The Man We Know as MLK...

...isn't exactly the man you learned about in grade school. I know it's more than a week after MLK day, but part of the problem with giving the man his own day is that most white folk tend to only think about him on the third Monday in January. And considering that many white folks situate thoughts of Civil Rights and race relations on the body of that one man, one day is not enough.

So, in grade school, they get you thinking that King was a man who liked to be posed with American flag, a man who often wore a pensive facial expression, a man who eternally inhabits the space behind a podium on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. They tell you that he had a dream about white children and black children playing together, about a color-blind America. And they tell you that he was shot.

What you don't learn (unless you attend some pinko lefty school for the children of bohemian intellectual New York Times subscribers) is that King was an anti-poverty, anti-war, anti-corporate radical. He spoke openly against the Vietnam War and American global arrogance, he decried liberal reticence on the subject of poverty, he railed against politicians who claimed to have the best interest of the people (whose people?) at heart and yet still allowed poverty, discrimination, and an endless war to endure. In 1963, he wrote a little paperback manifesto entitled Why We Can't Wait, in which he urged immediate action to cure the immediate crisis of poverty in America. The epigraph reads,

"Freedom is never granted by the oppressor. It must be demanded by the oppressed."

Indeed.

While definitely a man of great peace, King was also one of this century's most vehement rabble-rousers. Check out this great clip from the good people at the video blog, Ill Doctrine.

Well, there goes that...

I have not felt so politically saddened since the moment in 2004 when I saw, to my horror, that Bush, Jr. had indeed stolen another term in office. 

John Edwards is exiting the race for the Democratic presidential nomination at 1 PM today. I didn't even have the chance to vote for him. I didn't have the opportunity to drop my name into the bucket that never quite got to filling, in favor of the only candidate that always addresses poverty, that openly discusses the latent racism affecting the lives of millions, that gave labor, environmental protection, and health care the attention they deserve. 

I don't know whom I'll be voting for next Tuesday. I can't get excited about Clinton and I fear that racism and conservatism (yes, even within the Democratic party) will make Obama a risky candidate in the general election. He's exciting, he's refreshing, but he's also relatively inexperienced and a racial minority. Racism, despite all the efforts to declare it dead, is alive and well and thriving, trouncing opportunities, fueling unemployment lines and housing crises. 

I'm not sure how to conclude this post, dear reader. My bubble of hope has burst. That is a crummy cliche, but I don't care. I miss my bubble.

For the love of words (and of winning)

Today is J's mom's birthday. Happy birthday Kay! 

J comes from a family steeped in the tradition of Boggle, that long-heralded word game that makes geeks feel like kings. It is one of those rare phenomena that actually rewards all things geeky with the awe and appreciation of friends and onlookers. Spelling, vocabulary, knowing the names of obscure birds and obsolete sailing vernacular...for once, all are deservedly envied. 

Anyway, so we picked up a new Boggle set for Kay to replace the pencil-marked, scratched-up, taped-box version she currently has. She will probably argue that her set is just fine, but we like to play when we visit and we think she needs a new one. Only the best for special people.

If you haven't played Boggle before, you must try. Especially if you like crosswords and other egg-headed pursuits. The goal is to look at the letters (like in this photo of a Boggle set) and make as many words as possible with letters that touch each other, and without re-using individual letter blocks within a word. Three-letter words are shameful but acceptable. For example, here we have star, shear, slant, heat...I could go on, but I don't want to strike too much fear into the hearts of my dear competitors. 

I wrote an earlier post about one particularly fiery match between J and I that set the tone for the next many years of Boggle bouts. I hate losing. Which is just one reason why, just last week, I gave him a rather thorough trouncing. 

More on the smart front: Yesterday I found out that one of my papers has been accepted for presentation at an academic conference at the University of Tennessee. This is good news. It's the same paper that was accepted earlier in the month to be presented at the upcoming American Studies Symposium at Purdue. This is also good news. Now, if only the other two papers I've been shopping around would receive some attention...

What to say?

Having spent so much time away from my blogging, it's difficult to know what to write about. I'm thinking about the pre-dissertation fellowship proposal I wrote over winter break, I'm thinking about the Racial Formation in the United States chapter I have to teach from tomorrow, I'm thinking about my power yoga class tonight, and I'm thinking about death and dying. Not because I'm dead or dying, or because I turn 30 in April, but because I'm taking a class called Death and Dying.

What's inspiring me right now? Leg warmers. I'm knitting a great pair of orange leg-warmers. A combination of fabulous Cascade wool and a soft kid mohair/silk blend. Warm and sexy! Nothing like a little knit-purl action on a circular needle - it doesn't get much easier than this, kids. And it knits up fast. I'm hosting an evening for crafty ladies this Thursday - six of us sitting around knitting, sewing, crocheting...J is contemplating exit routes as we speak. Somehow, he considers these crafty hobbies to be a bit incongruous with his masculinity, which I think is a pretty nice load of crap. I think he wants to knit, he just can't find the societal permission to allow himself to learn. Someday he will find the glory of knitting a hat, and then wearing his hat and feeling the goodness of his own handiwork. Maybe.