Urban Cowgrrrl

We interrupt this political discourse for a view from Belize

2008-10-02T14:09:00.022-04:00

After the most amazing wedding ever, Gar and I rested for about 36 hours and then boarded a flight to Belize. We arrived in the Capitol, Belize City, and began our first leg of the honeymoon. We decided to spend 4 nights in three different locations in the country-- allowing us to really see a lot of Belize. In order to do that though, we had to fly around on the tiniest airplanes. I was completely nervous about these machines. But they turned out to be a great way to get around-- fast, fairly comfortable, on-time and they offered great views.
Our first stop was Ambergris Caye, an island off of the Northern tip of of Belize made famous for its close proximity to the second largest barrier reef in the world. There are no cars on the island (save a handful), just golf carts and water taxis. I loved traveling by boat everywhere we went.
The view from our Cabana was incredible. We rarely saw other people while we were there, except at dinner. It was the perfect place to unwind.
The cabana itself was lovely and romantic.
A snorkeling trip out to the reef culminated when we all jumped into the water, full of sharks and stingrays! Petting sharks and stingrays the size of the hood on my car was a rush.
On another day we went out fishing in the bay. We brought back our catch and the chef at the resort prepared our fish for us that evening.
One night, we went into town to party. We were told that we must go to the Pier Lounge and join the "chicken drop." On the beach you find a large wooden board divided into squares with paint. Each square has a number between 1 and 100 painted on it. For one dollar you buy a number. Then the hosts comes out with a basket and takes from it a chicken. After dancing slowly with the chicken, the host blows on the chicken's... ahem... ass... and then sets the feathery creature on the board. Whatever number the chicken poops on first becomes the winning number!

They host 4 drops a night and the entire town comes out for it. Hundreds of people gather around the board cheering for the chicken to shit on their number! The winner gets $100 Belize, and can keep it or donate it to the Belize Humane Society.

Imagine my surprise when Garrett disappeared for a moment and came back smiling. The next thing I knew, the Pier Lounge Host said, "I want to congratulate Rebecca and Garrett for just getting married! Rebecca, will you come forward-- we need you to drop the chicken!" I looked at Garrett and cracked up. I went to the host she handed me the basket with the chicken in it. Gently I picked the chicken up, danced around a bit and then... blew on its ass. I set the chicken down and she pooped immediately. Apparently, I'm that good.

The next drop? I won. The chicken so took a shit on my number.

So $100 Belize bucks richer, we left the island for Maruba Jungle Spa and Resort. Nestled in the heart of the jungle, we looked forward to exploring the interior of Belize. It was here that I drank more rum punch than one should think possible :)There were not too many folks at the small spa so we had a pool completely to ourselves. We read books, drank rum punch, and took breaks to get rain forest mud massages. We ate armadillo and wild boar-- and I don't recommend either of them. We smoked a hookah and spent evenings in the mineral hot tub.
We took a trip to Lamanai-- the largest Mayan ruins uncovered in Belize. It was astounding-- one of the best parts of the trip. (That's a shot of Garrett-- almost at the very top.)
In the mornings, we got up and went horseback riding.
After Maruba, we hopped on a small plane to our last destination-- the Village of Hopkins. A settlement town for the Garafuna people, Hopkins was my favorite city by far. The people were so kind, the bitters were so strong, and the food in the town was incredible.
We stayed just outside the village at a pretty but 'resorty' place. While we enjoyed all the day trips like zip-lining and cave-tubing, we found we liked the Village better than the resort. However, it all turned out OK because the temperature creeped up over 105 degrees and this Midwestern grrrl though she was going to die. We spent a couple of the mornings in the air conditioned room in a struggle to beat heat stroke.
In the evenings we drank champagne and smoked cigars by moonlight on the piers.

To cool off, we hung out at the bar in the pool. And of course, we brought board games with us.
Dinner was by candlelight at a private table on the beach. And Garrett was, as always, the most romantic husband and lovable playmate any woman on vacation in paradise could dream of.

We left Belize begrudgingly but quite tan. When the airplane began its decent into Atlanta, I was holding back tears. I couldn't believe the wedding and the honeymoon were all over. I said to myself as my ears were popping, "Don't cry. This is not the end-- but the beginning of something more spectacular than you can fathom."

I was so right.

In Georgia, you must register by next Monday

2008-10-02T12:09:00.003-04:00

A Must Read

2008-09-23T12:21:00.000-04:00

This is Your Nation on White Privilege
By Tim Wise
9/13/08

For those who still can't grasp the concept of white privilege, or who are constantly looking for some easy-to-understand examples of it, perhaps this list will help.

* White privilege is when you can get pregnant at seventeen like Bristol Palin and everyone is quick to insist that your life and that of your family is a personal matter, and that no one has a right to judge you or your parents, because "every family has challenges," even as black and Latino families with similar "challenges" are regularly typified as irresponsible, pathological and arbiters of social decay.

* White privilege is when you can call yourself a "fu ckin' redneck," like Bristol Palin's boyfriend does, and talk about how if anyone messes with you, you'll "kick their fu ckin' a ss," and talk about how you like to "shoot shit"
for fun, and still be viewed as a responsible, all-American boy (and a great son-in-law to be) rather than a thug.

* White privilege is when you can attend four different colleges in six years like Sarah Palin did (one of which you basically failed out of, then returned to after making up some coursework at a community college), and no one questions your intelligence or commitment to achievement, whereas a person of color who did this would be viewed as unfit for college, and probably someone who only got in in the first place because of affirmative action.

* White privilege is when you can claim that being mayor of a town smaller than most medium-sized colleges, and then Governor of a state with about the same number of people as the lower fifth of the island of Manhattan, makes you ready to potentially be president, and people don't all piss on themselves with laughter, while being a black U.S. Senator, two-term state Senator, and constitutional law scholar, means you're "untested."

* White privilege is being able to say that you support the words "under God" in the pledge of allegiance because "if it was good enough for the founding fathers, it's good enough for me," and not be immediately disqualified from holding office--since, after all, the pledge was written in the late 1800s and the "under God" part wasn't added until the 1950s--while believing that reading accused criminals and terrorists their rights (because, ya know, the Constitution, which you used to teach at a prestigious law school requires it), is a dangerous and silly idea only supported by mushy liberals.

* White privilege is being able to be a gun enthusiast and not make people immediately scared of you. White privilege is being able to have a husband who was a member of an extremist political party that wants your state to secede from the Union, and whose motto was "Alaska first," and no one questions your patriotism or that of your family, while if you're black and your spouse merely fails to come to a 9/11 memorial so she can be home with her kids on the first day of school, people immediately think she's being disrespectful.

* White privilege is being able to make fun of community organizers and the work they do--like, among other things, fight for the right of women to vote, or for civil rights, or the 8-hour workday, or an end to child labor--and people think you're being pithy and tough, but if you merely question the experience of a small town mayor and 18-month governor with no foreign policy expertise beyond a class she took in college--you're somehow being mean, or even sexist.

* White privilege is being able to convince white women who don't even agree with you on any substantive issue to vote for you and your running mate anyway, because all of a sudden your presence on the ticket has inspired confidence in these same white women, and made them give your party a "second look."

* White privilege is being able to fire people who didn't support your political campaigns and not be accused of abusing your power or being a typical politician who engages in favoritism, while being black and merely knowing some folks from the old-line political machines in Chicago means you must be corrupt.

* White privilege is being able to attend churches over the years whose pastors say that people who voted for John Kerry or merely criticize George W.
Bush are going to hell, and that the U.S. is an explicitly Christian nation and the job of Christians is to bring Christian theological principles into government, and who bring in speakers who say the conflict in the Middle East is God's punishment on Jews for rejecting Jesus, and everyone can still think you're just a good church-going Christian, but if you're black and friends with a black pastor who has noted (as have Colin Powell and the U.S. Department of Defense) that terrorist attacks are often the result of U.S foreign policy and who talks about the history of racism and its effect on black people, you're an extremist who probably hates America.

