in the name of James Baldwin, Amen

Exam week has its own sense of frenzy, but the volume of work email was low today and I opened up emails that I might not otherwise have opened up. Some notable ones below:

1) I got some fiery ideas for real resistance from an open letter to the Dem leadership. It got me right from its very relatable beginning: "Dear Democratic Party, I need more from you. You keep sending emails begging for $15, while we’re watching fascism consolidate power in real time." (LOL-sob). What follows is an amazing 7-point plan of action that gave me so much hope. This email's subject header was "Letter from Liz Cheney" and I would have usually been like NOPE. (It's actually authored by a Dr. Pru Lee.)

2) An apparently long-standing bookclub in the area wants me to lead a discussion of Clear by Carys Davies sometime in the upcoming year and they'll pay me $200 for the hour. I didn't realize bookclubs paid people?! This email's subject header was "Book Review" and I thought it was a request from someone I didn't know asking for a blurb.

3) An organization I volunteer with rather infrequently wants to feature me as the volunteer of the month, and were giving me a heads up that they were going to pull my photo from my Google profile. Okay. This email's subject header was "Thank You from ___" and I actually thought it was a fundraising email. 

4) The birthday cake I delivered the other day and prompted the fight with Big A was enjoyed by the three-year-old it was meant for. Their family sent me a photo and it was so adorable that it melted Big A's heart. He said he'd come with me on delivery trips when possible (basically be my "delivery buddy" as Lisa suggested). This email's subject header was "cake"-- I think I had a feeling what it was about. 

I wonder what surprises I'm missing on high-volume email days!

Pic: Last week at the bookstore with At, I got this James Baldwin votive from their "Secular Saints" collection. Baldwin went on my altar as soon as I got home, as I need his courage and clarity in these times. (At and I laughed about the side eye she gave me when I got this because I was such a stickler about "bookstores and bookfairs are for books, not toys and tchotchkes" when the kids were growing up.)

nice/surprise

 It's April 1st tomorrow and who knows what the day will bring--here are a few things that took me by surprise on this last day of March.

I woke up from a dream in which I marveled how in a crowd of strangers we unhesitatingly call ourselves "we." It's true, isn't it? There's something beautiful and magic about that.

I was on a walk and 30 mins from home when a neighbor called to say she'd found Max wandering around her yard and had put him in her screen porch. Obviously, I panicked and called Nu to go over and get Max. Nu went downstairs and then called to tell me Max and Huck were downstairs cuddling on the sofa. Ha. The other puppy was reunited with their family soon after.

For the first time ever, a book I put on hold at the library (Claire Lombardo's The Most Fun We've Ever Had) came in before I caved and got it myself.

Yesterday, while sheltering from the tornado, I realized that Nu and Big A had ordered an arcade Ms. Pac-Man game for the basement. I thought we were in our frugal era! I'm mad. Also that thing is going to be 5-ft tall when it's put together.

Pic: I commented to Suzanne that I planned to make sushi cups from an insta reel I'd seen. I did! I did not expect them to be as as easy as they looked or come out so well (esp. as I ad lib a fair amount). They look a bit color deficient to me as I want all five colors at every meal, but a blueberry-mango-raspberry compote completed the gap at dinner. 

trash turtles all the way down

I was worried about a dear friend who'd had open heart surgery last week. It made me feel a little better when I got to see their dear face while I dropped off some medication I'd picked up (they can't be alone, so I could either stay with them while their partner picked up the meds or pick up the meds while their partner stayed with them). 

I hadn't heard a peep out of my mom or sis for a whole day. So when the phone rang around 2 am, just as I was putting the puppies and the house to bed, I freaked the fuck out because I thought something was wrong with either my friend or my mom and dad. But no, it was just my mom calling to chat. I think she was a bit thrown off by DST too? Anyway. 

After that, I kept trying to read myself to sleep. Big A was at work, and then he texted to say he'd been attacked by a patient. That was it for sleep last night. I was so sad and worried for him and made him send me pictures and cried over all the scratches and bruises I could see.

