Diversity Essay

I am diverse. I contain layers and multitudes.

I do not fit in a box.

Unless it is a really big box.

open letter to law school

Dear Sir or Ma'am,

This is a swiss cheese application.

I am somewhere right in between, in the holes [the wholes], in the voids. I am that smudge on the corner. I am the paper clip dent. This is a swiss cheese application.

Enclosed are all the minutes -ticktockticktock- of everynight that I have lay awake thinking of you. The dampness is my pain and worry. This application is my 15 year old child and I can't stop my neurosis. She is out of my hands now but I hope that all I have done for her will lead her home at night.

It comes down to this: I will work hard for you. I will make you proud of me. When I leave your fine instutition I will make millions of dollars and give them all to you; you don't even have to give me a library or dining hall in my name. Just send me that letter now that says

we want you. we believe in you.

Please. Please.

I promise you.

Look there. Look in the holes [the wholes]. This is a swiss cheese application.
Thank you sincerely for your 5 minutes.

Yours truly,
Miss Nobody


PS I was eating babaganoush at dinner parties when I should have been saving children from burning buildings and then drafting new preventative legislation. I'm sorry.

April 16, 2005

I’ve been here before. Its ridiculously early to be staring at a dark ceiling. I think he’s passed out but its too soon to be sure.

It all started when he taunted me. No. It all started when he called and asked me to meet him at a keg party. Then he taunted me. “You think you’re too good for this, don’t you?” he said. Fuck him if he thinks I’m a snob (even though I am).

So I went. I followed his sketchy directions to the standard student apartment. Knocking on the door was a joke but I did it anyway. I know it’s a keg party but I still don’t know any of these people and I don’t want to seem rude.

Inside is so generic it should be on a shelf next to a cocktail party marked up $2 more. There are pretty girls in skirts and lots of boys in polo shirts and baseball caps. I walk straight through the apartment to the backdoor, which takes about 7 seconds. I am looking to find him but all the boys look the same.

He’s out on the patio. I tap him on the shoulder and he turns around and is immediately much more friendly than usual. He says hello, his hand gently resting on my ass. “I want to make out with you so badly right now. Lets go somewhere.”

He takes me to the parking lot and I feel like I’m 15 years old again. “I’m a fool.” I say to him. He smells like beer and I can tell he’s had too much. “Why? You look so hot…” he says as he buries his face in my neck and reaches up to grab my chest. I remove his hand and I say “because the only reason you called me is because you’re drunk and want sex. And I know this and I came anyway.”

“I really like you” is his reply.

“Do you want me to take you home?” I ask. He rubs his crotch against my leg and says “What do you think?”

We get in my car and drive to his apartment. When we get inside he doesn’t bother to turn on any lights. He leans into my back and reaches his hands around to my chest, kissing my collarbone. “Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?” I ask. “I will later” he says. All I can think is I might as well be back with Big John if I am going to deal with this shit.

Still I stay.

We go to his room and slip off our clothes. We wrestle on his sheets and kiss and moan. He passes out. I’ve been here before.

I stare at the ceiling, thinking about everything. I think about him, and me, and tomorrow, and the afternoon, and the generic keg party that I was at for 6 minutes. I think I wish he was kissing me and tugging at my hair and whispering dirty things in my ear. I think I wish a lot of things about him that aren’t happening and won’t happen. But I’ve only got less than two months left in this damn town, so I take what I can get.

je t'aime, Marc Yenpong

Marc Yenpong is built like a creole house. Built to last. Marc Yenpong is a student at the lycée Rolland Garros, and damn he can’t wait to get out of there. Marc Yenpong is studying hard for his bac, but he would never let his friends know that. Marc Yenpong plays foot on Thursday mornings with Pascal, Thierry, and Christophe. He likes it when Pascal’s sister comes along. She’s pretty like hibiscus and he might even like her if only she didn’t surf better than he does.

Marc Yenpong worked washing dishes in a creole dive for 4 months to save up enough money to buy some new Pumas. His pride keeps him from going back even though he could use some more cash. Marc Yenpong is young enough that he doesn’t still calculate the euros into francs. His grandfather does that and its drives him crazy. Papa Yenpong. But damn if those pumas aren’t fly. Trop as they say.

Marc Yenpong hates Star Academy. That’s a lie. Marc Yenpong pretends to hate Star Academy but secretly lingers in the salon when his sister watches it. His vote is for Ely. He has a soft spot for Canadian girls. Marc Yenpong had a dream once he was in Canada, playing foot. Everything was going well until the ground dropped out from below him.

