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Lost in translation

This is not a story about how I shared an awkward kiss with Bill Murray on a crowded street in Tokyo. And no, I am not Scarlett Johansson. People say I’ve reminded them of everything from anime to Tina Fey, but that is not what brought you here. You’re bored. I can’t sleep. Welcome to 99.9% of blogdom.

I recently started a job that had me help 40 Chinese students fresh off the plane navigate a Georgia Walmart for sheets and toilet bowl cleaner. As my superpower is magnetism for the truly random, it was not the experience itself that made me do a double take on my own nametag but the realization that I am now professionally advising others to take risks with a foreign language. The irony of this cannot fully be appreciated without taking you back to my first class as an undergraduate in college.

In spite of a deep love for French that was instilled in me at an early age by Madame Murphy through Julia Child impersonations and cooking demonstrations, as well as games of Twister en français, my first language class as a college freshman was traumatizing. The room was small and my claustrophobia was only heightened by the fact that it was filled with conversation among six seniors and a professor who I was certain I would have caught talking about this hopeless(ly) American deer in highlights if I could have understood a single word they were saying.

Seconds after the class ended and I prayed for a contact high from the philosophy students I passed on my way to the Office of Academic Assistance, I traded in one semester of advanced French for two mandatory years of Latin. A dead language, I presumed, would not be able to fight me.


Within the week, my classics professor started calling me her “Little Latin Trap” because I would always give the wrong answer to her trickier questions and she liked to use my mistakes as examples for the rest of the class. Eventually, I just chose silence but the nickname stuck. It’s even printed on an unofficial certificate my peers awarded me at the end of my time in foreign language purgatory. Et tu, Jackasses? 😉

I was reminded of this personally challenging time because I caught myself encouraging my students to speak up this week in spite of the fear I knew they felt about messing up. I wish I had given myself that same grace… and not just as a freshman or in foreign language classes.

Ironically, I ended up reading this passage before bed about how we’ve all set our own little Latin trap through a shoddy translation and interpretation of the word “perfection.”

Kathleen Norris writes, “The good news about the word ‘perfect’ is that it is not a scary word, so much as a scary translation. The word that has been translated as ‘perfect’ does not mean to set forth an impossible goal, or the perfectionism that would have me strive for it at any cost. It is taken from a Latin word meaning complete, entire, full-grown. To those who originally heard it, the word would convey ‘mature’ rather than what we mean today by ‘perfect.’ To be perfect is to make room for growth, for the changes that bring us to maturity, to ripeness. To mature is to lose adolescent self-consciousness so as to be able to make a gift of oneself, as a parent, as teacher, friend, spouse.”

Now we’re talking.

I Am Woman

A girl should never have to choose, so I never did.

I have a friend whose grandmother once reasoned that people can’t hear a woman unless she has her lips on. The southern, self-proclaimed sage was referring to the power of lipstick, and I remember feeling like the statement relegated my paintless adolescent face to that of a Ms. Potato Head whose mouthpiece must have gotten knocked off in a football game that my brother and the neighborhood Rat Pack begrudgingly let me play in.

Fortunately, I have a mom who told me that she didn’t like putting bows in my hair growing up because she didn’t want me to look like a present. Instead, she never hesitated to remind me that I was a gift as I was and so is the life that we’re given.

One of the few, most prized possessions of my nomadic existence is a bright orange, wooden stool that I sat on in my parents’ bathroom nearly every morning of elementary and middle school, waiting for my mom to curl my hair, watching her get ready, staring at our reflections to see how close I was to becoming a woman, and having conversations about what that even meant.

Right now, both ironically and unceremoniously, the stool is serving as a coaster to a stack of academic research about the relationship between language, gender and identity. The central debate is whether English limits and mislabels those who speak it or if we hold ourselves back by how we use and abuse it. What is a woman when not defined in relation to a man but by what she alone brings to the table? Who is anyone when not set up in comparison?

I recently went to see a moving exhibit about women, violence and art titled “Off The Beaten Path” that is currently on display at CDC’s Global Health Odyssey Museum. Although a heartbreaking topic, I was inspired by the way these women not only made themselves and their subjects be heard (regardless of their shade or lack of lipstick), but how they’re changing the dialogue as well.

Of the exhibit, curator Randy Jayne Rosenberg writes, “Avoiding tabloid and sensational imagery, we ask the artists to help us create a new vocabulary—new representations—through their artworks and, in doing so, heal us, transform us and help us feel and understand the essence of the problem of violence against women.”

