I would almost always answer, "Yes."

These usually feature pictures of those heartbreakingly cute kittens...what a refreshing change!

Bulb out. Pinche head cold.

I'd be tempted to rail against companions in the various parts of my world who might have spread the contagion, but I don't ever have the heart. What can anyone do about it anyway? Plus, they all looked and sounded as miserable as I felt.

Routes/Routines

The routes I made when I started running were the Water Front and the hillier part of the neighborhood just north of here. I revisited them on runs earlier this week, and it occurred to me that perhaps the change of atmosphere we all need from time to time might actually be a return to the same old place. And those routes are places where I had my first growths and successes (this time around) in running and where I re-discovered how much I love and need it. And how it was good.

I am fortunate for manymany reasons and among them is the fact that my calendar contains more than the usual amount of opportunities for do-overs and resolutions. In January I join most of you in making and breaking resolutions, but January first has never quite been for me the beginning of a new year. It's the academic calendar that orders my days and has done since I was five. So, every first day of school was another chance to start over, to do better or to do it right (this time). The quarter system is even better because I get three new starts a year! Lent can also be a period of withdrawal and renewal and instead of giving up, there is the option of taking on new habits. Or maybe of regaining them.

It was just like this.

It wasn't until I closed my eyes for the night that I remembered...framed by the cold, hard bluish-grey of the rest of the day, it was a glowing orange-red moment of warmth that saturated my interior, something akin to the warmth of this canvas' colors (even the blue) saturating my retina.

Image of Mark Rothko #14 from www.sfmoma.org

...but then I realized, I'm just not that into me.

It's mutual.

The much-needed change of venue was a return to the same old place.

I ran at the Water Front on Saturday and ran today in the hillier part of the neighborhood just north of here. Going back to the places I went when starting out might take me again to the place I was when starting out.

And the winner for Worst Thesis Statement...

"You know all those representations of the decimononic 'angel del hogar' type woman? Well, I'm not writing about that."

"It would be more accurate if you weighed yourself first thing in the morning, naked and before you eat or drink."

"Quite the contrary," I usually argue. "How much of the day do we really spend buck naked with an empty stomach? Nay, the only accurate and truly representative reading would be one taken while I'm in my typical state, which usually includes jeans and cowboy boots on the outside and at least 3 cups of coffee, a bottle of water and half a box of Cheez-Its on the inside."

"Estoy harta de ser buena."

Maybe I shouldn't have picked one about Tijuana.

Monsiváis, Carlos. “La reinvención de Tijuana, frontera y transfrontera”

“La Frontera es la alegoria del tránsito cultural, psíquico, de costumbres, y la idea de México, nación de fronterizos, ocupa un espacio extraordinario sin que esto signifique la crisis terminal del nacionalismo ni, mucho menos, el deterioro de la conciencia nacional” (23).

Homage: You were the poet and didn't even know it...

Remember that time in 6th grade?

Wait now. Let me back up to way after that, to almost 30 years after that. The way I found out that you were gone was one of those "Montana stories" we all like to tell, all featuring coincidental meetings, connections, serendipitous occurrences.

They announced his name and those of his parents just a few moments before they announced my niece's name at her graduation from Huntley Project (Class of '06). Champion at the sport that you were, you'd respected Huntley's wrestling program and its athletes, teaching all of us a lesson in sportsmanship just by your demeanor. I believe you would have been genuinely sad to learn of its burning down in summer of 2008 and would have sent your support.

After the ceremony I asked my niece to point him out. I approached him and introduced myself, not shy like I was when you knew me, but like the high school teacher I'd been for so many years. It wouldn't surprise you that I'd become a teacher, nor it surprise you that I'm now working with words and books. You gave everyone nicknames that year in 6th grade, based on their interests and starting with the word "Bad". "Bad Jogger" for the runners, etc. "Bad Rodeo", I called you, not wanting you to be left out of having a nickname. "Bad Reader", you dubbed me, actually using the word "dub".