And I got to hear the whole story today... I am sad for the patient suffering a psychotic episode in prison and then again in the hospital. I am sad for the security guard who gets paid minimum pay and is expected to put his life on the line--he got attacked first and Big A was trying to help him him when he got attacked too. There are no villains here. It's just awfulness all the way down. I'm just thankful there were no guns involved.
_______________________________
Pic: This made me laugh when I went thrifting this weekend because I needed new books for our Little Free Library (I got some awesome ones). I didn't get these books. They both have the same title--One Bite at a Time--it's just that they couldn't be more different in content: one is a book of recipes for cancer survivors and their caregivers and the other a collection of horror short stories!

March ahead

Oh, the dread that descended as I thought and wrote, "Midterm break is over" at the end of yesterday's post. 

The thing is, the week has been non-stop. I worked with the Baldwin Prize people out of Baltimore from Friday. I judged scores of papers for the national English Literature honorary society (Sigma Tau Delta) all week ahead of the convention at the end of March--the deadline for that was yesterday. 

And I chaired the Women's and Gender Studies panel of the Michigan Academy conference yesterday, but also had to go to the Board Meeting which ran late on Thursday because somehow I'm now a board member. And I had a paper at the conference with EM, so we had to work on that all week too, finishing up in a burst of energy after dinner together on Wednesday.

And then I realized that we didn't have any speakers for Women's History Month, so I scrambled and used my professional connections and asked nicely and got two amazing speakers for us-- Heidi Lewis, President of the National Women's Studies Association, (via Zoom) and Lysne Beckwith Tait, Founder of Helping Women Period, (in person). I got some other activities arranged on the Women's History Month calendar too (a student symposium, International Women's Day Tea) but these things are more within my own control. When you work at a small college, one wears a lot of hats.

And then some bad news: The editor of an anthology where I had an accepted submission said The University of Louisiana Press had decided not to go ahead with publication. But in the wings, another anthology submission needed urgent copy-edits approval. The copy editor wanted to remove the parenthetical notation of the novels' dates of publication on introduction--I think it's highly pertinent? Anyway, some back and forth on that. 

And as of this morning, back to regular upkeep of Canvas pages and class preps for my classes. (And oh, I graded *everything* by Tuesday.)

Looking ahead, there are additional things I've agreed to. There's a class for incarcerated students on the 18th--I'd already prepped this last year but didn't get to do it and I'm looking forward to it. And also I'm going to be on a campus-wide panel talking about 50 days of this administration on the 12th--that should be fun (NOT!).

I guess it's a good thing we had a midterm break so I could work on these things without juggling regular classes as well.

Happy March! Marching ahead! (Also, I'm glad I didn't take off for Turkey!! Neither did my mom and sis, actually.)

Pic: From under the Beal Street Bridge. A thin glaze of ice on The Red Cedar; brilliant blue skies and bitingly cold winds. I walked and walked and walked to clear my head.

"It's all takin' and no givin'"

So I was a bit euphoric when I wrote yesterday's post. It feels good to solve a problem so easily. But I just know my parents would not approve of me making withdrawals from that account. I know they already gave it to me and it's mine to do whatever I wish with it and all that. But I feel bad. They'd be hurt about it. They would say they sacrificed a lot to give it to me. And yes, I guess they did sacrifice things like impromptu trips to Turkey when they were young to save it for me. I've also been feeling bad about Big A, who makes many times more than I do, but shares everything equally, and here I am spending a private stash I claimed was not for spending. But it's done. And I'm mostly glad I did it. 

Anyway.

Money is so weird. And I don't want to keep thinking about it and feeling anxious. 

But L took me to see 9 to 5 The Musical this evening and I had to continue to think about money some more. About 80% of the audience was women--as if the wage gap isn't an issue that ought to concern everyone. It was a terrific show and a lively and engaged audience. Bless Dolly Parton for making it all feel snappy and hummable at least.

