I'm not nearly as clever or witty or thoughtful as I'd previously believed.  But it's a learning, growing process, and like that train puffing slowly but surely through the high mountains of South Africa, I'm making my own slow, winding path to wholeness and self-discovery.

Current Location: urbana, illinois
How am I feeling?:: contemplative
What's playing?:: Dido - Don't Believe In Love

"It's not about the politics, guys.  It's about the dream.  It's about the fact that---I'm South African, I don't want to be President.  But by looking at Obama, I see that my dreams are possible to.  So are yours.  That is what is important."

Tholani Hlongwa, my Zulu teacher, today after class.

I'm filled with hope regarding Obama, but stunning disappointment regarding California's passing of Prop 8.  And gravely angered/disappointed.  Particularly with my fellow Christians.

So....I kinda had a breakdown moment today.

No I'm not distraught or destroyed, I'm just needing to process this whole month of living in Illinois, I'm feeling alone, I'm feeling out of sorts, I'm tryign to adjust.

And then I feel kinda guilty since of course, today is the seventh anniversary of our nation's collective loss of innocence.

I was packing in preparation for my move into the dorms @ UCSD that Tuesday morning when all the madness happened.

Now, seven years later, what has been accomplished? Are we safer? Are we freer? Have we learned anything from the incident? WAS there anything for us to learn?

Sigh.

How am I feeling?:: contemplative

To celebrate my third week of taking Zulu, I'm going to write very briefly in it, before I go back to the grind of my "working/avoiding work/returning to work guiltily" cycle.

Sawubona. Igami lami ngu T.J. Ngihlala e-Urbana, Illinois. Anginasisi. Anginabhuti. Ngifunda umlando.

Hi there. My name is T.J., I live in Urbana, Illinois, I have no siblings, and I study history.

Sanibona, abangane! Kunjani?
Hey there friends! Wassup?