Almost 30 years later I congratulated that boy on his graduation and told him I was from Poplar, that I knew his parents and that I'd babysat him. He lied, politely, and said that he sort of remembered me. Then he got serious. "You should try to come out to the house this afternoon. Dad doesn't have much longer. He barely hung in there for my graduation." Yes, I went. And no, he didn't. And I wondered who the palliative morphine drip gave more relief...After I'd seen and talked to Randy, Bonnie and I sat in the back yard not quite talking and drinking Budweiser, bottle. (Wasn't that yours, too?) After a few minutes she said, "Oh, Val, I should probably show you something." She went into the house. When she came back out, she handed me the most recent Poplar Shopper. "God, I haven't seen this in almost 20 years," I said. "The obituaries," was all she said, in her eyes possible words for Randy's own...I opened it. "Marge Helmer!" I exclaimed. "Oh wow. 94...to be expected, I guess...She was a really cool lady." And across from hers, yours. I looked up at Bonnie. She asked, "He was in your class too, ennit?" I nodded and looked back down at the column. Yes, in my class and in that last class together before we all were tracked into the separate schedules of Junior High. The rest of that late afternoon I sought memories and that cloud-swept Charlie Russell sky helped me find this one.

Remember that time in 6th grade?

We read poetry for a couple of weeks for English. We read aloud, figured out rhymes, memorized and recited and finally wrote our own. The last day there was a contest. We had to pair up with as many people in class as we could and switch papers so that we'd read almost everyone's poems and keep track of whose we liked best. At the end of the activity, we'd turn in our tallies and the poet whose work had the most votes would win the contest. I don't remember what the prize was, but it included, ridiculously, a recital by its author. Mrs. Clark taught us that poetry, after all, was originally meant to be heard, not read.

It was difficult reading the poems of our classmates and sharing my own. None of us were exactly showing any promise. I met with you last. And I was nervous. You were popular and so cool and had a sharp sense of humor. And even then, devastatingly handsome with that mega-watt smile. I didn't want to hand over my poem to you, thinking you might make fun of it. But when you opened your hand and said, "I already know yours is going to be good," I passed it to you. You read it slowly then let me watch as you silently voted it #1. "Can I see yours now?" "No," you replied. "Why not? I just showed you mine!" "No." I thought for a second, then whispered, so as not to get you in trouble, "Did you write one?" "Yeah, I have one. But you can't read it." I protested, taking the whole thing way too seriously. "But we're supposed to! How can I vote right if I don't read them all?" You argued, "I can't show you. You're the best writer here and you're gonna think it's bad. And it doesn't count anyway. It's just Cowboy Poetry." "No I'm not! And it does too count. Lemme read it." You continued, "And we were supposed to write 16 lines and I only have..." You undid the pearl snap of the chest pocket on your typical Western shirt and pulled out a crumpled paper, held it up and tapped your pencil against it, counting, "...twelve." I insisted, uncharacteristically, "Gimme it!" and pulled it out of your hand. I smoothed the paper and laid it on the desk and read. Twice.

Your poetic "I" was a cowboy relating a particularly rough bronc ride, and it foreshadowed for me George Strait's "Cheyenne" and "Amarillo by Morning" and Garth Brooks' "Rodeo" (among other songs I'd hear in later years and think of your Cowboy Poem), encapsulating as it did in those twelve lines the drives and compulsions of the Rodeo Man. And he immediately garnered sympathy. Among your verses..."snot-snorting bronc", "stomped my chest and crushed my cigarettes". I was genuinely disappointed that your bronc rider got bucked off and genuinely delighted each time I read the surprise in the last line, "...when that announcer said, 're-ride!'". Amazed, I read it over and over again, the last time aloud. The rhyme and meter were so perfect that I'd almost memorized your poem without even trying. And when it came time for me to recite I asked if I could read yours instead.

Meant to be heard, indeed. Indeed, to this day, whenever I get a second chance I hear your announcer say "Re-ride!"

Ride relaxed into that Russell sunset, cowboy poet.