I'm a breathless miracle

I've been describing this week as breathless. Even so,  not only am I not caught up, I'm behind on rec letters, editing tasks, household chores, emails, phone calls, and even texts. 

I guess the weekend is for catching up now.

And perhaps next week will be more reasonably paced.

Some of the breathlessness is sometimes literal as in an incipient anxiety attack. And that's not surprising given the onslaught of attacks from on high trying to erase every progressive win of the last fifty years. I want to push back with something bold and expansive, like the Black Panther Party's 10-point program, instead of simply reacting to what is being taken away. 

And also, I got LV into my favorite form of "distractification"--we're planning a post-Valentine's potluck in Feb together. Instead of agonizing over the latest developments, our recent texts have been about guest lists and menus instead. So when LV, who is an art prof, suggested we make "milagros" I thought it was a cocktail. But then he started talking about how miraculous it was and...  I mean... I like cocktails, but I thought calling one a miracle was a bit much. It turns out they are little symbolic votives--we're going to do a craft! 

Pic: That's not a pond, it's the river--and it's still frozen. I saw people walking across it late this evening.

"Do something every day. That can be something small"

This reminder from Gabriel Valdez was immensely helpful to me today. I wish it were published somewhere, but it isn't, so I'm saving it here.

"Part of the feeling of helplessness right now is this idea that you don't know some big thing you can do. But why would you expect that from yourself? Do something every day. That can be something small - a call to an elected official, getting a friend to call an elected official for the first time. It can be getting in touch with a local charity or volunteer organization. It can be reaching out to someone you know is already doing work and seeing what they might need, in that work or as an ear to listen so that they can go back to that work refreshed.

I want to stress this: These are all things you know how to do. These are all easy things. Remarkably easy things. Do one every day.

Your job right now is not to do the big shit that changes things. A stone is not a mountain on its own. Your job is to do something small but measurable every day that ensures you are not the one being moved off your norms, that ensures you are connecting to community around you.

And yes kindness and yes hope, but god damn it, you don't wait for those things, you make them. A job to be done still needs to be done, regardless of the measurement of your hope. You feel hopeful. Make a call. Reach out. You don't feel hopeful. Make a call. Reach out.

Hope is not produced in a fugue state. Hope is not produced by thinking about producing hope. Hope is the result of action, small, large, doesn't matter. Just matters that you do it.

Kindness is not the result of feeling kind, it is the result of what you do that is kind. Do something kind. Do something hopeful. And then you will be kind and hopeful. That's how it works; it's the only way it works.

You can't identify what needs to be done next if you aren't doing the simple things that can be done now. None of us is in a state to feel we're ready. OK. What's that matter? If you're packing for a trip, you aren't magically ready. You put shit in a suitcase first. If you run a marathon, you aren't magically ready. You train, starting with the small stuff. None of us is ready, but we understand readiness in every other facet of life as the small steps that get us there.

Readiness requires doing the things directly in front of you that get you ready. That's the job of the moment. Do it, or you won't be ready for whatever the hell the job of the next moment is, and that's going to feel a lot shittier than anything we're feeling now.

Things need to be done. Many of them are easy. Do one every day."

__________________________

Pic: This herd of deer was my welcome committee when I got home today. I don't know what was so delicious right there on the driveway, but they didn't want to move. I get no respect. 

"practice the art of resilience"

Many things did not go according to plan today--I got behind on a couple of tasks, my massage therapist canceled, I broke one of my favorite dishes as I was readying dinner, I burnt two parathas and also my hand, I accidentally heard a few snippets of news about the inauguration, and was surprised and saddened by news that Cecile Richards had died (that's when I lost focus and burned my hand, actually)...