* White privilege is not knowing what the Bush Doctrine is when asked by a reporter, and then people get angry at the reporter for asking you such a "trick question," while being black and merely refusing to give one-word answers to the queries of Bill O'Reilly means you're dodging the question, or trying to seem overly intellectual and nuanced.

* White privilege is being able to claim your experience as a POW has anything at all to do with your fitness for president, while being black and experiencing racism is, as Sarah Palin has referred to it a "light" burden.

* And finally, white privilege is the only thing that could possibly allow someone to become president when he has voted with George W. Bush 90 percent of the time, even as unemployment is skyrocketing, people are losing their homes, inflation is rising, and the U.S. is increasingly isolated from world opinion, just because white voters aren't sure about that whole "change" thing. Ya know, it's just too vague and ill-defined, unlike, say, four more years of the same, which is very concrete and certain.

* White privilege is, in short, the problem.

Tim Wise is the author of White Like Me (Soft Skull, 2005, revised 2008), and of Speaking Treason Fluently, publishing this month, also bySoft Skull. For review copies or interview requests, please reply to publicity@softskull.com

I'm voting Republican because..... (and don't worry, I'm totally not voting Republican)

2008-09-22T14:04:00.002-04:00

catch-up time

2008-09-16T22:53:00.003-04:00

Ms. Biddy and Ms. Crankbee-- Hello friends! It's so good to hear from you both. The love and the advice were very much appreciated, thank you. I still have catching up to do, but look for me on your blogs soon!

I was reading Wit's End, in my endless task of catching up in everyone's lives, the other day. She had a post about finding one's voice and how that can be difficult.

I SO related. I'm so much more than a grrrl gettin' hitched. The blog must evolve beyond that. However, I don't think that, until tonight, I have accepted that I may not find that voice for a while.

To that I say-- "Oh the hell well!"

Tonight I rant.

Probably not the voice that I am looking for, but at least there are words on this page.

1. I love the black box. What a great way to connect with other bloggers. Thank you for the comment and I will begin to do the same.

2. I will begin to do the same after this week. I have been planning an event for the judiciary in my state for months. There are 700 judges and lawyers coming. There's even a man flying in from London who is a member of the House of Lords tomorrow (similar to the Supreme Court in the US). I'm freaking busy. 'Nough said.

3. A co-worker of mind said I looked like Sarah Palin today and I was so angry I jokingly came at him with my coffee. Apparently because I had a ponytail and plastic framed glasses I looked like her. DAMN HER. I'm completely offended and I'm completely offended that me wearing a pony tail (which I do 361 days of the year) and me wearing my glasses (which I have worn for years every day of the year) makes me look like her. I came first. Her new found stardom is undeserved and completely ridiculous and unpatriotic. I wanted to tell my coworker that he looked like Hitler to see how he felt in such a ludicrous depiction.

4. We put a third offer on a third house tonight. We aren't going to get this one either. Our real estate agent, when asked what the average number of offers a first-time homebuyer makes, said, "One offer. " This is one of those times I hate going against the norm.

5. Marriage is work. It's been only 4 months and it's work. I don't say that because I don't love every minute-- I DO!!!!! It's just that so many women lately seem to think that marriage will bring them and their significant others closer together. I'm perplexed by that idea. It's actually overwhelming because the relationship starts at a new beginning-- the precipice of the future. And it's a damn daunting task. Thank the goddesses i have Garrett to look out upon our dreams with.

6. My republican co-worker today was treated by our staff as being the person who loves the American flag the most. It's a long story and I don't really want to go into it. Suffice it to say, at staff meeting we were talking about the Pledge of Allegiance. Everyone looked to him for his reaction as though his being right-wing gave him 0wnership of the flag. I have never been so offended. If I had a time machine I would go back in time and tell him, in front of everyone, "Stop looking so smug. You don't love or deserve the flag an ounce more than I do." Flaming liberals, like myself, have some work to do. I love our country the same, if not more, than those right-wingers. My acts of dissent are my greatest forms of patriotism. I should dare anyone to tell me differently.

7. I think that's it.

Love and goodnight, Beck.

ps-- Full-out wedding pictures to come during the week. They are awesome, untraditional and fabulous. I think you will all enjoy.

Long time no blog

2008-09-13T23:20:00.003-04:00

Yes, I have been completely MIA. And yes, I have really missed bloggy world.

The thing is, I was so overwhelmed by the wedding and all that jazz-- and overwhelmed at my feeling of obligation for blogging on it-- that I just kinda took a vacation from it all.

Alas.

I miss bloggy world. I particular miss Wit's End, and Ashes to Glass, and Chiblog-o. Seriously, I miss you ladies. Thanks for all the love while I have been gone. I miss all the rest of you too. I didn't just stop writing, I stopped reading as well. And I have a ton of catching up to do.

On another note, I was a bit miffed by one of my closest bloggy friends. You see, I befriended another amazing woman blogger who I have never met and who lives completely across the country. While she and I are probably completely different in "real life," I had become a huge admirer of hers for her positive outlook, her dedication to blogging several times a day and her drive to "do good" in her everyday life.

About two weeks before my wedding she went through a really tough time with a relationship in her life. She started to email me outside of the blog for advice and support and I would reply with my best thoughts of support and love.

But then life hit.

The two weeks leading up to hitching day were crazy busy. Sometimes I wouldn't get to my personal email for days and when I did, I had to reply to folks coming in from out of town. I had to prioritize. Frankly, I should have been there for her more. But stress had hit. Family was in from out of town. I had a ton to do. And I had a lot of people during that time that I felt like I had a responsibility to make happy.

So... I got back from my honeymoon and she had made all of her blogs private and I was not included on her reading list anymore. I was really sad.

Anyone else ever been dumped by a bloggy friend? It totally sucks.

Sociologically, it's also completely strange. What are these types of relationships that we create over the internets without ever having ever really met? What does it mean to follow a relatively complete stranger's life day in and day out? And what does it all mean when it comes to an end?

Anyhow, I ramble. But I completely welcome any other stories like this. I could use some insight.

So the months have passed and I am completely wonderful. I am so happily hitched to my hubby it's crazy. We put an offer on our first house together this week! The animals are great despite the war against fleas. And in general, life is good.

I'm getting back to blogging tonight though, because I have a mission. I am determined to do all I can to elect Barack Obama this November. I can't just sit at home and fret about November. I must do something. Tonight Garrett and I are creating a new website to encourage community advocacy and voter registration. And I plan to back it up using this site-- which is no longer called, "Holy Shit! We're Gettin' Hitched." Now you can find me at, "www.urbancowgrrrl.com."

I plan to use this website for some politics for the next 7 weeks. If it's not your thing, bear with me, register to vote, and I will attempt to speckle this with personal connection when I can.

I seriously did miss my bloggy friends.

Thanks for your patience.

Love,
Beck

The love of Mockingbirds

2008-06-08T11:29:00.004-04:00

Take a moment to head over to the Flickr Stream of one of my favorite ladies in the whole world, Angela at My Daily Struggle and check out the gorgeous new addition to their family, Harper Jane.

Gar and I spent a couple of hours at the hospital yesterday visiting with Angela and Tim and the new baby. She fell asleep in my arms and I held her for over an hour. I was nervous trying to figure out every move and every breath she took. I can't imagine having a newborn and ever taking my eyes off of him or her. No wonder new parents never sleep! Luckily, Harper is number 2 for Angela and Tim and they know just what they are doing.

Angela and Tim are the kind of parents I aspire to be. Their eldest child, Audrey, is incredible. And their new baby girl takes right after her. Both of them are beautiful reflections of their amazing parents.

Congratulations Angela, Tim and Audrey.

My 'found on Flickr' self-portrait

2008-06-06T11:18:00.002-04:00

My 'found on Flickr' self-portrait, originally uploaded by merfunkhead.