Cuatro caminos/Crossroads

Ser formada de tres culturas no significa que pertenezca a ninguna de ellas. Ni diría que soy hija adoptiva, sino recogida. Pero muy bienvenida y querida, eso sí, y con todos los derechos de los hijos legítimos. Y así que en tiempos de grandes y pequeños estréses como éste tengo opciones a las que puedo acudir en busca de alivio. Pero...a veces no sé a cuál.

Being formed by three cultures does not mean I belong to any of them. Nor would I ever claim that I'm their adopted daughter, but rather a foster kid. But, yes, a very welcome and wanted one and with all the rights of a legitimate child. And so, in times of great and small stress like this, I have options when it comes to seeking relief. But...sometimes I don't know which to take.

I don't know if I want the sweat lodge...o una limpia...or back-to-back sessions of psychoanalysis de lo más freudiano posible.

Or maybe I should just run harder, faster and to harsher music today.

Dime, paloma, ¿por cuál me voy?

Strong medicine

I've always suspected that she just might have more than a few critics just a little bit fooled. I argue here that behind that candy-striper appearance of both her visage and her written discourse, Mexican journalist, cronista and novelista Guadalupe Loaeza quite often wields scalpel obsidian blade-sharp words. And she can do so with the precision of a highly trained surgeon, waiting to make the cut exactly when and where it will have most effect.

She belongs to that world whose ills she exposes, and when she exposes wounds to better treat them, she more bravely than any of her contemporaries that I've read, faces the directive, "Physician, heal thyself." In "Edecán 1968" she anesthetizes readers. We start to think that we are reading a simple mockery of the girls chosen to be special cultural delegates to visiting VIPS and athletes participating in the 1968 Olympic Games. The Olympic Games that were destined to show the rest of the world that México was different from Latin America, to show the rest of the world that México had indeed "arrived", could no longer be considered among "Third World" nations...and then 2 octubre en Tlatelolco...and its aftermath, also supressed...

Loaeza's unique treatment of one small segment of the population during this confusing tragic period contains strong medicine. It is a sharp observation of hypocrisy of self and society, briefer perhaps than even Monisiváis' celebrated aphorisms. And the message, encapsulated in a very small and very bitter pill, is certainly very hard to swallow. And she would know, having had to swallow it herself.

Her cronista's first person is a actually quadruple dose of accusatory pronouns:

My clumsy translation follows:

Some of the journalists surely thought the girls' reaction must be a strategy on their part to avoid spreading fear among the tourists. Nevertheless, they'd never imagine that some of the orange-uniformed envoys actually had no idea where Tlatelolco Square was nor what had happened on the second of October. "Ay, but how would you expect us to know?" perhaps many of the ex-orange girls would say to me, "If at that exact Wednesday at exactly 5:00 PM, I was at the seamstress's, picking up my uniform, which fit me terribly. You have no idea, I had to let it out at the sides, raise the hem. And, I had to adjust the collar of the blouse. And do you have any idea where the seamstress lives? Way out in Satelite. Don't you realize? How could you expect me to have even known about the students...Don't you dare judge me unfairly. I bet you whatever you want that you didn't participate in any of that either. That you, too, were one of the orange girls. What, don't you remember?", something like that perhaps, they would have said to me.

"Don't be a wuss," I thought.

"If pro athletes play entire games on their injuries, I can certainly jog."

It wasn't until later that it occurred to me that I don't get paid for it.

María Conesa, "La gata blanca"

Traduzco de la traducción de Mujeres en México: Una historia olvidada de Julia Tuñón

Otra característica del porfirismo era el entretenimiento, frivolidad - la otra cara de la moneda del "orden y progreso"... En los espectáculos de los teatros Principal y Guerrero actuaban alegres mujeres provocadoras, vestidas de manera sugerente y cantando canciones de letra risqué y hasta bailando el can-can. Las artistas como María Conesa, la "gata blanca", que llegó a México en 1908, intrigaron al público y escandalizaron, supuestamente, a la alta sociedad.