But the title of this article played in my head like a mantra: "With their lives upended, they practiced the art of resilience." It's a story about a new exhibition at the Smithsonian featuring the work of three Japanese-American artists, two of whom had been incarcerated in internment camps during World War II. One of them, Miné Okubo, later wrote the book Citizen 13660 about her life in the camps--Big A's grandfather, Harold, was instrumental in getting that book published as she notes in the introduction. 

We'd been talking about taking a trip to D.C. to see the exhibition yesterday because of this connection... But also, I'll take every reminder of people going through terrible times and making it out to the other side. 

Pic: Nu showing me which kid they resemble on one of our treasured Miné Okubos--She gave Big A's grandparents a few of her paintings as gifts over the years they stayed in touch.

tipping our hats

Today, Nu was remembering a baby book called Go, Dog, Go! much of whose plotline (if we remember right) consists of one dog asking another if they liked their hat to which the other dog replies they do not like their hat. (So many hats, Engie!). 

We were discussing if this was (a) radical and friendly honesty--the second dog not liking the first one's hat did not cause any bad feelings or (b) negging--with the second dog keeping the first one on their toes so they would keep coming back. It occurred to me at that point that Nu had always been such a good liberal arts classroom discussant. And I'm so happy to say that Nu got into the college they wanted over the holidays. Given their first two rocky years of high school, this was not at all a given. But they've managed to overcome a lot of those early impediments (complicated no doubt by the pandemic and pandemic schooling) and even got a persuasive college essay out of it. Hopes and prayers for my Nu.

Speaking of things evolving to reach maturity, I remember taking At and a baby Nu to a conference on the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child (UNCRC) in New York because I didn't have childcare. We had to leave early because, unlike At who as a baby loved going to classes and conferences (or at least was calm when I went), Baby Nu was having none of it. (There was an embarrassing moment where Nu arched their back and slipped straight out of the baby carrier--while I was on stage. It's a wonder I wasn't reported to the U.N.) Anyway, that conference attendance evolved into an idea, then a paper, and now is a book chapter that's coming out later this year; I'm Chapter 12.

Pic: The Portage River in the falling snow. I haven't been outside much in this somewhat breathless week, so this is still from the weekend's hike.

scribbling women, dogs walking, dog-writing, and bitches

When I first watched Bridgerton, I was struck by this remarkable line:

LADY WHISTLEDOWN: "According to the much heralded poet Lord Byron: Of all bitches, dead or alive, a scribbling woman is the most canine."

And I meant to use it when I taught Women's Writing again (which is now). It is such a mash-up of Byron's famous misogyny, Hawthorne's hatred of "scribbling women" and Samuel Johnson's screed about women's composition--that it's like a "dog’s walking on his hind legs. It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all.” 

Also, while I was looking for the precise quote, I went down some interesting theory rabbit holes. While I was aware of Animal Studies, I wasn't aware that there was a specialized field of "dog-writing" that studies the intense relationships of women writers with their dogs (Elizabeth Barrett-Browning, Virginia Woolf, and so on). (While I'm no Woolf or Barrett-Browning--in our family, Scout is known as my dissertation wolf and Max is my book puppy. I don't think I could have gone on without their steadfast attention, affection, and presence.) The word "bitch" crops up with increasing frequency in the titles of these works about dog-writing: "Bitch, Bitch, Bitch: Personal Criticism, Feminist Theory, and Dog-writing" or  Writing with the Bitches, etc. 

It feels like I've come full circle with the Bridgerton quote.

Pic: Snow falling in the "portal," which what L and I call this corridor of trees from her house to the street.

Bending Meaning: Haiku, P.F.Chang, and "Peelings"

I'll never get used to hearing Big A talking on the phone to his colleagues and casually asking them to send him a haiku. Haiku is merely the hospital's internal secure messaging system, but it nevertheless sounds so charming. Although at other times I'm a bit stern and feel like if they're going to appropriate poetic terminology, they better be structuring their medical notes 5/7/5, you know?