Autobiography of My Feet inspired me this morning to have some fun and make my own found self-portrait.

Want to make one too? Here are the instructions and my answers:

A. Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr Search.
B. Using only the first page, pick an image.
C. Copy and paste each of the URLs for the images into fd’s mosaic maker.

1. What is your first name? Rebecca
2. What is your favorite food? Cheese
3. What high school did you go to? No match, so I used our mascot-- the Mustangs
4. What is your favorite color? Purple
5. Who is your celebrity crush? John Cusack, not just celebrity crush, but celebrity husband. Gar totally understands.
6. Favorite drink? Wine
7. Dream vacation? Bhutan-- and it may become a reality in October '09!
8. Favorite dessert? Soapapilla
9. What you want to be when you grow up? Loved
10. What do you love most in life? Love
11. One Word to describe you. Tall
12. Your flickr name. Nothing came up for Merfunkhead, so I used 'funk.'

Some time for the new design...

2008-06-05T15:16:00.002-04:00

A new design is coming, for now this will have to do.

A Black Veil

2008-06-05T13:04:00.012-04:00

I think I'm ready to start blogging about it all and, in general, get back into the swing of things. I was overwhelmed on how to do it. And I think I'm a bit sad that it's all over. I wasn't expecting that at all...

The Bachelorette/Bachelor/Birthday Party!

Two weeks before the wedding Gar and I had our bachelor and bachelorette parties. It was a hell of a night. The plan was for the men to get tattoos in the afternoon and then have a nighttime bachelor party. The ladies were to meet at my house in the evening and then go out and hit the town. Later, we planned to converge back at my house at 2:00 am to celebrate Gar's 33rd birthday!

I think my evening is best told in pics. So enjoy-- and there are many, many more on my Flickr account.

I was so surprised by all the details my grrrls put into this party. They brought food, decorations, champagne, liquor, and everything-- I mean EVERYTHING-- that was ever made to resemble a penis. Oh, and one wind-up vagina.

"Seriously friends? You are gonna make me wear a cock necklace? Have you seen my hot outfit? Really? You are really gonna make me wear this in public?"

"REALLY? Two cock necklaces, a virgin VIP pass that you,*ahem*, altered, a sash and a black veil? I really have to wear this all? Fine...."

My friend April rented a catering van from work-- always in style-- and we drove to dinner. We went to a salsa club/ tapas restaurant called Loca Luna. Pulling up in the big white van and stepping out covered in cocks and fishnets was one of the funniest moments of the night. I think we scared the yuppies.
I am already 5 feet 11 inches tall. I wore three inch heels which made me about 6 feet and 2 inches. Add another 6 inches of a black veil and believe you me-- I did not blend into the crowd.
After dinner we came back to my neighborhood and went to Thinking Man Tavern-- where Gar and I had our first date. I'm friends with the bartender and knew we would get great treatment. He gave me $20 for the jukebox and several rounds of shots. I sang and danced for the rest of the night. And then it was time to check on the men...

Our dining room had been transformed into Las Vegas. The men were smoking cigars, playing poker-- and strangely-- many of them had just white tank shirts on and hand-drawn black mustaches. I have no idea where that came from.

I checked out Gar's new ink and it's fabulous. It's a replication of one his very favorite Erik Drooker prints.

His pink birthday cake read, "Happy Birthday Gar-Ho the Destroyer." A pink cake, complete with fondant skull, it was Ms. Woody's run-through, from scratch, strawberry groomsmen cake. And it was delicious.

Gar and I took about two days to recover from the debauchery. And then we got ready for the big day...

We done did it!

2008-05-28T10:36:00.003-04:00

I'm a bit overwhelmed at the prospect of blogging about the past couple of weeks. That said, everything was more spectacular, magical, and loving than I could have thought possible.

I'm about to go play catch-up and read all my favorite blogs. Wedding and honeymoon pics, blogs and videos to come soon! And a brand new blog design and title.... cause Holy Shit! I'm not getting hitched, I am hitched!

Only in Georgia Would One See a Sign Like This

2008-04-28T14:43:00.002-04:00

Ballgowns to Building supplies

2008-04-22T14:13:00.010-04:00

Is it me, or does every week that passes lose a day, or two, or three? It feels like yesterday was March...

Last Friday Garrett and I attended my annual work Gala. We call it our Buckhead Vacation. We travel to the ritzy part of Atlanta, stay in a swanky hotel for two nights, get all dressed up for a black-tie event (at which Gar can wear his wedding tux to next year!), and generally get paid to eat, drink and dance.

I was much better behaved than I was last year. Gar and I only had one dance together. It was a slow song because we NEED to practice.

The whole evening was romantic. It was like we had just started dating again. Garrett couldn't keep his hands off me. All during the dinner, and the big presentation that happens simultaneously, he kept rubbing my shoulders, my neck, and grabbing my hand.

During the dinner program, the President of our organization got ready to introduce us staff. At that moment I leaned forward in my chair and got ready to stand up. Gar's hand had been around my neck gently rubbing me.

As I leaned up, the tie on my halter dress got stuck between his arm and the back of my chair and wouldn't ya know it?

He untied my dress.

I felt my eyes bug out in horror as I slowly leaned back to retrieve my dress ties before I was introduced. I attempted to inconspicuously re-tie my dress as I shot Garrett the evil-eye.

Luckily, a potential Janet Jackson faux pas was averted.

After Friday's festivities we spent some time recovering. I took the day off work yesterday to do more wedding work. Ours has truly turned into a DIY wedding. While I got a late start in the afternoon, I finished painting all 20 of the picture frames we're using to put pictures of our grandparents on the tables.Then I began to prime all the 2 x 4s needed to build the set. After hauling those out onto the drop cloth, hauling all the lattice out, and crouching over it all with a mini-roller, I began to get tired. Garrett got home in the early evening and took over for a bit. I'm pleased to say that the 'set' has been built. We still need to paint it and I need to get the fabric and flowers for it. However, just as I knew it would, Garrett's design turned out lovely.
And the days continue to pass, the next more quickly than the last. Only 18 more!

Just stunned

2008-04-16T17:14:00.013-04:00

I first moved to Atlanta in January of 2002. I had just graduated from college 9 months previously and was working in direct service as a social worker. After a few particularly difficult cases of judges denying justice to the domestic violence victims I worked with, I became interested in pursuing macro level work. Basically, I wanted to influence policy. I was pissed that good people, strong women, and victims of sexual and domestic violence were not only abused by their partners but then by the system as well. I wanted to make a change.

Oh, that feeling of hope, determination, idealism. It sure has taken me places.

I left snowy Chicago, my apartment I shared with my boyfriend at the time, my friends and proximity to my family for a job in Atlanta. I was to intern with a bad-ass lobbyist (who only worked for social justice clients) and learn about the legislative process for $250 a month-- and an extra $100 a week for extra administrative work. After session, I was to move back home to Chicago.

It was crazy. I packed one suitcase and a pillow. I was going to sleep on a cot loaned to me at her daughter's (and my friend's) tiny apartment for 3-4 months. I had never really been to Atlanta before, save the time I spent in the suburbs during the Olympics in '96. I had never even been in a state capitol building-- much less worked in one. I had never owned a business suit. I had never met a legislator before. I had no idea what the hell I was getting myself into.

My boss' daughter had just moved down here too. We were both newbies-- she to Atlanta and me to the South in general. I had so much to learn. I had no idea what a "package store" or a "pocketbook" was. I had never tried collard greens. I had never seen a confederate flag-- and there were crazy people waving them all over the place at the Capitol. I couldn't understand half the people I met as they spoke to me with their thick southern drawls. I couldn't navigate the damn city where 28 streets are named Peachtree. I was used to Chicago's well-thought-out grid system. Hell! I didn't even own a car at that time. I had to buy one to move to Atlanta because the city has shit for public transportation.

I was lost and lonely and scared.

