Melting with or without You


Coincidentally Drastics is on shuffle as I write this, and Bryce is passionately yet politely singing “Melt with You.” His voice speaks to me, as it always does, but tonight particularly because it is quite easy to melt in Jackson. This weekend has been extraordinarily hot, but I have been told that it gets “much more fierce.” I guess I probably shouldn’t have brought my fleeces.

Last week was about Home and home and Place and place and, I think rightly and obviously, not much has changed. It’s still sort of befuddling, as I’m sure it will be for weeks, if not months and years. But this week the P(p)laces became more well-defined. Also I bet there is some nutso person who has coined a term for “P(p)lace,” and if there isn’t, I don’t really want to be the first. Anyway. Place. And place. The things that I think matter most.

As I said at the end of last week’s public journal entry, Molly and Lauren and I went to the International Ballet Competition last Tuesday, and it was simply stunning. Fifteen-to-twenty-five year-olds (that’s a lot of hyphens, I hope they are right) danced for a minute each and were then judged by a panel of super serious looking old people. We went on the last night of the First Round, so that night the dancers would know if they were chosen to proceed to the next round. It was just beautiful watching such talent glide gracefully and jump with such precision. Of course I was reminded not only of the Ballet that Anne and I mastered sophomore spring (give or take a trip to the mall…), and of my favorite and talented Ballet Dancing friends. It felt nice to remember the past while witnessing the present, if that makes sense. We took pictures, accidentally met some of the Ballerinas when we asked them to take our picture and suggested that they, too, “pose like ballerinas” to which they kind of laughed, and I think we collectively realized that attending the Ballet made us feel as if we were part of Jackson, part of a larger community. It really was wonderful.

Otherwise the week was busy. We are preparing for our Education Conference which is a week from tomorrow, which means the Fellows are running around copying things and practicing our sessions and really getting everything ever ready. This week is going to be super crazy, but I am sure it will be fine. It’s shocking that I said that, right?

This weekend we relaxed, went to the pool, talked for a long time with the owner of Two Sisters (the southern eating establishment that I mentioned last week) who, obviously, was at the pool, got ice cream, did laundry, and mostly hang out. I finished reading “Girl with a Dragon Tattoo” which I found quite disturbing but pretty excellent. Last night we went to a housewarming party and then were taken to a great Blues Club, apparently the only place in Jackson that is open past 1am. It is TINY, and stenciled on the wall is the phrase “No Black, No White, Just Blues.” The music was phenomenal, the people were eclectic, and we basically tore up the dance floor. Lauren danced with the sweetest quite old one-armed man, one person wasn’t wearing shoes, and hot dogs were cooking on the grill outside. It was absolutely an experience, I hope we go back.

This morning Lauren and I woke up, got dressed in our finest, and headed to Church. Mt. Helm Baptist Church to be exact, just around the corner from the Smith Roberston, the museum we frequented last weekend. The pastor, CJ Rhodes, is a dynamic 28-year-old graduate of Duke Divinity School, Jackson native (scroll down to read a bit about him-- http://www.lakejunaluska.com/events.aspx?id=10038) . Malkie, who works in our office, got to know CJ through a few Jackson social justice / community service groups, went to hear him preach, and told us that we had to go. Many of you know my ties to black Baptist churches, and I won’t go into them all right now if you don’t, but needless to say, visiting Mt. Helm was almost like visiting Zion Baptist. The Church is basically the same size (tiny), the carpet is red velvet, and the parishioners were some of the friendliest people I have ever met. The choir even sang “Faithful.” CJ was powerful, persuasive, and personal. He preached from Genesis, invoking “Lech L’cha,” so Lauren and I grinned almost the entire time. It was nice to know the scripture even though we forgot to bring our Bibles; a nice woman shared her copy with us, so it was okay. CJ is a phenomenal leader, teacher, and just a really nice guy. We spoke with him after about potential Unity Choir / Freedom Seder ideas and he seemed thrilled. I knew there was a way to bring Beth Am to Jackson.

Perhaps the most interesting thing about this morning’s visit was the ghosts. Or the lack there of. We were almost the only white individuals in Church, an experience with which I am familiar, but this morning it felt different. It was harder—it was different—being in a black church in the south, knowing the role that churches have played in Jackson. Understanding that while it isn’t 1969, in many regards, the Civil Rights Movement hasn’t completely disappeared; we drove for a second past the church and saw a completely different Jackson from the one to which we had been introduced. A Jackson I hope to explore, to get to know.