*

Last year, Big A had a recurrent dream where Scout was accompanying him to a bunch of classes at Kalamazoo, his old undergraduate campus. In one dream, it was a poetry class where the instructor had displayed some of their published works on the desk at the front of the class. A can't remember the titles, but the poet's name was P.F. Chang--like the Asian restaurant chain. I wonder if Big A was thinking of Victoria Chang but was also a bit hungry?

*

I've been hearing this catchy Telugu film song on a number of reels and wanted to download it for my playlist. The song is about how the heroine is plagued by carnal feelings for the hero--"vochundai feelings-su" (I get these feelings). So I searched "Feelings" on I-Tunes, and nope, nothing. Turns out it's spelled "Peelings"--all the better to express the way it might be pronounced with emphasis in Telugu, I guess? Not really a word with a sultry vibe for me, however--it makes me think of dinner prep... or a skin condition.

Pic: The Red Cedar right behind L's house. From another walk this week. 

bookends

I woke up to see that a writer friend had tagged me in her exhortation to read more books in 2025 because she'd used a picture of our Little Free Library. And of course the week has been full of various enjoyable year-end roundups of reading lists. Then Lisa wondered about my top books of 2024... The thing is, I don't have a digital record of my reading. Reading is what I've always loved doing but also kind of my work work. So it never made sense (for me) to quantify my reading by hours/pages/titles. When I read for pleasure, like other things I do for pleasure, I tend to do it rather whimsically and for as long--or as little--as I want to. It's not very efficient. But that feels perfect to me.

Lisa's question made me curious, though. So I went to check on my scribbly physical planner, where I usually note what I'm reading "for fun" to compile this top-12. (I think these titles are a mix of 2023 and 2024 and are in no particular order.)

Ta-Nehisi Coates, The Message; Catherine Newman, Sandwich; Paul Murray, The Bee Sting; Percival Everett, James; Kaveh Akbar, Martyr!; Sally Rooney, Intermezzo; Fady Joudah, […]; Tony Tulathimutte, Rejection; Emma Cline, The Guest; Yiyun Li, Wednesday’s Child: Stories; Tania James, Loot; Elliot Page, Pageboy: A Memoir; Teju Cole, Tremor. (Fun fact: Teju Cole used to comment on this blog a very long time ago.)

Pic: OM's Facebook Reel of our Little Free Library. I did a quick search, and this is the first picture of it in the snow, I think. I love that our neighborhood keeps it so well stocked. It used to be all my responsibility in the other place where we had it from 2012-2016.

getting brighter

Some people might have thought the party was taking place around the cookies, the laughter and conversations, or the lovely massage therapist giving mini massages...  but the real action was on the floor where the babies and the puppies were finding each other and having conversations: "Doggie!" Ruff-ruff!" "Touch Doggie?" "puppy-kisses, puppy-kisses, tail-wags."

We didn't get to singing carols until really late into the evening, and I was quite taken aback by how easy it was to sing along to The Dysfunctional Family Christmas Songbook that JN brought. 

OM came in from Grand Rapids for the evening, and I showed her book to everyone so lots of people put it on their TBRs. Her rum balls were really boozy, and after everyone left, we could barely move and curled up with hot cocoa for a long, no-holds-barred chat.

I'm looking forward to the extra minutes of light and brightness as the earth hinges into solstice...

Pic: Max, Huckie, + toddler and baby feet... Perhaps Max and Huck have found some cookie crumbs from the Cookies and Cocktails party? (I hope it's not cocktails they're after!)

2/3 I am meandering; 2/3 a.m. meandering

I've heard that depression is worrying about the past, anxiety is worrying about the future, and happiness is living in the moment. 2/3 isn't so bad, right? 

I think I have anxiety and moments of happiness/joy. I feel fairly done with the past. And also really lucky to have escaped without major trauma given how naive and gullible I used to be. Big A and my sister, who know all the stuff I used to get up to, marvel at this all the time.