The image below and its accompanying caption have stayed with me since touring the museum:

“In some communities, where direct intervention is culturally impossible, women respond to severe domestic violence by assembling outside of the household in question and bang out an alarm on pots and pans. This informs the man that the spirit he attempts to break belongs to many, not one.”

I hear these women and I’m sounding off, as best I can, in solidarity.

"Untitled" by Yoko Inoue, Japan

In some communities, where direct intervention is culturally impossible, women respond to severe domestic violence by assembling outside of the household in question and bang out an alarm on pots and pans. This informs the man that the spirit he attempts to break belongs to many, not one.

Click here to see virtual exhibit.

Here I am

I came out to my parents at a Cracker Barrel.

Before meeting them halfway between the town in which I’d been born and the place where I’d most recently experienced growth, I lost it at the opening of a butterfly garden I was covering for the local newspaper.

It was my first week back to work after a trip to the West coast with my then girlfriend. The purpose of the journey had been to explore the city we might call home together. When I got back, I knew it was time to tell my family where I’d really been for the past year when avoiding phone calls, offering up generic answers to their questions, and losing my temper over the tiniest things because I didn’t want to face what was really making me angry.

It was June 1, the Lowcountry was a sauna, and the PR director giving me a tour of the butterfly sanctuary ironically and obliviously crushed a monarch under her shoe at the exact moment she began lauding the green space as a haven. I wanted to laugh, but the symbolism felt too close to home, so I remember focusing hard on writing the word “larvae” instead while choking back hot, angry tears.

On the way back from the interview, I had one of those ugly cries behind the steering wheel and called my mom and dad. They agreed to drive two hours to meet me for a late lunch, even though none of us were really hungry.

When the waitress came to the table and asked us if we wanted biscuits or cornbread, I remember feeling unusually affected by the question. I wanted to scream, “Isn’t it OK to like both?!?! IS THAT SO ABNORMAL?!” Instead, I just requested that she bring back some grape jelly.

It’s funny how I don’t remember the specifics of such a heavy conversation, but I remember the feeling. Some people describe it as like a weight being lifted off their shoulders, but to me, it was more like thawing. Slowly, I could feel my fingertips again.

I explained to my parents that I didn’t feel comfortable giving my orientation a label because it seemed to discount the relationships I had leading up to this one. I told them, “I think you love who you love and who I love right now happens to be a woman. Who I love next might very well be a man.” Either way, I knew that as long as my feelings remained unspoken within me, I could not love myself or anyone else properly. Fully.

Since then, I have agonized over the right time or way in which to tell my story and always stopped short because I couldn’t answer why I needed to share it. I’ve made a career out of trying to help others see the value and volume of what their lives have to speak and am only recently beginning to accept and embrace the value of my own chapters.

Last week, I began volunteering for StoryCorps, an organization I’ve followed and obsessively shared with friends for years. Since 2003, the nonprofit has recorded conversations between friends and family members in booths across the nation. It’s one of the largest oral history projects of its kind and the stories that are broadcast on public radio each week have been like a balm to my soul. At the end of the month, StoryCorps will host an event to celebrate stories of love and community from Atlanta’s LGBTQ community, which is what finally prompted me to put this to paper.

When StoryCorps came to Savannah a few years ago, I taped a meaningful conversation with a dear couple who served as mentors to me when I first moved there, but I remember wanting so badly to share that intimate exchange with my girlfriend at the time and being too scared. I wasn’t prepared to say what I felt outloud. I wasn’t ready for the permanency of recording it.

But regret, like fear, is such an unproductive and debilitating emotion and this is my attempt to stop putting it on my toothbrush, mixing it into my cereal, and spelling it out using the cracks in the sidewalk every morning. I’m telling my story now because as generations before me, I finally understand the purpose of this tradition is to learn, to calm ourselves to sleep, to heal and to preserve.


If your life depended on my ability to correctly answer a trivia question, my apologies, rest in peace, good luck. Along with jumping jacks, map folding, and tanning, conditions would have to be hyper-specific—and by hyper-specific I mean rigged—in order for me to be successful in any or all of these activities.

I once cost my friends free beer and a rare first-place finish at Wednesday night trivia when they wagered all of our points on my ability to answer a final question about the U.S. Census Bureau. I was employed by the organization at the time and paid by the hour to read manuals about its inner-workings, but we missed the question. More specifically, I missed the question and was relegated back to my role as time check girl and giver of moral support.

I am waiting for the day when I will be able to redeem myself and actively willing the universe to supply one of the following categories at said moment: underappreciated movie candy, negative side effects of Neosporin, and/or Beverly Hills 90210. I may or may not have spent a quarter of my life alternating between the desire to date Dylan McKay and be Dylan McKay. This may or may not still be a struggle.