My friend and I shared half of the tiniest little house I had ever been in. In order for me to move from the bedroom into the kitchen, I had to roll my cot out of the doorway. I still have scars from that damn cot. To top it off, the duplex had been a known prostitution house before. Needless to say, the neighborhood was sketchy.

After a couple of nights spent crammed in our tiny living room, we knew we had to get out of the house. We had to make some friends. We had to blow off steam. So we headed up the road to a dive bar/live blues club called The Northside Tavern.

The Northside Tavern is dark and dingy. The regulars are tough and gritty. It's a feast for the eyes in an incredibly appealing wasteland sort of way.

The Northside Tavern is all about the Blues-- live Blues-- 7 days a week. Decades of history, musicians, legends and Blues. It's place where black, white, young, old, hippie, rockabilly, rich, poor-- anything-- come to see the real thing. No pretense. No fancy stage. No servers besides those behind the bar. No stalls for all the toilets. No food except 5 year-old bags of Fritos. No bullshit. Just Blues.

And I loved it.

As a Blues lover in Chicago, I felt comfortable here. My meager paycheck could take me through several pitchers. Before we knew it, we were there every Friday and Saturday night and at least every other weekday.

In February, I ended my 4-year relationship waiting for me in our apartment in Chicago. Of course we went to the Northside to drown my sorrows. We were becoming regulars. The bartenders knew our names. We walked in and were greeted by a pitcher of PBR-- and often shots, on the House.

The Northside became my second home. We flirted with musicians and patrons. We laughed at pick-up lines. We befriended neighbors and got asked to parties. We drank beer, smoked cigarettes, and clapped after every song. We hooted for the musicians.

We really got to know, and love, The Blues.

By March, my money was really running out and my bar tabs got smaller. The bartender asked me if I would work as the doorgirl for some extra cash on the weekends. I couldn't think of a better gig. I started that weekend. My job consisted of sitting outside the door from 9:00 pm - 1:00 am with a raunchy Atlanta cop, asking for IDs, taking the $5 cover, and drinking for free. The door stayed open all night, so I never missed a set. My cut was $60 a night in cash.

Hell yeah.

As a worker, I got to know the musicians better. At first they were sweet to me because I collected their money, handled the guest lists and kept them company on set-break. Later, we became friends.

As I counted out my cut one Saturday night, the bartender came over and informed me about my next two shifts. He said that the cover would be $8 -- and that my cut would be $80. He said it would be a crazy night-- busier than I had ever seen. "Sean Costello is back in town," he said. "Get ready for a great show."

I had heard the other musicians speak of this guy. "Awwww man, that guy is good," they would say. "That kid is the next Buddy Guy." Accolades upon accolades were thrown at this Sean Costello guy. I couldn't wait to check him out.

The next Friday I got there early to start my shift. The joint was already filling up to see Sean. I took my regular bar stool outside and set up my doorgirl shop. A young, handsome, well-dressed guy came up to me.

"Eight bucks," I said.

He held out his hand for me to shake, "Sean Costello," he said.

"Oh, shit, sorry." I said feeling like a complete asshole. "I just moved here and I haven't seen you yet."

He smiled and asked me where I was from. We talked about Chicago Blues for a bit. Then he went back in to set up. I couldn't believe that this young, hot, white kid with kinda rockabilly hair was Sean Costello.

Then I heard him play.

Damn.

The kid (22 at the time) could sing. The kid could play. I understood what everyone was talking about. I got it. I was catching a glimpse of greatness. The kind that will have generations after us alluding to Sean Costello in the same sentence as BB King, Buddy Guy and Muddy Waters.

And I remember how I felt.

I was young (22) livin' in a new city, in a new region, in a new culture, with new friends, a new job, sitting out front of a legendary Blues club, drinking free beer and listening-- experiencing-- greatness.

I had never felt so free. It was the life I had dreamed of living-- and I was doing it.

I equate realizing, for the first time, that my home is wherever I choose it to be, with Sean Costello. I equate feeling free and independent and young and invincible with Sean Costello. I equate that pivotal and exceptional time in my life where I didn't worry about money, rent, relationships-- anything but good beer and better Blues-- with Sean Costello. He was my first Atlanta crush.

I should have thanked him for that.

That's why I'm so stunned.

I went online to read the paper today and the first headline I saw was, "Atlanta Blues Guitarist Sean Costello Found Dead."

Shit.

I'm just stunned.

I called my ex-boyfriend who played Blues piano with Sean. I broke the news-- and not too gently. All I could say was, "Jeff, Sean Costello died today." I feel bad about that. I was just stunned.

Tomorrow would have been Sean's 29th birthday. Tonight everyone will be at the Northside Tavern. And right now, I continue to be stunned.

This is Sean at the Northside Tavern.

Experiment: The Belizian Banger

2008-04-16T10:17:00.007-04:00

After much consideration and debate, Garrett and I decided that last night we had to make a big decision regarding the wedding. Given the gravity of this decision, we decided that we had to stop all other work and completely focus on the task at hand. With minds full of concentration, our experiment began.

Question: What Rum Punch recipe should be served during the cocktail reception?

Background Research: The cocktail reception is to occur at 6:15 on May 10th. The ceremony is at 7:00 and the reception follows immediately. In addition to sangria, the scientists have wanted to serve a signature cocktail of sorts. A cocktail that is delicious, satisfying and that is a bit strong-- as the scientists are not having a full bar (only wine and beer at the reception). Also, after discussing the very real reality that some folks won't be impressed with the Iron Maiden art, the scientists decided that a nice strong cocktail could very well influence the drinker to giggle rather than to shriek in horror.

The scientists Garrett and Beck took to the internets. They wrote down any Rum Punch recipe that didn't have too many expensive spirits in it. (They also completely skipped anything with coconut in it as that is about the only food that makes Ms. Scientist yak.)

Then Ms. Scientist left for the grocery store where she proceeded to buy all the necessary juices and mixers for this experiment. After forgetting her wallet at home, calling Mr. Scientist to come bail her out, and then thanking him for being her hero, they set to work.

Hypothesis: A recipe for Rum Punch containing relatively inexpensive ingredients can be delicious and wedding-worthy.

Test: After narrowing down the recipes to the two that were the most appealing, concocting commenced.

Variable #1: (Is this even the place for variables? I haven't used the
scientific method in at least 15 years...) The printed recipe was for
a gallon of Rum Punch. The scientists wanted just two glasses. Ms. Scientist
had to make her most reasonable guesstimate.

The scientists drank the first concoction. Obviously thirsty, they were pleased with the results. From there they moved on to the second recipe.

Variable #2: Recipe #1 was stronger than both of the scientists
had anticipated. After downing what tasted like a shaker and a half of
juice, the scientists realized that Recipe #2 would have a slight
advantage because they were getting a wee bit tipsy.

The scientists agreed that Recipe #2 was also delicious. However, because Recipe #2 had two different spirits in it-- and a significantly less amount of mixers and juices-- Recipe #2 would be more expensive.

Test Again: To be sure about their conclusion, the scientists made another batch of both.

Conclusion: The scientists took a moment to think over the evening's deliberation. (Read: instead of working, they snuggled, ordered Juno off On Demand, and finished the last shaker full of fruity goodness.) The results? Both Rum Punch recipes were delicious (and fairly nutritious). Both Rum Punch recipes were relatively easy to concoct . Recipe #1 was both delicious and inexpensive to make. The scientists agreed that Recipe #1 would indeed be the signature cocktail at the cocktail reception. The scientists were pleased by its tastiness and agreed that everyone partaking would enjoy sipping it while the wedding ceremony occurred. They coined the drink, "The Belizian Banger."

Report Results: Ms. Scientist decided to mix up a big batch for next Saturday when her bachelorette party and Mr. Scientist's bachelor party converge at their laboratory at 2:00 am for his 33rd birthday party.