I think I get by because I am blessed in my family and friends--I couldn't wait till Friday's book club meeting to see L so I swung by for a chat and hugs (and also got roses because she'd been at the supermarket and they were on sale). Later, LV was in town to run errands and stayed for dinner and we dug out the tiny bottle of prosecco chilling in the fridge to celebrate his tenure. (It was perfect because Big A was working that night and couldn't drink, so LV and I could polish it off ourselves.)

Now it's 2:25 a.m.: Big A is at work; I'm wide awake. It could be worse, it could be 4:00 a.m., he could be home and we could be goofing off. Big A can sleep during the day to even things out, but I won't because my work happens during the day. 

At told me the other day that I'm going to get dementia if I don't get enough sleep. 

I worry about that. 

But then sometimes I think I'm channeling the spirit of my great-grandfather who, according to my mother, would wake in the middle of the night to light an oil lamp and write poems about Hanuman, the god he was passionately devoted to. 

I'm not as religious, but I write? Right?

Pic: Our Christmas tree in the light. Oof, we really are running out of space.  

a kind (of) bereavement

 

            our old house has new folks 

                       and so... now we are ghosts

              no one sees although we lived

                    here barely 12  years ago 

         morning  mists cling  to  us 

                        ghostly as nights of regret 

             our older selves are yet silent, 

                      uncertain, unknown outside

            we find we forget to exhale

                         are reminded there are no 

             songs in sighs and although

                          not quite death, cold-ness 

                 takes away our breath, leaves 

                          us to mourn a different lack 

                 of warmth despite being back

__________

Note: I felt a bit strange walking on our old street in Yellow Springs early in the day. I think I imagined that a neighbor or two would be out and that we'd have a warm impromptu reunion. I had plans with friends later in the day, but wanted the chance encounter too! Speaking of friends, I'm ordering a few copies of Rebecca Kuder's Dear Inner Critic Workbook to give as Christmas presents. 

____________

Pic: Our descent into Glen Helen for a long hike yesterday. Back in the day, when we lived across from the Glen, I feel we solved many of our parenting dilemmas and disagreements over a walk through these woods.

Out in the world

Grandbaby is out of the NICU and headed home! The parents are keeping photos off social media, so no pics here, but she is so, so adorable.

My Nu went out into the world for the first time in four days… to Urgent Care with Big A where they spent hours waiting to be seen and then fell asleep in the triage room. They have pneumonia and now have antibiotics to help them get better. Fingers crossed. 

 

Also, my cousin/aunt (depending on which branch of the family tree you follow) just published her novel--the first in a series of Neena Sundar mysteries titled A Pre-Med(itated) Murder. There's more on her homepage.  I love how people I love are just going ahead and making their writing dreams come true.

 

I had a meeting with my publishers today and they talked me out of my post-election-panic-induced decision to write a new foreword to my book on trans rhetorics. They think it's time for this book to go out into the world. I don’t know… It feels like a very small hand raised against the coming deluge.

Pic: Baby Nu asleep at Urgent Care. This is somehow so characteristically our plucky Nu and yet so small, lonely, vulnerable... and now sickly—it made me sad. I’m so worried for the kids. StephLove mentioned her nightmares about having to shelter and save kids—that’s where I am too.

"The Only Way to Survive is by Taking Care of Each Other"

Nu's fever spiked to 102 degrees, the grandbaby was still in the NICU, the skies were as gray as the consequences of the election looming over us... I dragged myself out for a walk hoping to clear my head.

When I checked the mailbox on my way out, I found a treasure trove: postcards from Engie and bestie KB, a just-because gift from SD, and a bookmark and button from LB--each with a feisty message to remind me we're going to fight and that we're not alone.

Yesterday, while in Detroit, I got posters with the Grace Lee Boggs quote, "The Only Way to Survive is by Taking Care of Each Other," to put up at home and in my office... and this was my beautiful community taking care of me. 

Time for me to pay it forward and pass it on... I have such a mental block about going to the post office, but I'll learn to get over it.