"Please leave your message after the tone."

"Hey, it's Val. Sorry I couldn't answer the phone earlier. I was multi-tasking too much as it was: stepping ankle-deep into a puddle while spilling coffee on myself as I avoided getting hit by a bicyclist, trying desperately to remember the name of the former student who was walking with me, making several mental notes about who to e-mail NOW, and daydreaming about---BEEP!"

"I thought you said you were going to wear your new outfit."

"I am." He looked me up and down and raised a questioning eyebrow. "This is," I clarified, pointing at myself.

"OK, I know I'm certainly no fashion plate myself. And I don't know how things work in Chick World, but I don't think that matches...I mean on top you have a peacocky-color velvet jacket and under that a yellow cardigan (which looks too tight, by the way) and is that something...red sticking out the bottom? Then you put that with those raggedy jeans and those purplish high heels...I'd like to hear you explain how that constitutes an 'outfit'."

"That's easy!" I replied. "I bought all this stuff on the same day!"

The most surprising thing was that it was totally expected.

Maybe I can eliminate some of them TV competition-style. "Gabriel.Carlos. After today's temporal/spatial blurring contest, one will be in, one...OUT.

Qualifying Exam/Thesis Reading List
Énfasis principal: Narrativa mexicana
Énfasis secundario: Literatura latinoamericana (siglos XIX, XX, XXI)

Literatura y cine mexicanos
Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. “Hombres necios que acusáis…”, romances a las virreinas (33,
41,42,43,44. 61)
Altamirano, Ignacio. Clemencia (1869).
---. El Zarco (1901).
Azuela, Mariano. Los de abajo (1915).
Blanco, José Joaquín. Las púberes canéforas (1983).
Boytler, Arcady. La mujer del puerto (1934).
Campobello, Nellie. Cartucho (1931).
Campos, Rubén. El bar (1935, publicado, 1991).
---. Claudio Oronoz (1906).
Castellanos, Rosario. “Lección de cocina” (1971).
---. El eterno feminino (1973).
---. “Meditación en el umbral” (1957).
Couto Castillo, Bernardo. “Blanco y rojo”, “Causa ganada” (de Asfódelos, 1897).
De Campo, Ángel. La rumba (1890).
Díaz del Castillo, Bernal. Introducción, Capítulos I, II, VIII, XXXV, XXXVI La verdadera historia de la conquista de la Nueva España.
Fernández, Emilio, dir. María Calendaria (1944).
---. Salon México.
Fernández de Lizardi. El periquillo Sarniento (1816).
Frías, Heriberto. “Las inseparables" (de Los piratas del boulevard) (1915).
Fuentes, Carlos. Todos los gatos son pardos (1970).
---. La región más transparente (1969).
Gamboa, Federico. Santa (1903).
Gout, Alberto. Aventurera (1950).
Gutiérrez Nájera. “La duquesa Job” (1884). “Por donde se sube al cielo” (1882).
Mastretta, Ángeles. Arráncame la vida (1985).
Nervo, Amado. El donador de almas (1889)., “La amada inmóvil” (1912).
Novaro, María. Danzón (1991).
Novo, Salvador. Continente vacío (1933).
Paz, Octavio. El laberinto de la soledad (1950).
Poniatowska, Elena. Hasta no verte, Jesús mío (1969).
Ripstein, Arturo. El lugar sin límites (1978).
Rivera Garza, Cristina. Nadie me verá llorar (1999).
---.La cresta de Ilión (2002).
Rulfo, Juan. Pedro Páramo (1955).
Sarmiento, Justino. Las perras (1933).
Vasconcelos, José. La raza cósmica (1925).
Villoro, Juan. “La alcoba dormida” (1992).
Zapata, Luis. El vampiro de la colonia Roma (1980).