Late at night someone felt the urge to declare their love for Marc Yenpong on the streets of centre ville. Marc Yenpong doesn’t know what to think about this. His friends won’t stop making fun of him, but he knows they are just jealous. In the back of his head, Marc Yenpong thinks it was one of his friends who did it for a laugh. That’s not what he wants to believe though. He wants to believe that every pretty girl he passes on the street was the one holding that amorous can of spray paint and proclaiming a love that was too strong to stay inside. A love that had to be written in public semi permanence.

Marc Yenpong can’t wait to get out of there. He’s built to last, but this drama just wears and wears.

interstate of mind

It’s a Cutless Supreme in baby blue and the back door is broken- held closed with a bungee cord. It’s an automatic. It’s huge. The road is black as centipedes and the steam rises up from it from the heat of midday. There’s a shoe on the median. We’re behind a Chevy with a boat. The radio cracks out: “Those of you travelling to Florida for the holiday weekend will want to let some air out of your tires, the roads are hot and you don’t want problems.” I’m in the backseat with my The Little Mermaid sleeping bag and a chapter book about an old house and a young girl. My brother is laying in the floor of the backseat, listening to Weird Al on his walkman. I know he won’t let me use it. His hair is so blond. The sign says “Now Entering the Sunshine State” but it all looks the same to me. And it’s not sunshine, its rain. Hard infrequent bursts, the kind you can see ahead of you on the road and then behind you when you’ve gone through. This is past the age when rolling windows up and down is fun, but too early to be comfortable just laying with feet on the dashboard. It’s hot cold hot cold hot. The billboard reads “Fireworks! Fireworks! Fireworks! Exit 5.”

I start to bug my mom about stopping along the way. “But I’m hunnnnngry momma” I say, restless with my sleeping bag. “Alright” she says and before long the car is not on the road, but along the side in the dust. I open the door and struggle to find my flipflops. My legs are all wobbly from the long car ride and I look up to see a man with more wrinkles than face and a wooden table covered in watermelons. He has no shirt on. There are two little boys playing by the truck behind the table, shooting each other with their fingers, both winning and dieing at the same time. The sun is hot hot hot. The next exit isn’t for another 15 miles. “Two bags of boiled peanuts” my mother asks. He scoops a large spoon into his black vat, lifting a mound of boiled peanuts into a white Styrofoam cup. He hands her two paper bags and grumbles “wanna melon?” My mother shakes her head no and hands over 3 dollars. We bend our knees up and down three times before climbing back in the Cutless. My brother hadn’t budged from the floor. The styrofoam cup is warm in my hand and I pull out the first nut to meet its fate. I put it in my mouth and gently suck the warm salty water out from within the shell. Then I hold it in my thumb and forefinger and pop it open with my front teeth. I use my little hands to open the shell, secretly hoping like every time that the peanuts will be in tact and on the same side of the shell once the two halves have been separated. They are, and I get a little thrill from it before using my teeth to pop the peanut out of the shell and into my mouth. It tastes like summer, and Florida, and festivals, and salt, and love, and little boys playing cowboys. Peanut shells litter the highway for the next 2 hours.

vocabulary lesson for the broken hearted

brisé broken// tristesse sadness// manquer to miss// méprise a misunderstanding// amant lover// seul alone// terminé finished// le matin the morning// pleurer to cry// déconcerté confused// obstiné stubborn// peiné upset// quitter to leave// confiance trust// blesser to hurt//

regretter to regret// l'amour love.

venir [prostituer]

he said he doesn't like to do it alone
he said it makes him feel empty inside, after
i said its erotic
to be alone
with your thoughts
he said he doesn't like to do it alone

he said when you are with a woman its better
you still feel empty but there is someone to hold you
to kiss you-- love you
empty? i said
empty. empty and alone.

then he said he loved me, after
i was the perfect size for his void.



its good to be alone.

my news/ the news

boy shot girls parents
they can trace it all in texts.
who you tryin to fool?
++

buddha boy, nepal
bit by snake, still going strong
meditation rocks
++

why can't this island
have just one mexican place?
tortilla withdrawal.
++

star ac is on at 6
no more pierre or mullet
damn that is so sad.
++

roosters crow all night
we want cosmic justice now
but the stove done broke.
++

he is my Henry
Miller, misogynist but
oddly appealing.
++

you started the Crips
think you can get off easy?
write a book on that.
++

same lesson five times
I feel like an old rock star
tired stage banter.

self realization through symbolism [pt 2]

burning incense is not meditation
making love is not revolution
the body is not freedom
the island is not freedom
the classroom is not freedom

scribbling is not introspection
ignoring is not prosecution
drinking is not medication
a photograph is not a memory

isolation is not preservation

today I stood in the kitchen in my salty bikini and ate an entire baby pineapple over the sink.
I don’t care what it wasn’t. I know what it is.

self realization through perspective [pt1]

Elodie learned to swim when she was 4 years old. She said ‘I love the water, my dear. I love the falter and lull. I am Carolina crabcakes. Hot chocolate.’ She will not be afraid of knives falling on bare feet in kitchens. She will not be around for the aftermath. That is not her style.