Good advice

2008-04-15T16:10:00.003-04:00

The past few days have continued to be hectic-- but at a pleasurable pace. On Friday night Gar and I cleaned the house until 2:00 in the morning. And not just dusting and such. I'm talking about scrubbing walls, baseboards, crown molding and cabinetry, laundering dozens of loads of everything fabric in our home, organizing the rearrangement of two rooms, etc. If I were preggers, I could chalk this up to nesting. Thankfully, I'm not preggers so this is just basically OCD.

And we have continued to plan. We bought beer cups, champagne glasses and fabric to finish all the pillows and runners. We've worked on an organizational chart, ordered corsages, and handed out duties to our friends. I've searched for hair-dos, coordinated with the make-up artist, stuffed program/favors. We've made lists. Revised lists. Crossed out items and added more.

Whew.

But all at a good pace. We both feel confident that all will get done. And my mantra is that, if it doesn't get done? Well, then it wasn't worth doing in the first place.

Through it all, amazing women have given me advice.

Gar's aunt told me to put the following words on my refrigerator:

BREATHE, GO SLOWLY, AND SMILE.
--words from Vietnamese meditation teacher Thich Nhat Hanh

She then signed off another email with:

Breathe in spaciousness, breathe out joy. Breathe in calm, breathe out ease....

Myla said to drink lots of water and sleep. She's right-- those are the simple things that can get lost in this shuffle. Perhaps instead of staying up until 3:00 am working with a bottle of wine, I should sleep with a glass of water at my bedside. Hmmmm... novel idea.

My sisters and my mom have reminded me to enjoy this time and this planning.

My amazing friends have offered help around every corner.

And I feel good! Twenty-four days until the big day and I am ready. Super ready. Very, very ready.

Sine die

2008-04-08T14:05:00.003-04:00

Sine Die is the last day of the legislative session. It was a nail biter, that one. I spent anywhere from 12- 18 hours a day working at the Capitol last week. And now, dear internets, it is, finally, done.

And not a day too soon.

I'm ready to shelve my heels, suits, briefcase, pounds of paper, templates for reporting, legislator smile and my political brain for a while.

At least for the next 31 days.

31 days until we get hitched.

May I just say, "Holy shit!"

Yikes, it is truly right around the corner. I couldn't do a damn thing last week on the wedding and I'm trying to make up for it this week.

Besides the to-do list of details to be completed, I'm just so ready. We've been engaged and thinking about this day for 14 months. Quite a build-up. Now it's upon us and it doesn't even seem real.

Over my blogging sabbatical I found a salon and did my hair run-through, got a facial, shopped for gifts for my grrrls, purchased all sorts of stuff for the food and tables, went attendant dress shopping, began to write a detailed run-through of the events, booked the rehearsal dinner space, reorganized the house, crafted the programs/favors (which are super rad), assisted in creating, addressing and mailing the invitations, logged the RSVPs, updated the registry, bought shoes, bought earrings, made a music-play list, and the list just goes on. Gar did all of that and bought a tux, got fitted, shopped, designed wine labels, the program/favor, the invitations, printed posters, and brought me roses for no reason.

Gar is doing his thesis, working full-time, working another full-time job on the website (soon to be announced), and working on the rental house.

I'd like to say that life will slow down a bit after we get hitched but it's not looking likely.

Therefore, my attention is directed at Belize.

Oh Belize. If you are anything like my daydreams I will be so happy.

Die Wth Your Boots On

2008-03-19T22:10:00.006-04:00

Moments ago I went to the art gallery's website to see if they had announced what art will be on the walls when we get hitched.

It has been decided.

Drumroll please......

Galleries 1 & 2:

DIE WITH YOUR BOOTS ON

A tribute to the artwork of Derek Riggs and Iron Maiden

I am so not kidding.

We are getting married surrounded by Iron Maiden album covers.

Die With Your Boots On was a fairly (ahem) popular Iron Maiden song. The chorus says, "If you're gonna die, die with your boots on."

Um, yeah.

If you are interested in seeing the art that will be there, click on the Derek Riggs hyperlink. Click on published art and then scroll down and click on Iron Maiden.

I just cannot believe this.

So many people I love will adore this. I have decided to just laugh all the way to the altar. Sometimes life is twisted. Sometimes life is cool. Sometimes, it's a bit of both.

Rock on,
Beck

Perhaps one of the most important speeches of our times

2008-03-18T22:14:00.002-04:00

For this post, I'm asking you, dear internets, to put aside whomever it is you are voting for and just think about this speech made today. It is perhaps one of the most important speeches of our time.

"We the people, in order to form a more perfect union."

Two hundred and twenty one years ago, in a hall that still stands across the street, a group of men gathered and, with these simple words, launched America's improbable experiment in democracy. Farmers and scholars; statesmen and patriots who had traveled across an ocean to escape tyranny and persecution finally made real their declaration of independence at a Philadelphia convention that lasted through the spring of 1787.

The document they produced was eventually signed but ultimately unfinished. It was stained by this nation's original sin of slavery, a question that divided the colonies and brought the convention to a stalemate until the founders chose to allow the slave trade to continue for at least twenty more years, and to leave any final resolution to future generations.

Of course, the answer to the slavery question was already embedded within our Constitution - a Constitution that had at its very core the ideal of equal citizenship under the law; a Constitution that promised its people liberty, and justice, and a union that could be and should be perfected over time.

And yet words on a parchment would not be enough to deliver slaves from bondage, or provide men and women of every color and creed their full rights and obligations as citizens of the United States. What would be needed were Americans in successive generations who were willing to do their part - through protests and struggle, on the streets and in the courts, through a civil war and civil disobedience and always at great risk - to narrow that gap between the promise of our ideals and the reality of their time.

This was one of the tasks we set forth at the beginning of this campaign - to continue the long march of those who came before us, a march for a more just, more equal, more free, more caring and more prosperous America. I chose to run for the presidency at this moment in history because I believe deeply that we cannot solve the challenges of our time unless we solve them together - unless we perfect our union by understanding that we may have different stories, but we hold common hopes; that we may not look the same and we may not have come from the same place, but we all want to move in the same direction - towards a better future for our children and our grandchildren.

This belief comes from my unyielding faith in the decency and generosity of the American people. But it also comes from my own American story.

I am the son of a black man from Kenya and a white woman from Kansas. I was raised with the help of a white grandfather who survived a Depression to serve in Patton's Army during World War II and a white grandmother who worked on a bomber assembly line at Fort Leavenworth while he was overseas. I've gone to some of the best schools in America and lived in one of the world's poorest nations. I am married to a black American who carries within her the blood of slaves and slaveowners - an inheritance we pass on to our two precious daughters. I have brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, uncles and cousins, of every race and every hue, scattered across three continents, and for as long as I live, I will never forget that in no other country on Earth is my story even possible.

It's a story that hasn't made me the most conventional candidate. But it is a story that has seared into my genetic makeup the idea that this nation is more than the sum of its parts - that out of many, we are truly one.

Throughout the first year of this campaign, against all predictions to the contrary, we saw how hungry the American people were for this message of unity. Despite the temptation to view my candidacy through a purely racial lens, we won commanding victories in states with some of the whitest populations in the country. In South Carolina, where the Confederate Flag still flies, we built a powerful coalition of African Americans and white Americans.

This is not to say that race has not been an issue in the campaign. At various stages in the campaign, some commentators have deemed me either "too black" or "not black enough." We saw racial tensions bubble to the surface during the week before the South Carolina primary. The press has scoured every exit poll for the latest evidence of racial polarization, not just in terms of white and black, but black and brown as well.

And yet, it has only been in the last couple of weeks that the discussion of race in this campaign has taken a particularly divisive turn.

On one end of the spectrum, we've heard the implication that my candidacy is somehow an exercise in affirmative action; that it's based solely on the desire of wide-eyed liberals to purchase racial reconciliation on the cheap. On the other end, we've heard my former pastor, Reverend Jeremiah Wright, use incendiary language to express views that have the potential not only to widen the racial divide, but views that denigrate both the greatness and the goodness of our nation; that rightly offend white and black alike.

