I think I’ve sufficiently been moved…in a radical way…

I moved to Denver from Chicago September 2009.  I continue in the vein of the spiraling nomad, full of passion and heart for the things which matter most–the true, good, and beautiful things.  In many ways, I never thought I’d make it this far.  What’s a girl from Texas got to offer to the big league of the academy when all she’s got is passion and hope to change the world?  I knew this would be tough, but I had no clue what I was getting myself into, except that I would have a shit-ton of reading to do.  I’ll soon complete my second year of doctoral work, and I’m happy in so many ways.  I’m happy with my classes, the relationships I’ve made, and the work that I do for DULCCES.  The intensity and challenge of my work brings me great joy.  It also frightens me a bit, because I’m not settling for status-quo ethics.  I’m venturing into the realm of queer(y)ing Ethics.  I’ve made some amazing friends and some surprising connections.  This is when life moves you, I think.  When the unexpected connections in of life stir your soul, which I’m more inclined to believe I have now than ever before–a soul, that is.

Know that my life is moved, and I’m extremely grateful.  They didn’t have this where I came from–I didn’t know the best was yet to come.  Thank you for connecting with me, and thank you for the good things in life:  laughter, conversation, and passion.  I look forward to reading about it all…

The sky will always be gorgeous to me and lovely in so many ways–full of passionate poetics, light and airy, like breath.

This post was written July 2010 and scheduled to post in December 2010

I lived in Northern Mexico, the Republic of Texas for 26 years.  I grew fond of that endless sky and the beauty of it all.  I think I first began to notice the sky in West Texas, likely on the border of Mexico, where the clouds were few and the sun dominated the blue sky.  Though I noticed the sky and her beauty, I did not have the best language or way to embody my thoughts/ feelings.  I had urges to love the sky there in Texas and be amazed at the way the pine trees stood still in East Texas and towered into the blue sky, but I did not love.  I was not moved to love.  Texas, though, was the first place that I noticed the sky.  For that, I remain grateful.  I will remember this sky for many years…This is a picture taken on the road from Houston to Dallas.  It captures the endless beauty of the sky.

I went to college in Abilene, Texas.  I learned to love the thunderstorms in West Texas and enjoy the sun painting a lovely picture in the sky.  Living in West Texas for some time ,and spending my summers at my grandparent’s farm, I grew to see the great beauty of the sky. There is really something special about this Texas sky.  It is endless in so many ways and mysterious.  The Texas sky gave me so much…an education, a socialization, the ability to live the questions and hold the complexity of reality, and gave me room to be different.  Texas became a place where I discovered my inclinations to life.  The endless sky gave me room to explore these ideas and impulses.

When I moved to Chicago, I encountered a different sky.  It was the sky where buildings were enormous and penetrated the beauty that I initially experienced in Texas.  I saw and experienced something completely different–something that was not dominated by sameness.  People were rushed, crammed for time, and did things differently.  I never did fall in love with a Chicago sky.  It was definitely eye-candy, for sure, but not love.  I do not know if it was ever love.  Kind and generous and satiating on some levels, but never love.  But, I am not sure I had the language of loving the sky when I lived in Chicago.  The sky is something I grew to know in my body while living in Texas.  Now, living in Chicago, I just knew it struck me, but never sufficiently moved me.  The midwest City sky was a good place for me to contextualize my feelings and to see and watch the sexual geography.

When I moved to Denver, that is, life at high altitude, I discovered the sky all over again.  I had sort of given up on the idea of the sky…and content with just peering into brick and mortar for my Ph.D. program.  But, my eye caught a glimpse of the sky during winter, January 2010 to be specific.  I was stopped in my tracks.  I was not looking…but rather  heading into that brick and mortar classroom on campus, and I was stopped in my tracks and found that my heart was strangely warmed.  It was cold, I was wrapped up in my hat, scarf, and wool coat (a necessary evil for midwest living but not so for life in the Rocky Mountains in the City).  Now, though, living at 5,280′, the sky suddenly looks alive.  I am drawn to this sky in so many ways.