Karmen danced until her toes bled. She said, ‘I bleed like linen. I am a notion.’ She signed her will at age 11, not without care. She knows who you dream about at night. Karmen is she, he I you and them. She is the green linoleum; the saran wrap to save the stuffing.

Brigitte has a sewing kit in brown paper. She is a present for the morning. ‘If only you knew’ she always whispers in his ear. Misanthrope. Megalomaniac. Melancholic. Cholic. Myself. Self. And so it is. To come is to go. For Brigette, time is of the gasoline.

Sylvie feels lonely on Wednesday afternoons. Her fortune cookies always tell her to be brave. ‘I’m not going to be swamp. I’m going to be infinite’ she says. Her Spanish lessons are going along like cake. She will be sorry to foxtrot into the ocean, but not for long. How Chopin in a Kate way. Embrace your pretensions.

cigarettes

there exist cigarettes
this world therein are cigarettes and black coffee beans
daughters have problems with cigarettes, black coffee beans, and vodka.
wait, start again.
there exist cigarettes
in cafes and corners on buses up mountains
that’s it! phallic. cigarettes. sex.

ok back up
cigarettes in bikinis, that’s not sexy.
cigarettes! not sexy.
cigarettes a baby. romanticized. in a diminutive.
hips swing in blankets of smoke.
cigarettes?

langue, not language. langue for cigarettes. long for cigarettes.
the longing, of course. the longing.
desire and tension, romantic.
cigarettes in September. cigarettes in December.
black coffee beans. vodka.
long sleeved sweater. pick your poison.

grapefruit mentos pepsi max and jumbly slop of me

its all so quick and fast so

lightening speed all clichés of time [it is flying you know]

soon the sugar cane will all be cut down and I haven’t had a picture

it will be gone; ready to grow again the year after when I will be dieu-knows-where

these nights he says ‘do you think you could love me lo?’ and I say ‘I don’t know’ because I was never good with the conditional tense anyway.

these days have been heavy and so dense that when you look off the balcony you can’t see the horizon, just the thick blue of the sky meeting the thick blue of the ocean

[there are no straight lines in nature, right?]

the clouds dip down low, low
they don’t have the energy to stay in the sky
they don’t want to mark the end of the earth.

all the signs are spray painted with big red wings and underneath it says

WAKE UP, when I look at them all I can think is

I’d rather not, thank you, I like the suspension.

night sounds

island cats are hopeless romantics
they spend the better part of each night singing
tortured songs to one another and making
love until 4 AM

The birds need to work on their harmonies
and their insomnia
no one would hire this band
not even for wedding or bar mitzvahs
especially with the bird who sounds like he is
gargling in the bottom of a tin bucket

island dogs bark at shadows all night,
and dust, and ideas, and trees, and
my window
they are mad, these dogs and when they
see me I imagine they envision a big chicken leg
in their minds like on cartoons with classical music

but the worst, the absolute worst,
are the roosters that crow from
3 AM until 6
as if lazy Réunion farmers
just can’t stop hitting nature’s snooze button.

en boite

charles mézance charles le méchant
the night club was loud and your breath was heavy
I could feel your pretension a kilometer away
but somehow in the midst of outkast and French pop
we clicked glasses and talked about Kerouac
Kerouac! imagine that, I thought myself lucky.

charles mézance charles le professeur
we picnicked on the beach and you told me how
you are a French teacher by day
editor by night, spoiled catholic boy from the north of france

so French he bleeds Bordeaux, and bleeds often

‘this isn’t serious this isn’t serious’ says charles
as he peels away my dress
he’s got the catholic guilt hardcore and a handful of heartbreaks to boot
I think I’ll be as permanent in his life
as the bite marks he left on my hip
but I must admit
I am obsessed with the idea of him.

give me my green card bitches

18 October 2005
Subject: the act of eating an omelet for breakfast

Mlle BLUE:

We the undersigned hereby declare that under order of the French government you (formal) are in no way legally able to partake of omelet for breakfast until the following accommodations have been made.

The department of omelets (DoO) will need expressed written acknowledgement of your desire to have an omelet for breakfast. This will need to be signed and postmarked at least two (2) weeks before other paperwork can be filed.