I have already condemned, in unequivocal terms, the statements of Reverend Wright that have caused such controversy. For some, nagging questions remain. Did I know him to be an occasionally fierce critic of American domestic and foreign policy? Of course. Did I ever hear him make remarks that could be considered controversial while I sat in church? Yes. Did I strongly disagree with many of his political views? Absolutely - just as I'm sure many of you have heard remarks from your pastors, priests, or rabbis with which you strongly disagreed.

But the remarks that have caused this recent firestorm weren't simply controversial. They weren't simply a religious leader's effort to speak out against perceived injustice. Instead, they expressed a profoundly distorted view of this country - a view that sees white racism as endemic, and that elevates what is wrong with America above all that we know is right with America; a view that sees the conflicts in the Middle East as rooted primarily in the actions of stalwart allies like Israel, instead of emanating from the perverse and hateful ideologies of radical Islam.

As such, Reverend Wright's comments were not only wrong but divisive, divisive at a time when we need unity; racially charged at a time when we need to come together to solve a set of monumental problems - two wars, a terrorist threat, a falling economy, a chronic health care crisis and potentially devastating climate change; problems that are neither black or white or Latino or Asian, but rather problems that confront us all.

Given my background, my politics, and my professed values and ideals, there will no doubt be those for whom my statements of condemnation are not enough. Why associate myself with Reverend Wright in the first place, they may ask? Why not join another church? And I confess that if all that I knew of Reverend Wright were the snippets of those sermons that have run in an endless loop on the television and You Tube, or if Trinity United Church of Christ conformed to the caricatures being peddled by some commentators, there is no doubt that I would react in much the same way

But the truth is, that isn't all that I know of the man. The man I met more than twenty years ago is a man who helped introduce me to my Christian faith, a man who spoke to me about our obligations to love one another; to care for the sick and lift up the poor. He is a man who served his country as a U.S. Marine; who has studied and lectured at some of the finest universities and seminaries in the country, and who for over thirty years led a church that serves the community by doing God's work here on Earth - by housing the homeless, ministering to the needy, providing day care services and scholarships and prison ministries, and reaching out to those suffering from HIV/AIDS.

In my first book, Dreams From My Father, I described the experience of my first service at Trinity:

"People began to shout, to rise from their seats and clap and cry out, a forceful wind carrying the reverend's voice up into the rafters....And in that single note - hope! - I heard something else; at the foot of that cross, inside the thousands of churches across the city, I imagined the stories of ordinary black people merging with the stories of David and Goliath, Moses and Pharaoh, the Christians in the lion's den, Ezekiel's field of dry bones. Those stories - of survival, and freedom, and hope - became our story, my story; the blood that had spilled was our blood, the tears our tears; until this black church, on this bright day, seemed once more a vessel carrying the story of a people into future generations and into a larger world. Our trials and triumphs became at once unique and universal, black and more than black; in chronicling our journey, the stories and songs gave us a means to reclaim memories that we didn't need to feel shame about...memories that all people might study and cherish - and with which we could start to rebuild."

That has been my experience at Trinity. Like other predominantly black churches across the country, Trinity embodies the black community in its entirety - the doctor and the welfare mom, the model student and the former gang-banger. Like other black churches, Trinity's services are full of raucous laughter and sometimes bawdy humor. They are full of dancing, clapping, screaming and shouting that may seem jarring to the untrained ear. The church contains in full the kindness and cruelty, the fierce intelligence and the shocking ignorance, the struggles and successes, the love and yes, the bitterness and bias that make up the black experience in America.

And this helps explain, perhaps, my relationship with Reverend Wright. As imperfect as he may be, he has been like family to me. He strengthened my faith, officiated my wedding, and baptized my children. Not once in my conversations with him have I heard him talk about any ethnic group in derogatory terms, or treat whites with whom he interacted with anything but courtesy and respect. He contains within him the contradictions - the good and the bad - of the community that he has served diligently for so many years.

I can no more disown him than I can disown the black community. I can no more disown him than I can my white grandmother - a woman who helped raise me, a woman who sacrificed again and again for me, a woman who loves me as much as she loves anything in this world, but a woman who once confessed her fear of black men who passed by her on the street, and who on more than one occasion has uttered racial or ethnic stereotypes that made me cringe.

These people are a part of me. And they are a part of America, this country that I love.

Some will see this as an attempt to justify or excuse comments that are simply inexcusable. I can assure you it is not. I suppose the politically safe thing would be to move on from this episode and just hope that it fades into the woodwork. We can dismiss Reverend Wright as a crank or a demagogue, just as some have dismissed Geraldine Ferraro, in the aftermath of her recent statements, as harboring some deep-seated racial bias.

But race is an issue that I believe this nation cannot afford to ignore right now. We would be making the same mistake that Reverend Wright made in his offending sermons about America - to simplify and stereotype and amplify the negative to the point that it distorts reality.

The fact is that the comments that have been made and the issues that have surfaced over the last few weeks reflect the complexities of race in this country that we've never really worked through - a part of our union that we have yet to perfect. And if we walk away now, if we simply retreat into our respective corners, we will never be able to come together and solve challenges like health care, or education, or the need to find good jobs for every American.

Understanding this reality requires a reminder of how we arrived at this point. As William Faulkner once wrote, "The past isn't dead and buried. In fact, it isn't even past." We do not need to recite here the history of racial injustice in this country. But we do need to remind ourselves that so many of the disparities that exist in the African-American community today can be directly traced to inequalities passed on from an earlier generation that suffered under the brutal legacy of slavery and Jim Crow.

Segregated schools were, and are, inferior schools; we still haven't fixed them, fifty years after Brown v. Board of Education, and the inferior education they provided, then and now, helps explain the pervasive achievement gap between today's black and white students.

Legalized discrimination - where blacks were prevented, often through violence, from owning property, or loans were not granted to African-American business owners, or black homeowners could not access FHA mortgages, or blacks were excluded from unions, or the police force, or fire departments - meant that black families could not amass any meaningful wealth to bequeath to future generations. That history helps explain the wealth and income gap between black and white, and the concentrated pockets of poverty that persists in so many of today's urban and rural communities.

A lack of economic opportunity among black men, and the shame and frustration that came from not being able to provide for one's family, contributed to the erosion of black families - a problem that welfare policies for many years may have worsened. And the lack of basic services in so many urban black neighborhoods - parks for kids to play in, police walking the beat, regular garbage pick-up and building code enforcement - all helped create a cycle of violence, blight and neglect that continue to haunt us.

This is the reality in which Reverend Wright and other African-Americans of his generation grew up. They came of age in the late fifties and early sixties, a time when segregation was still the law of the land and opportunity was systematically constricted. What's remarkable is not how many failed in the face of discrimination, but rather how many men and women overcame the odds; how many were able to make a way out of no way for those like me who would come after them.

But for all those who scratched and clawed their way to get a piece of the American Dream, there were many who didn't make it - those who were ultimately defeated, in one way or another, by discrimination. That legacy of defeat was passed on to future generations - those young men and increasingly young women who we see standing on street corners or languishing in our prisons, without hope or prospects for the future. Even for those blacks who did make it, questions of race, and racism, continue to define their worldview in fundamental ways. For the men and women of Reverend Wright's generation, the memories of humiliation and doubt and fear have not gone away; nor has the anger and the bitterness of those years. That anger may not get expressed in public, in front of white co-workers or white friends. But it does find voice in the barbershop or around the kitchen table. At times, that anger is exploited by politicians, to gin up votes along racial lines, or to make up for a politician's own failings.

And occasionally it finds voice in the church on Sunday morning, in the pulpit and in the pews. The fact that so many people are surprised to hear that anger in some of Reverend Wright's sermons simply reminds us of the old truism that the most segregated hour in American life occurs on Sunday morning. That anger is not always productive; indeed, all too often it distracts attention from solving real problems; it keeps us from squarely facing our own complicity in our condition, and prevents the African-American community from forging the alliances it needs to bring about real change. But the anger is real; it is powerful; and to simply wish it away, to condemn it without understanding its roots, only serves to widen the chasm of misunderstanding that exists between the races.