Usually gospel music puts me in a state of Rapture, but it was different today. I felt like I was intruding on an entirely different level, taking away something that did not belong to me. At one point songs were all that people had—music was what kept the fight going—and there I was singing those songs. Of course my hesitations weren’t reflected in the eyes or the handshakes or the hearts of the parishioners. As I mentioned, they shook our hands, invited us back over and over again, and told us just how happy they were to see us. But I think there are still ghosts. It doesn’t mean that those ghosts are scary, but I think they’re still here. I would like to get to know the ghosts.

Tonight the five of us went to see Toy Story in 3-d, a much needed excursion. Toy Story, like most Pixar movies, is, of course, about Place and place and Home and home. It felt right to watch. It was hilarious, and scary, and also sad. That’s sometimes how I feel, I think. It was funny to watch Andy go to college (I promise that doesn’t spoil the movie), to watch everyone grow up. We all admitted to crying a bit, perhaps because the plot (…well…okay…that’s really stretching it…) speaks to where we might be, or how we think we might feel.

It was nice, at least, to be in an air-conditioned space, a space away from the melting, away from the thrashing of the world. Thank you, Bryce.

To a new week of moving forward,

Love,
Claire

Thalia Mara Hall, International Ballet Competition Headquarters



There we are, in front of the Torch. Yup.


Blues Club!

While Standing on Two Feet

While Standing on Two Feet
June 15, 2010

I found myself brushing my teeth late last night and reciting the Mourners Kaddish, the prayer said in Judaism when you observe the anniversary of a death, or if someone close to you has recently passed. My cousin died last week, a loss that is felt deeply by my family and by her community. I could see the top of my forehead in the mirror as I moved the toothbrush back and forth to the rhythm of my body, swaying to the rhythm of the prayer. As I prayed, I brushed. As I brushed, I prayed.

I was caught off-guard when the Mourner’s Kaddish found its way into my head. It seemed wrong to be wrapped in a towel, standing in my bathroom, reciting the Kaddish with toothpaste in my mouth. I think the place bothered me the most: the bathroom. Was it sacrilegious to repeat ancient text in such an “unholy place?” Probably. But then I started thinking, again, about Place.

It has been difficult to keep this blog up-to-date in part, I think, because of Place. As I round the three-week mark in Jackson, it’s just beginning to hit me that I’m here to stay. I’m not sure if it sunk in after the checks from my new bank account came, or when I was driving to the airport to get Lauren after her weekend at home, but whenever it happened, it felt…well…weird. I am standing, with my two feet planted firmly and my knees slightly wobbling, in a new lowercase place, but I am also in a new capitalized Place—a new Time, a new Chapter. At the same time, I am desperately trying to remember my old Place/place, to hold on to it, to call it when I am lonely, to make sure it does not disappear. And what does “Home” mean now? Where is it? At school, here, at “Home”—the place I grew up, the place I still think I live? Do I really still live there? I guess Home is everywhere, really—it’s wherever we are, and we can’t really lose it. But Place. And place. I don’t want to lose those. I don’t want to leave them behind.

To make matters more conceptually confusing, while I am straddling these two Places and places, I can’t help but think about what happens next. After these two years end, where do I go? What do I do? Who do I meet? Of course, as my body begins to ache from the constant past-and-present tug-of-war, I recognize that these questions aren’t important right now. But I can’t seem to push them out of the way.

Over the course of the last few weeks I have started a murder mystery novel, begun to slog my way through the words of William Faulkner, taken long drives with new friends, participated in a potluck, attended parties, gone to gatherings, and celebrated birthdays. I have cycled, done pilates, purchased new running shoes, visited the Mississippi Farmers Market, and enjoyed a Mississippi Braves minor league baseball game. I have almost lost my cell phone in a public sewer only to have it saved by three of Jackson’s finest firefighters a mere 5 minutes after I called the Fire Department (“this is the first call we’ve received about a cell phone, ma’am”). I have worn a wig at a bar and danced with minimal inhibition. I have hugged and been hugged. I have missed a voice I thought I didn’t miss anymore, I have called that voice, and that voice hasn’t called back. I have visited beautiful old spaces—a Victorian home that now serves as a Southern-Style buffet, a museum of the African-American experience housed in the first black public school in Jackson—spaces inhabited by peaceful ghosts that waft through history exploring unexplored crevasses, digging up the past, presenting secrets and telling stories. I have sat at my cubicle and listened to music, I have sat in meetings, I have understood what it means to go to work. I have realized that I want to write.