It was (and still is) a breath of fresh air.  It moves me in ways unimaginable.  It is kind, generous, and loving.  Snow flakes fall from this sky and it is gorgeous.  Thunder and rain fill this sky and nurture the ground on which my feet trod.  Now, I finally have language to contextualize and talk about the sky, and to admire it at high altitude.  I finally think I love the sky, having seen a variety of skies in my short time living.  I am still a fan of the endless Texas sky, but it is not where I feel compulsion, momentum, passion and desire.  It is the sky at high altitude that moves me and that I have come to respect in deep and meaningful ways.  I cannot touch this sky–it towers above me.  But, loving this sky and being connected with this sky is what is most important, because I feel this connection deep within my soul, my body.  I hope (there’s that word) that the sky can hear my thoughts, but I do not know if such natural elements, the sky for example, has the ability to hear the words that I use.  I mainly stand in awe of this sky, and am thankful for the soulful presence it offers me.  It is easy to spend time gazing at the sky and enjoying these gifts at high altitude.  I never know what is next–thunder, rain, snow.  It is a bag of spontaneity and passion.  The best sky to love, in my opinion!

Thank you 5280 for gifting me with good thing(s).

Its the middle of the afternoon.  I’m listening to Chris Pureka and reflecting on the news I was just given:  via text, via twitter, via the Huffington Post, via the NYT.  The death of Elizabeth Edwards is all over the news.  It is front page on the Huffington Post.  I’m deeply saddened.  I went to bed thinking she would have months or weeks of life, but I know what it means when disease takes over the liver and other vital organs–when shit metastasizes.

I went to bed having different expectations.  Now, the knowledge of her death has created the anxiety of loss, or has me in a space or place (they’re different, you know) of loss.  I am flooded with memories of my dad, T.L. “Larry” Henderson, the white man who taught me how to confront life with humor and vigor and endurance.  The tears I have are pieces of me that tell me how much I miss him.  I am reminded of when he called me in 1997 to tell me he was starting chemotherapy.  I was working on an English paper.  I remember it clearly.  I almost don’t want to forget that day, or the days which ensued.  Or, the day I didn’t recognize him because he didn’t have any hair–all due from chemo.  I think I hung up the phone that day in 1997 with the expectation that he would live–for a long time.  I have other losses too.

I am reminded of Christy Daivs who was found dead in her apartment in Longview, TX, the city where I was born.  She suffered from diabetes her whole life.  She was 20.  I had just moved to San Antonio.  It was 1990.  I had a sense that something was wrong that day.  I thought it was my dad.  When I got home from school, I called my next door neighbor in Longview, TX just “out of blue.”  She had already heard the news about Christy.  I was in shock when I heard the news.  I took off on my 3-wheeler to my neighbor’s house.  I talked w/ my neighbor about my sadness and fear.  He was understanding.  I was quiet.  I was sad.  It was then that I knew I hated to lose people I loved.  Never did I think I would lose my dad so soon in life…

So, that / this is me:  I’m scared to lose.

Perhaps that is why I remain in my head so much and so often?  Perhaps that is why I ask questions?  Perhaps that is why I avoid?  Perhaps that is why I’d rather not love deeply or passionate–less to lose if you just love on the surface.  But, that is not really me either.  In reality, though, I actually don’t know how to love on the surface, or how to keep my emotions hidden from those who take radical steps toward me–from those who love me kindly and gently and with a fierce tenderness.  I think knowing that I am loved scares me.  It creates moments of anxiety for me.  Waiting for the let down, for the plug to be yanked, for the door to be closed–and in my face, no less.  After all, I’m a critical idealist.  Perhaps it is this anxiety that keeps me from trusting those I should, from loving in return, from letting you into the deepest parts of me.

For so long it was my dad and grandparents who had access to these places in me.  I trusted their love, their commitment, their generosity.  Then, I lost them and I didn’t know what to do…how to let folks into these spaces and places.  In many ways I’m relearning many things these days. Namely, how to be connected to my own self in the midst of being radically undone.  I’m also learning how to love deeply–the things and people who matter most.  Yet, I’m scared to lose…love…that, this, you.  Sure, I’m scared to lose my mind, but the likelihood of that is low.  Besides, what’s a little bit of madness in the midst of being a scholar?  Genius does love company!

So, in the end…at the end of these articles I’ve read, the end of the texts messages I’ve gotten from friends, I’m reminded that though I’m deeply afraid of losing what is most important to me (deep, passionate, meaningful love), I am reminded that I am cared for in the midst of this fear.  I didn’t have that when Christy or my dad died.  I only had loss.  But, now, I have this sense of being supported and cared for (deeply) by an other who just loves and cares and supports–who does all this in the midst of my fear.