Otras literaturas latinoamericanas
Arenas, Reinaldo. Antes que anochezca (1992).
Arlt, Roberto. El juguete rabioso (1926).
Agustini, Delmira. “La musa” (1903).
Bello, Andrés. “Agricultura de la zona tórrida” (1826).
Bemberg, María Luisa. Yo la peor de todos (1990).
Bolaño, Roberto. “Sensini” (1997).
---. 2666 (2004).
Bombal, María Luisa. La última niebla (1935).
Cabello de Carbonara, Mercedes. Blanca Sol (1889).
Cambaceres, Eugenio. Sin rumbo. (1885).
de la Parra, Teresa. Ifigenia (1924).
Darío, Rubén. “Sonatina”, “El poeta pregunta por Stella”, “Canción de otoño en primavera” (1896-1901).
Donoso, José. El lugar sin límites. (1966).
Echeverría, Estéban. El matadero. (1839).
D'Halmar, Augusto. Juana Lucero. (1902).
Gálvez, Manuel. Nacha Regules (1919).
Gallegos, Rómulo. Doña Bárbara (1929).
García Márquez, Gabriel. Memoria de mis putas tristes (2004).
-----. Cien años de soledad (1967).
Gómez Carrillo, Enrique. Almas que pasan (1906).
Isaac, Jorge. María (1867).
Martí, José. “Los zapaticos de rosa” (1889)., “Musa traviesa” (1882). “X” (“El alma trémula”) de Versos sencillos (1891).
---.“Nuestra América” (1891).
Matto de Turner, Clorinda. Aves sin nido. (1889).
Mistral, Gabriela. Introducción, “A la mujer mexicana” (de Lecturas para mujeres) (1924).
---. “Los sonetos de la muerte” (1914) (de Desolación).
---. “Todas íbamos a ser reinas” (de Tala) (1938).
Morejón, Nancy. “Mujer negra” (1975).
Quiroga, Horacio. “La gallina degollada” (1925).
Restrepo, Laura. La novia oscura (1999).
Santos-Febres, Mayra, Sirena Selena, vestida de pena (2000).
Silva, José Asunción. De sobremesa. (1896).
Storni, Alfonsina “Hombre pequeñito” “Carta lírica a otra mujer”, “La loba” (1920).
Tristán, Flora. Peregrinaciones de una paria (1838).
Vargas Llosa, Mario. Pantaleón y las visitadoras (1973).

Crítica y teoría
Butler, Judith. Gender Trouble., Bodies that Matter: On the Discursive Limits of “Sex” (1990).
Castillo, Debra. Easy Women: Sex and Gender in Modern Mexican Fiction. (1998).
Chaves, José Ricardo. Los hijos de Cibeles. (1997).
de Certeau, Michel. “Walking in the City” (1970).
de la Mora, Sergio. Cinemachismo (2006).
Foucault, Michel. La historia de la sexualidad (1976-1984).
Franco, Jean. Plotting Women:Gender and Representation in Mexico (1989).
Grosz, Elizabeth. Space, Time and Perversion:Essays on the Politics of Bodies (1995).
Irwin, Robert McKee. Mexican Masculinities (2003).
Ludmer, Josephine. “Las tretas del débil” (1983).
Masiello, Francine.Women As Double Agents in History” (2003).
Molloy, Silvia. “The Politics of Posing” (1994).
Monsiváis, Carlos. “La mujer en la cultura mexicana” (1980).
----. “De las versiones de lo popular” (2000), “South of the Border, Down Mexico’s Way (2000).
----. A través del espejo (1994).
Rama, Ángel. La ciudad letrada (1984).
Sarlo, Beatriz. Escenas de la vida posmoderna (1994).
Sommer, Doris. Foundational Fictions (1993).
Tuñón, Julia. Mujeres de luz y sombra (1998).
White, Hayden. The Content of the Form: Narrative Discourse and Historical
Representation (1987).

They transgressed the norms. ¿Y qué?

Suddenly, I'm hesitant. I don't want these leading literary ladies of Mexico's late nineteeth-century to continue to be titillating tidbits nor my study just another way of consuming them.

La eterna "So what?"