In short, I have started to become familiar with my Place, and with my place. It’s frightening, really, how real it is. But here it is. And here I am.

While getting ready for bed last night, after I brushed my teeth, I was reminded of a teaching I once learned often referred to as “While Standing on One Foot.” A man asks Rabbi Shamai to teach him Judaism while standing on one foot. Shamai brushes the man off. The man then seeks the advice of Rabbi Hillel, and asks him the same question. Hillel stands on one foot and pronounces: “don’t do unto others what you would not like done to you. That is all the Torah; all the rest is commentary. Now go and learn it.”

I think I will take Hillel’s advice to heart; it isn’t that hard to remember how to be. And the rest—our Places, our places, ourselves—is commentary. We just have to go and learn it.

Tomorrow Lauren and I (and perhaps a few of our colleagues) are going to the International Ballet Competition, held in Jackson every four years. On the phone, Ray asked me if it was actually international, and that’s certainly a fair question. Yes, people come from all over the world to dance in Mississippi. As I watch them brush their feet in the air, perhaps I will pray. And as I pray, they will brush.

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a bit of the past on the wall behind my cubicle.

my favorite painting in the Mississippi Museum of Art.

enjoying a Mississippi Braves Game. Hot dogs? Cheap beer? Prizes? Yes, please.

First day of work photograph, obviously.

Enjoying a night out with Sara's mom.

Yup. This happened. On Michelle's birthday.

...but it was hilarious.

Fellows posing during phone saving.


Duh. Wigs and dancing at Bachlorettes.

Lots of Fellows!

Self-Explanatory?

The Smith Robertson.


Upstairs.

Farmers Market!

Two Sisters--Truly Southern Cooking.

My favorite quotation, courtesy of the Mississippi Museum of Art.


...Just to remember that these things really did happen.


Love,
Claire

I'm Still Here!

I think once I get on a schedule it will be easier to figure out this blog business. But Hi!!

The last two weeks have been crazyyy--I am just starting to play phone catch up with some of you as my schedule gets more finalized. Last week was Orientation, which means we had a lot of meetings and did a lot of bonding--a minor league baseball game, a potluck, services, office lunches and dinners and coffee--you name it, maybe we did it. We have just been settling in and exploring (I have become more comfortable driving which is super, and everyone has been more than nice about helping) and watching tv. I made a trip to the Mississippi Museum of Art which was beautiful and quiet (pictures to follow when I get home), and Lauren and I biked a bit on Sunday after playing kickball with the office at the hight of Jackson heat, when it is 96 degrees and so super humid. Blech. Also yesterday we joined the gym, today we joined the Temple--we are just joiners, I think. And I have been in contact with this comic woman named Martha who is maybe 87 who runs the Jackson Choral Society, and I am certainly going to sing with them in the fall. So really that's what up. I have sort of gotten my barings, which means in the next few weeks maybe I will figure out how to get to work (...it takes 10 minutes and is just so easy. As you all know, I never know where I am...).

I think that's it? It doesn't really feel like that's it though. Work is great--we are working on writing our "this is my job" stories to be prested to staff this week and reading over the curriculum and getting ready for this ginormous conference that we plan for the end of June. It's a lot of things. But at work there isn't homework. And that's just so funny. Also the office has a book club. We are reading that Dragon book by the Sweedish dead man that you read, Elissa. So far it is good but I start reading right before bed and fall asleep in the middle of a sentence. So I hope I know what's going on.

Also I keep trying to drive to museums and things but everything is sort of always closed. I'm working on figuring out how to go to places when they are open.

Okay. Maybe that really is it? EMAIL ME ALL THE TIME, I will write you back. Or try to call. Remember I am an hour earlier. I am learning all about how Central Time is the "best time." Perhaps it is.

This was a funny blog.

Love,
Claire