Pic: A collage of today's goodness.

CAP-ital

 

Nu is better; the grandbaby is here! (But in the NICU, so haven't seen them yet.)

And I had a nerdy time at NWSA. 

One minute I'm squealing because I just saw a conference friend, the next I'm squealing in my head because I saw a feminist icon. It was terrific to be able to say "land back" or "cite Black women" or wear Palestinian support without controversy. It was terrific seeing former students--especially JV, who came all the way from Kalkaska. 

Both my panels went well. Really well, actually. My first panel with EM on "Critical Connectivity" was in a plenary room and it was quite full and very engaged. The second on "Narrative Medicine" was at 5 when people usually head off for dinner but it was still well attended.

Pic: And of course SR and I took our annual Madras Madcap photo as we have since 2017. (We both had some college years in Madras and love wearing hats, so we bring hats to wear for this photo--not a stretch since it's usually in November.) She gave me the bracelet I'm wearing, it's made of an engraved coconut shell.

Socrates on my mind

Well, Socrates was on my mind this morning because I had to drive over an hour on my way to work to pick up a present for Big A's birthday and the town I was picking up from was named "Hemlock." The only reference for hemlock I've ever had is that it was the poison used to execute Socrates in prison. (Why did they name their town that?!?)

And that was the other reason I was thinking about Socrates--prison. Because today was my turn to be in the classroom with the incarcerated students. I'd picked pieces that had been written in prison as readings for today (by Malcolm X, Dr. King, Mandela, O. Henry...) and planned to talk about what each of the authors was in prison for, and how long they'd been unpopular in the public sphere. (It still freaks me out that nearly 70% of White Americans disapproved of Dr. King the year before his assassination and that Nelson Mandela was on the U.S. State Department's list of terrorists until 2008.) As it turned out, my background check didn't come through in time, so I didn't get to go after all and my visit has been postponed to December (maybe?).

I was so disappointed. I know Socrates isn't considered a stoic, but stoicism is what I should aim for right now? (Also, it might help me fall asleep? It's 4:36 am... when will I sleep tonight?)

Pic: My reward for driving along Michigan rural roads early this morning was this aureate sunrise.

"exchanged"

"May she is not her daughter. Hospital exchanged" [unedited]

I got this text from my mom last night as I was getting ready for bed and I couldn't understand it. Sometimes when my mom types Hindi or Telugu words autocorrect changes them into English and really messes things up, so I have to guess at her texts sometimes--I'm used to that. But I showed this one to Big A because it was so strange, and he got it right away and I was SO impressed... he knows my mom and all her quirks so well! 

(I was trying to highlight my mom's quirks and couldn't decide whether to point out she likes the rapper Nelly or she likes to tease me or she loves to hear me sing or that she has the most unorthodox views of marriage and Hinduism or her pre-marriage days or her fighting days with my dad or how I feel my relationship with her was cloned in a novel after we'd had dinner with the novelist. Yes, I kind of went down a rabbit hole after I searched "mom" on my blog.)

Anyway, the background to that text is my mom's baby sister was widowed earlier this year, and although my aunt had wanted to live by herself, the family pressured her to live with her only child who appears to have put themselves on my aunt's bank accounts and then kicked her out. Big A interpreted my mom's text thus: "Athamma is saying your shitty cousin is not your aunt's real daughter, and that your aunt was given the wrong baby when she delivered at the hospital." I mean, what would it matter--my aunt had brought up my cousin, but yes, that is what my mom was saying. And my mom was so proud of A for figuring it out. 

Pic: This one made me cry. Max was hanging out outside and when I went to find him, he was curled up by Scout's memorial. He never met Scout, of course, but we do sound the wind chimes on our first trip outside every morning, perhaps that's why Max is feeling good vibes there? Or maybe (just maybe) Scout lingers there somehow? I swear--every morning, the tree-of-life solar lantern flickers when I sound the chimes...