In fact, a similar anger exists within segments of the white community. Most working- and middle-class white Americans don't feel that they have been particularly privileged by their race. Their experience is the immigrant experience - as far as they're concerned, no one's handed them anything, they've built it from scratch. They've worked hard all their lives, many times only to see their jobs shipped overseas or their pension dumped after a lifetime of labor. They are anxious about their futures, and feel their dreams slipping away; in an era of stagnant wages and global competition, opportunity comes to be seen as a zero sum game, in which your dreams come at my expense. So when they are told to bus their children to a school across town; when they hear that an African American is getting an advantage in landing a good job or a spot in a good college because of an injustice that they themselves never committed; when they're told that their fears about crime in urban neighborhoods are somehow prejudiced, resentment builds over time.

Like the anger within the black community, these resentments aren't always expressed in polite company. But they have helped shape the political landscape for at least a generation. Anger over welfare and affirmative action helped forge the Reagan Coalition. Politicians routinely exploited fears of crime for their own electoral ends. Talk show hosts and conservative commentators built entire careers unmasking bogus claims of racism while dismissing legitimate discussions of racial injustice and inequality as mere political correctness or reverse racism.

Just as black anger often proved counterproductive, so have these white resentments distracted attention from the real culprits of the middle class squeeze - a corporate culture rife with inside dealing, questionable accounting practices, and short-term greed; a Washington dominated by lobbyists and special interests; economic policies that favor the few over the many. And yet, to wish away the resentments of white Americans, to label them as misguided or even racist, without recognizing they are grounded in legitimate concerns - this too widens the racial divide, and blocks the path to understanding.

This is where we are right now. It's a racial stalemate we've been stuck in for years. Contrary to the claims of some of my critics, black and white, I have never been so naÃ¯ve as to believe that we can get beyond our racial divisions in a single election cycle, or with a single candidacy - particularly a candidacy as imperfect as my own.

But I have asserted a firm conviction - a conviction rooted in my faith in God and my faith in the American people - that working together we can move beyond some of our old racial wounds, and that in fact we have no choice is we are to continue on the path of a more perfect union.

For the African-American community, that path means embracing the burdens of our past without becoming victims of our past. It means continuing to insist on a full measure of justice in every aspect of American life. But it also means binding our particular grievances - for better health care, and better schools, and better jobs - to the larger aspirations of all Americans -- the white woman struggling to break the glass ceiling, the white man whose been laid off, the immigrant trying to feed his family. And it means taking full responsibility for own lives - by demanding more from our fathers, and spending more time with our children, and reading to them, and teaching them that while they may face challenges and discrimination in their own lives, they must never succumb to despair or cynicism; they must always believe that they can write their own destiny.

Ironically, this quintessentially American - and yes, conservative - notion of self-help found frequent expression in Reverend Wright's sermons. But what my former pastor too often failed to understand is that embarking on a program of self-help also requires a belief that society can change.

The profound mistake of Reverend Wright's sermons is not that he spoke about racism in our society. It's that he spoke as if our society was static; as if no progress has been made; as if this country - a country that has made it possible for one of his own members to run for the highest office in the land and build a coalition of white and black; Latino and Asian, rich and poor, young and old -- is still irrevocably bound to a tragic past. But what we know -- what we have seen - is that America can change. That is the true genius of this nation. What we have already achieved gives us hope - the audacity to hope - for what we can and must achieve tomorrow.

In the white community, the path to a more perfect union means acknowledging that what ails the African-American community does not just exist in the minds of black people; that the legacy of discrimination - and current incidents of discrimination, while less overt than in the past - are real and must be addressed. Not just with words, but with deeds - by investing in our schools and our communities; by enforcing our civil rights laws and ensuring fairness in our criminal justice system; by providing this generation with ladders of opportunity that were unavailable for previous generations. It requires all Americans to realize that your dreams do not have to come at the expense of my dreams; that investing in the health, welfare, and education of black and brown and white children will ultimately help all of America prosper.

In the end, then, what is called for is nothing more, and nothing less, than what all the world's great religions demand - that we do unto others as we would have them do unto us. Let us be our brother's keeper, Scripture tells us. Let us be our sister's keeper. Let us find that common stake we all have in one another, and let our politics reflect that spirit as well.

For we have a choice in this country. We can accept a politics that breeds division, and conflict, and cynicism. We can tackle race only as spectacle - as we did in the OJ trial - or in the wake of tragedy, as we did in the aftermath of Katrina - or as fodder for the nightly news. We can play Reverend Wright's sermons on every channel, every day and talk about them from now until the election, and make the only question in this campaign whether or not the American people think that I somehow believe or sympathize with his most offensive words. We can pounce on some gaffe by a Hillary supporter as evidence that she's playing the race card, or we can speculate on whether white men will all flock to John McCain in the general election regardless of his policies.

We can do that.

But if we do, I can tell you that in the next election, we'll be talking about some other distraction. And then another one. And then another one. And nothing will change.

That is one option. Or, at this moment, in this election, we can come together and say, "Not this time." This time we want to talk about the crumbling schools that are stealing the future of black children and white children and Asian children and Hispanic children and Native American children. This time we want to reject the cynicism that tells us that these kids can't learn; that those kids who don't look like us are somebody else's problem. The children of America are not those kids, they are our kids, and we will not let them fall behind in a 21st century economy. Not this time.

This time we want to talk about how the lines in the Emergency Room are filled with whites and blacks and Hispanics who do not have health care; who don't have the power on their own to overcome the special interests in Washington, but who can take them on if we do it together.

This time we want to talk about the shuttered mills that once provided a decent life for men and women of every race, and the homes for sale that once belonged to Americans from every religion, every region, every walk of life. This time we want to talk about the fact that the real problem is not that someone who doesn't look like you might take your job; it's that the corporation you work for will ship it overseas for nothing more than a profit.

This time we want to talk about the men and women of every color and creed who serve together, and fight together, and bleed together under the same proud flag. We want to talk about how to bring them home from a war that never should've been authorized and never should've been waged, and we want to talk about how we'll show our patriotism by caring for them, and their families, and giving them the benefits they have earned.

I would not be running for President if I didn't believe with all my heart that this is what the vast majority of Americans want for this country. This union may never be perfect, but generation after generation has shown that it can always be perfected. And today, whenever I find myself feeling doubtful or cynical about this possibility, what gives me the most hope is the next generation - the young people whose attitudes and beliefs and openness to change have already made history in this election.

There is one story in particularly that I'd like to leave you with today - a story I told when I had the great honor of speaking on Dr. King's birthday at his home church, Ebenezer Baptist, in Atlanta.

There is a young, twenty-three year old white woman named Ashley Baia who organized for our campaign in Florence, South Carolina. She had been working to organize a mostly African-American community since the beginning of this campaign, and one day she was at a roundtable discussion where everyone went around telling their story and why they were there.

And Ashley said that when she was nine years old, her mother got cancer. And because she had to miss days of work, she was let go and lost her health care. They had to file for bankruptcy, and that's when Ashley decided that she had to do something to help her mom.

She knew that food was one of their most expensive costs, and so Ashley convinced her mother that what she really liked and really wanted to eat more than anything else was mustard and relish sandwiches. Because that was the cheapest way to eat.

She did this for a year until her mom got better, and she told everyone at the roundtable that the reason she joined our campaign was so that she could help the millions of other children in the country who want and need to help their parents too.

Now Ashley might have made a different choice. Perhaps somebody told her along the way that the source of her mother's problems were blacks who were on welfare and too lazy to work, or Hispanics who were coming into the country illegally. But she didn't. She sought out allies in her fight against injustice.