The department of omelets (DoO) will need copies in triplicate of your birth certificate, your passport, and your working contract signed and notarized. One copy of your birth certificate must be translated into French by a certified translator, another needs to be translated into Creole and further another must be translated into twin speak. This will also need to be made into triplicates, signed and certified.

You will need proof of housing in the form of a copy of a lease, a copy of an electricity bill, and three (3) pictures of yourself (black and white) in your bathrobe at 2 AM drinking rum.

You (formal) must also schedule an appointment at a DoO doctor to obtain a certificat de médecin to prove that you are physically able to indulge in omelet eating. This appointment must be scheduled three (3) months in advance and must be requested in writing at least two (2) weeks in advance of the advance. The doctor will also need a translated copy of your birth certificate.

After this has been filed five (5) times in completion, you (formal) must have a signed contract with the supervisor of the department of omelets (DoO). You can schedule an appointment to see him on Tuesdays or Fridays. He has breakfast from 8AM until 11AM. His lunch begins at 11:15 and lasts until 4:30 PM. His office closes at 5 PM, except on Tuesdays and Fridays when he closes early for dinner.

Finally, you will need 17 original copies of this letter. If you so choose to eat an omelet before this paperwork is complete, you will be immediately deported and stoned with lava rocks by members of the French government. If however you are a member of the European Union, feel free to visit the department of omelets (DoO) prefecture office and enjoy a free omelet every afternoon.

Very sincerely,
the French government

the hike

it seems obvious to write about the steep slope of the mountain
the scent of tropical flowers heavy in the air in the early morning

its poetry to describe the sense of humility in the center of a mountain so substantial
one small footstep on the ancient soil
the beauty of the clouds that seem to pass just feet above your head
a view of the blue ocean from the top of the peak
the heat so sticky like the curry in the towns in the impossible crevices of the landscape

but all I want to write is how we walked so high in the air
feeling euphoric, accomplished
only to be reminded that, even in the middle of the Indian ocean, this heavenly island is French:
as the other hikers took a breakfor coffee and cigarettes.

24

today my brother is 24
because I am far away I will not be able to see him today
but I hope he is
somewhere warm
with food like lasagna and beer
plus a comfy place to sit where he can drift off to sleep
and dream of asian ladies.

if I could I would grab a huge Creole cloud from the sky
wrap it in paper and write
‘to luke’ in curly cursive letters.

the first time i cried in Réunion

I had made it two weeks into the endeavor

I knocked on his office and I already knew
it would be dire
Monsieur L’Intendant
(he had the kind of cheeks that melted into his chin)

I had spoken with him two days before and
he had been callous
his voice was like gravel, very hard to understand
and when I asked him to repeat himself he would

sigh hard
look at me with disgust
and repeat what he had said in exactly the same manner, covered in gravel

at this point in my day I had already visited an apartment
that would mean suicide to live in
dark, dank, dead apartment
(the creole woman letting it smiled crooked and said
you are so pretty for an American)
I had called others, many
always problems; I just want to sleep somewhere that’s mine

so I looked at him
and I asked if he had something for me
he looked at me –laughed- and said
we had a place for you yesterday but you didn’t come yesterday so we gave it to someone else

I paused and said
I called yesterday and the secretary said there was nothing for me
and he laughed again; he grumbled
you must have misunderstood her

and then it happened.
my French ran dry
he knew and I knew that I did not misunderstand her
and he was laughing and I was at the end

my head filled up with water and the pressure it caused was unbearable
I couldn’t stop it, it started seeping out through my eyes
right there in his stuffy little office with one window for escaping
right there in the grey school in centre ville
right there in his territory covered in gravel for snacks and Americans

and he laughed again.

my suitcase

one poetry book, one feminist book, and one law school book is what I allowed myself
two white skirts
pink dress with polka dots
lotion that smells like sunshine
the lingerie I bought for alisan and never got to wear
four pairs of sunglasses (movie star, laid back, and pin-up); two pairs of shoes
one blank journal, black & white
a washcloth in bright yellow
5 by 10s of people I love
rainbow of camisoles and an old t shirt

I brought necklaces impossibly tangled
dental floss and liquid eyeliner
my new pink bikini, my old turquoise one
(ok, so maybe 2 books of poetry)
there is my perfume [light blue]
a slinky pair of panties
about 5000 bobby pins and no hairbrush
umbrella, Tylenol, and my whitetrash slip for sleeping in
-- the slip, that is, not the umbrella or pills.

a conversation

So how old were you when you lost your virginity?

Well, I don't think that is any of your business.

Hmm. Well I was eighteen. Old I suppose.

I don't know. If you think its old then it is.

I've slept with 9 people since then.

Any Americans?

No, not yet.