Its nice to have this sense of homeplace and community…even in the middle of tears and fear.  I think here of the good pastor(s) (otherwise known as my religious preference), my Latin@ friends, and the goodness of 2010.

So, here I am.  Scared to lose…but really wanting to love deeply the things and people which matter most to me!  Perhaps that’s why I’m pursuing a life of scholarship…but, there I go again…getting back into my head.

Perhaps what I want to say is that I’m learning to live and love again in deep, meaningful, and radical ways…and that, my dear, is more about the passion of living than thinking about concepts.

My new favorite song is from Katie Herzig.  There’s lots to think about when your 38,000 feet up in the air and in an airplane flying here and there, meeting interesting people along the way, or taking road trips here and yonder, and so I wonder what is holding me back…I wonder about silence and absence.  I wonder about beauty and tragedy.  I wonder about the good thing(s) in my life.

I wonder about love and justice, passion and desire.  I wonder about you.  I wonder about me.  I imagine you, and then I try to forget about you.  Most days I do a good job because I am so busy and occupied with life, traveling, and scholarship, but memories ignite my imagination and I just have to remember that I am walking a different road these days, mostly alone and intentionally so, but there you are existing in my mind and nestled in my heart.  There are many things I miss, and I wonder what is holding me back.

I wonder what freedom is, if I’m looking for freedom, and what freedom would looks like.  What is holding me back?

Holding Us Back
Katie Herzig

Maybe I love you
Maybe I just like the sound
If you disappear
You’ll still hear when my heart hits the ground

Every touch
Of every scene
As beautifully broken
As a bird without wings

All we have holding us back, holding us back
All we have is holding us back …. What’s holding us back

We’ll never know what it’s like to be free
How do you sow what can’t but should be

There’s no explanation there’s only what we cannot change
So we’ll leave how we met, with nothing the same

All we have holding us back, holding us back
All we have is holding us back … What’s holding us back

Here’s the Mp3:  Holding Us Back.  Maybe if you like it, you’ll save it?  You can find it for free on Noise Trade dot com!

Un Abrazo a ti!

Dear El/La Aléman/a,

Life has certainly intersected in true, good, and beautiful ways over things which are queer, theological, feminist, and epistemological.  We’re learning what is existing between the two of us.  My cup overfloweth.

We grew up in different countries located on different continents.  We grew up speaking different languages, and learned the dominant languages of our countries quite well to “succeed.”  In fact, we learned multiple languages in order to “get by” in life.  And, we learned to love the good things in life, namely community and church, which both became instrumental in the way we understand the world around us.  We became slaves to the peace movement from an ecclesial perspective, quickly learning that this must be the Way to embody the teachings of Jesus.  We learned at some point in time, likely early on, that we were/are co-mixtures, and we have sought to make sense of that reality and continue to do so, even today.  And, our various moves or migrations have complicated, problematized, and enriched this discovery of our mixed selves.  We continue to grow into the reality of our co-mixture in a world dominated by whiteness.

We use a common, yet dominant language, sometimes supplementing our native languages to communicate.  I enjoy this about our time together where we seek to deepen our knowledge of ourselves and our time together.  Language.  Who would think that such a system could have so much meaning and create such problems?  Language.  Text.  Signs.  Symbols.  These all become part of our system of relating with one another.  We desire radical understanding of all of these things.

So, what exists between you and I is a great deal of similarity and desire to understand the other and yet a radical difference that we constantly transcend over cups of coffee as we intentionally create our epistemic community.  Which, I might add, is greater than ourselves and typically involves lots of talk about ice cream and knowledge.

I call you The German not as a way to deny your mixed-ness, but as a way to recognize the complexity of our identities and to endear you.  And, I imagine you’ve been trying to root yourself in your Thai identity.  So, calling you El/La Aléman/a is a way to encourage you to grab hold of your Thai-ness and root yourself in that Other identity.  And you, well, you call me Burrito.  I don’t think you do this to deny my whiteness, for I fear that I’m always read “white.”  Yet, you call me this and I’m constantly reminded of my mestizo-ness, the reality of my mestizaje body.

Irigaray and Kristeva are right in so many ways about relations and desire and knowledge.  Its what exists between you and I.

Signed, Your dear Burrito.