Anyway, Ashley finishes her story and then goes around the room and asks everyone else why they're supporting the campaign. They all have different stories and reasons. Many bring up a specific issue. And finally they come to this elderly black man who's been sitting there quietly the entire time. And Ashley asks him why he's there. And he does not bring up a specific issue. He does not say health care or the economy. He does not say education or the war. He does not say that he was there because of Barack Obama. He simply says to everyone in the room, "I am here because of Ashley."

"I'm here because of Ashley." By itself, that single moment of recognition between that young white girl and that old black man is not enough. It is not enough to give health care to the sick, or jobs to the jobless, or education to our children.

But it is where we start. It is where our union grows stronger. And as so many generations have come to realize over the course of the two-hundred and twenty one years since a band of patriots signed that document in Philadelphia, that is where the perfection begins.

Buzzing through my head

2008-03-17T11:28:00.004-04:00

It is damn near impossible to do work with what sounds like a dozen helicopters spinning overhead. I sit here, on the 12th floor of my building, and I try to concentrate.

My building is about 1/4 of a block from the tornado's path. The building next store was blown out. Streets all around me are closed. 159 stoplights are out. I think I may just pack up and head home.

UPDATE:
I'm working from home and I received this picture. It's incredible.

Blown to Kansas

2008-03-16T20:36:00.004-04:00

I just need to take a moment-- now that our internet is back-- and say that we are OK after the tornado hit Atlanta on Friday night. Thanks to all who made phonecalls, sent emails and left comments. I couldn't believe how everyone checked in!

In sum, the tornado missed us and we are OK.

It's strange really. Gar and I were on the couch, having a bottle of wine that we bought for the wedding and putting stamps on our invitations. We were listening to rock n' roll and commenting on the lightning. My phone rang; it was Jason.

"Do you all have the TV on?"

"No, what's on?"

"There's been a tornado and it's heading right for you guys. Go into your basement now."

I kinda wine-giggled and said something like, "Huh? A tornado in the city?"

"Beck, I'm serious, it's headed right for you. Sirens are going off. Turn on your TV and get in your basement."

"Shit, we'll call you right back."

"Call us RIGHT BACK. We want to know you are OK."

About 2 seconds later the hail hit. As it pummeled against the skylight and our porch door, I lit a candle. The lights dimmed a few times. I stepped outside to look. I picked up the hail off my porch and brought it inside to show Garrett. It was about the size of a marble.

We contemplated heading to the basement. As you all know I'm terrified of my basement. Gar teased me that I was more scared of going down there at night than I was of a tornado. So we stayed upstairs, glued to the TV.

The footage did not show any of the devastation on Friday night. No one even said that a tornado ripped through downtown Atlanta and leveled a neighborhood just down the street from us. So, after the storm died down, we went to sleep.

Around 3:00 am my Boodles in Chicago called me. I was worried that something might have happened to her because she was calling so late. She was calling to find out if we were OK. She heard that her old building, the Cotton Mill Lofts, had collapsed.

I couldn't believe it. It hit me that perhaps it was worse than the news had led on.

The next morning I was glued to the TV. Atlanta looks, well, like a tornado has ripped through it. My phone started ringing. Lady A called to say they were looking for survivors in Cabbagetown. My sister and mom called driving to Detroit as the news of the tornado was all over the radio up there.

Never before has a tornado devastated downtown Atlanta before. I have driven around a bit this weekend and I cannot believe the destruction. Billboards down. Windows blown out. Huge pieces of metal wrapped around trees. Debris everywhere. Apartment buildings that are completely destroyed. Cabbage Town being just about leveled. It looks like hell.

We are so lucky to be safe. Our city was so lucky that no one was killed. I can't help but think about how this disaster represents just a fraction of a fraction of that of Hurricane Katrina. It's really overwhelming, all over again, to try and understand that.

Thanks bloggy world for your comments and thoughts. I'm sorry I had to wait this long to tell you that we are OK.

The Legislature keeps on keeping on

2008-03-14T13:23:00.003-04:00

I, barely, survived Cross-Over Day at the Capitol this week. Cross-Over Day is the last day for legislation to pass its point of origin. The Senate finished at 6:00 and I got excited that we could be out early. The House stayed until 11:00 pm. That makes for a very long day.

To top it all off, our state budget is $250,000,000 off. Therefore we will be in session now through the middle of April. I am not pleased with this news. That gives me less than a month until Hitching Day. It's not that I really need the time to get things done. We are doing pretty well with that on the weekends. Rather, I need time to heal. Being surrounded every day for 8-16 hours by hateful people gets my spirits down. After 7 years of lobbying for justice I am really beginning to question if this is what I really want to continue to do.

For better or worse, I have been infected with the political parasite that encourages me to get up everyday and "try and make the world a better place." Yeah, I know, sickeningly optimistic and romantic.

But it's true.

It's taking a toll though this year. I am vulnerable and empathetic. Two traits that serve me well in a variety of situations. Two traits that make me hurt on the inside when debate centers on hating people for no good reason except that they hinder the golden pathway to wealth for a handful of people.

But I put on a tough face under our gold dome. At least I think I do. I wear a suit and heels. Really big heels when I need to kick ass. I get my work done and then some. I spew our message and I believe in it. Then I go home, have a beer, take a shower, sleep, and get up to do it again. Usually with aching and bruised feet from 14 hours in said high heels.

And when it's all over for the year, it takes a few weeks to come down from the adrenaline rush. It takes a few weeks to shake the sadness and, at times, the anger. It takes a few weeks to get back to believing that change is indeed possible. It takes a few weeks of calculated alone time, because usually, by then, I'm really sick of people.

It just takes some time to get back into the world that does not include the microcosm of the State Capitol.

MIA

2008-03-05T11:40:00.003-05:00

Completely MIA.

In legislative session.

Getting over the 'knock yer ass out' flu.

Missing the bloggy world.

So excited about the new Old 97s album.

Loving all the women I have met in this bloggy world and am so excited about the lovin' you share with my BaBaaam sista April.

Forgetting to tell Wit's End I got to 'sorta' meet Hillary and that I have good pictures.

Counting down the days until I get hitched and head to Belize...

Currency Conversion and Wedding Update #657,380

2008-02-24T00:21:00.003-05:00

The dollar.
The Euro.
The conversion ain't good.
Neither are the flights to get someplace to go spend a Euro. Therefore, our dream trip of spending our honeymoon backpacking through Spain, Portugal and Morocco has been placed on the 'to-do in a couple of years' list.

Now? It's looking like we're heading to Belize for 12 nights. We're starting with relaxing, snorkeling, shark diving, and sunbathing on the Cayes. Then we're heading to the Jungle for Mood Mud Therapy, touring ancient Mayan villages and horseback riding through caves. We will finish up in Southern Belize at an all-inclusive beachy place with day-trips that include ziplining through the rainforest, tubing through cave rivers, snorkeling, and drinking alcohol out of pieces of fruit from the time we get up until the time we pass out.

All in all, I'm pretty pleased. I'm not all that much of a beach person. However, I hear that after you get hitched you are exhausted and a little bit of relaxation on the beach works well.

In other news, I got my make-up professionally done. My awesome friend Ashes and Glass got me a MAC Consultation for my bridal shower. I now know how models and movie stars do it. Make-up is amazing.

This woman made me promise not to take off mascara with baby oil, wash my face with something other than Ivory and wash it more than once a day. It's a tall order, but I'm giving it a go.

I was going to post the 'before' pic but decided against it. The internets already knows what I look like and realizes this is a huge transformation.

Show her some lovin' bloggie world

2008-02-19T22:28:00.004-05:00

Yeah, you know you love my Ba-Baaaam Soul Sista April too. The woman is incredible. She's bloogging now as a way to process one of the biggest life-changing experiences of her life. I won't tell you more-- you will have to visit yourself.

Dear internets, I talked you up. I said you show the love. Don't let me down. Please share that love with Ms. Ba-baaam. Cause damn, she's worth it.

http://aprilsunshyne.blogspot.com/