Were pride something I was in great supply of right now, I would not admit to the following, but I’m feeling inside-out these days so what the hell, here goes. While starting my morning with Dr. Bronner’s magic peppermint the other day, a particular episode of the show came to mind in the midst of a “What’s next for Mo?” reflective shower moment.

Somewhere in my parents’ home in South Carolina is a worn-out VHS tape labeled “THE Decision,” on which is a recording of the ultimate season finale of California’s favorite zip code. Kelly is faced with the choice to marry Brandon or travel the world with Dylan and his scarred eyebrow and the drama leading up to this moment is basically what Aaron Spelling used to drive the show. With bated, angsty breath, I remember waiting for what ended up being Jennie Garth’s “You had me at hello” Jerry Maguire moment. “I choose me,” she said, while handing back the ring and round-trip ticket to the beautiful boys. “I choose me.”

Of course, the decision was one to be applauded. It was a rare departure from television and pop culture’s tendency to romanticize relationships and paint independence in a negative light. What troubled me mid-lather when remembering this moment, however, was thinking about the times when ”I choose me” is not deemed heroic… when the world isn’t waiting to hear what your decision will be and the only option you have in front of you is self-sufficiency and a search for self worth. Not tickets to travel the world or a marriage proposal.

I’m finding it much harder to muster the strength and excitement to choose myself when it’s the only thing I can do right now, but I know it must be done.

“Finding Her Here” by Jayne Relaford Brown

Handwriting courtesy of the cutest ginger in town. Happy Momma’s Day…

Broken English

I used to be that student. The one who would have a private conniption over anything less than an “A” and stay up late into the night to obsessively create a cover page. For everything. As a result, I graduated first in my class and first in nervous breakdowns.

Then, I became that girlfriend. The one who either held too tightly for fear of losing or kept my eyes to the ground, carefully planning and watching every step in hopes of not making any mistakes. As a result, I made a lot of mistakes.

Now, as a teacher, it’s been interesting to witness the learning and growing that can take place when perfection is not the goal…. when the birthplace of the eraser and coloring outside the lines keeps the mission of exploration and discovery both valued and sacred.

This semester, what I believe to be my greatest classroom success was not found in a brilliantly written essay about Romeo and Juliet or a perfectly executed presentation about The Odyssey. Ironically, I nearly wet my pants in amazement over a student’s request for a restroom pass and beamed with pride as he walked toward this routine destination. He was a student whose voice I didn’t even hear during the first few weeks of classes because he could not and would not speak a word of English when we first met. We stared and nodded and smiled and worked our way slowly through picture book pages.

I’ve read and heard hundreds of sentences from immigrant students this year that are often the source of tasteless jokes and others’ impersonations. Yet I have to say that I’ve never been more in love or impressed with the English language than when I’ve had the opportunity to hear it spoken or used by these teenagers, whose broken but intentional words are the pieces I have used to put together my identity as a student and educator.

Last week, I watched the sun rise and set from the same seat at my kitchen table for more than three days in order to complete my portfolio for graduation. I had to reflect on, justify, evaluate, scan, compare, contrast, and analyze more than a year’s worth of lesson plans, assessments, and student work as a summary of my graduate experience. Tucked in the front cover of my notebook was this quote from Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness that I had written on a scrap piece of paper years ago when I was working on my first documentary in Portland, Maine:

“She was nothing so solid in make, and rather less pretty in shape, but I had expended enough hard work on her to make me love her. No influential friend would have served me better. She had given me a chance to come out a bit—to find out what I could do. No, I don’t like work. I had rather laze about and think of all the fine things that can be done. I don’t like work—no man does—but I like what is in the work—the chance to find yourself. Your own reality—for yourself, not for others—what no other man can ever know. They can only see the mere show, and never can tell what it really means.”

I’d hardly say I’m looking my best these days. I think it’s safe to say I could come out with my own line of sweatpants for grad students and they would not say “Juicy.” But I don’t think I’ve ever worked harder or been as proud as I am now of the imperfect product of this journey.

From my doppelganger to God’s ears

Should I ever have the pleasure of birthin’ some babies, this will be framed above the crib in my daughter’s room. Let the crocheting project begin…

A Prayer for My Daughter 

(From Bossypants by Tina Fey)

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half and stick with Beer.

Guide her and protect her
 when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes and not have to wear high heels.

What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, for childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – and adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers and the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, for I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.

“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.