An elegy (but without the poetry part)

They said it wouldn’t be worth it to fix anymore. Not worth it? They just don’t know.

I’d known you for half my life. You watched me grow up, in a weird way.

I went from watching sing a longs in the backseat with revolving OM teams to driving around at all hours of the night.

I sat in Waffle House parking lots and even a liquor store one on Halloween. A long, not funny story. Not bad either. Just. A story.

You were the quirkiest car I’ll ever have. The lights turned on when we made left turns, locks locked and unlocked, a scar down the right side, and a missing handle that was a battle wound from the night you spent in a Denny’s parking lot. My car sounded like a go-kart.

Up until the end, I found door hangers in places all around the car.

I’ll remember you always.

I’ll remember going to drop off more walk packs, only having that one Janis Joplin cd and singing Me and Bobby McGee more that anyone should. And I’ll remember another election day, futiley saying, No, please don’t bring a wine glass into my minivan at 2 in the morning when I’m already past curfew, not supposed to be driving other people, and don’t have my license since I lost it a few months before and have been driving anyway.

Seriously. I’ll miss my minivan.

Purrrfect.

High school Valentine's Day has got to stimulate the economy at least a little. So many balloons. My homeroom teacher called the whole ordeal VD -- infectious and drippy.

I woke up at 4 to make cookies for a friend's birthday and was overall not in a good mood, sleepy and alone and sad that I have to put my trusty minivan to rest. On my way out of my lit class, my friend Sammi points to a Valentine on the floor. I pick it up. It's for Sarah! From Allie. Apparently, Sarah is purrrfect. There's a picture of a cat on it too, in traditional elementary school style.

So this is for Allie, wherever you are. I hope the intended Sarah doesn't miss her valentine too much, cause I needed it. Made my day.

I left it in a different hallway for another Sarah to find. My little contribution to somebody's happiness for the weekend.

Town Mob Meeting

I went to a town hall meeting with my congressman Representative John Linder yesterday. It broke my heart.

In case I’d forgotten where I live (I guess I’ve surrounded myself with too many people who read blogs and care about the world), I was reminded that Georgia is indeed red. There were a couple hundred people crammed into the Sugar Hill Community Center. Palin bumper stickers outnumbered black people (there were seven).

The Fair Tax crazies and even one ardent Anti-Federalist who went everywhere with his copy of the Constitution and defending states rights came out to the meeting. I was one of maybe ten people under thirty. I’d have been surprised if there were more than a dozen Democrats. One of my vols who came left twenty minutes in because she couldn’t stand it. I’m glad she left.

It was frustrating. I’d forgotten people could be so hateful.

Linder was very paternal in his sweater, citing classical economists and Cicero for his opposition to the bailout and championing the Fair Tax as the solution to the country’s ills that were being caused by illegal immigrants and unwed mothers. He, as well as at least half the people in the room, genuinely believed this.

When one brave woman praised FDR (not even Obama), she was booed and laughed at. Even Linder chuckled.

He made sure to call on a black person. When she asked, “Since it looks like the bailout will pass, how do you plan to secure some of those jobs for Gwinnett?” she too was booed.

One man stood and asked, “Senator, how do we fire Washington?”
So many things are wrong with that question, the least of which is that Linder isn’t a senator.


Another man suggested we hold another Constitutional Convention. When everyone started talking over each other about how they wanted things to go back to the way they used to be, another of my volunteers and one of the seven black people in the room said out loud, “I don’t want to be a slave.” She was shushed.

Of course there was the Second Amendment question. "Obama is on the bullet train to taking away our bullets," said one guy in the audience. Linder said he wished Obama would try and that he wouldn't let that happen. How comforting, just like Big Daddy Saxby.


The bailout was of course a popular topic. One person asked Linder what he was doing to stop it and who he could call. He said that Washington should leave America alone and let the market fix itself.

We can’t use this as an excuse to pay off all the interest groups that bought the election, said the woman standing next to me. She and I then had a “discussion” that ended in her yelling at me in whispers about ACORN and then stalking off when I mentioned how a third of the campaign funds came from donations under $250. I finally got a chair to sit in.

Another man asked when the Republican Party would kick out Olympia Snowe for voting with “those Democrats.” At one point, Linder said (and I quote, because I wrote it down it made me so angry), “Thankfully, all the big newspapers are dying,” so then the liberal media would stop influencing the country so much.

I don't know if I've been living in a bubble where there's hope for the world or if they all are living in a bubble that still wants plantations.

At the end of the meeting, one man from the crowd came to the front and took the microphone. He told us he’d been in Nam (cue the standing ovation) and had the solution to the economy’s troubles. Pause for dramatic effect. Pray. We just all needed to pray and leave it in God’s hands.

I was really impressed my car didn’t get keyed. I came home and cried.

I hate myself a little bit.

Earlier this week, I was at a show in Atlanta. The guy in front of me, in his sweater over his plaid shirt (I'm always shocked by how much plaid I see when I'm at a show), said of the people on the floor, "Yeah, all the hipsters are down here." From the way he said it, it seemed like he didn't consider himself one of them.

And, embarrassingly enough, I scoffed at him. Like I didn't consider myself one either. Like I was removed from the scene.

Isn't that what I didn't like about him?

Is that wrong? I mean. I knew where to find the cheap parking around Variety Playhouse just like everyone else. The secret exit to the secret parking lot? Dozens of hipsters streaming out of it after the encore. Why do I think I'm better than the girl who wore cat ears? The multitudes in their wool hats? We were all there to watch Andrew Bird. I was no more entitled to enjoy the show than they were, just because I starting listening to his albums three years ago.

The term "hipster" originated in the 1940s, describing people, who, sort of like the beatniks etc., smoked a lot of weed, rejected their supposed roles in middle class society, and liked the alternative jazz music of the time. Seems sort of familiar.

I think, essentially, what makes a hipster is the qualification that you need to believe that you are not a hipster. Not many people embrace the term, despite what Stuff White People Like may suggest.

I know a kid who has a tan line from his American Apparel deep-V shirts. He doesn't think he's a hipster.

Today, these people "escaping" the mainstream have coalesced and created their own. You like Girl Talk? Isn't it a shame that Arrested Development got canceled? What's your favorite Wes Anderson movie? Is Chuck Klosterman too much like Dave Eggers? These are all conversations I've had at least once. (Yes, oh yes, Rushmore, and No! Go read Killing Yourself to Live.) After a bit, I wonder if I actually like the things I like. Or if maybe since we're all the same, we subconsciously just adopt the same interests and then pretend we discovered them. Or it could be coincidence?

The hipster movement is post-postmodernism cemented into a culture. It's the reaction to postmodernism, the reaction to being self-aware—being so self-aware that you realize you don't want to be. That that's not cool. It's wearing non-prescription glasses and pretending you don't read Pitchfork. And, I guess, it's writing blogs about hipsters.

Maybe I'm too hard on myself. I hope.

All I Want

Back in November, I was a field organizer in the Georgia Senate runoff and going to school. Needless to say, I wasn't getting much sleep. I was in AP Lit one day, exhausted, busy, and stressed (probably my favorite way to be), and I said to my friend Sammi, "All I want is to take naps and make cookies."

I think that's the truest thing I've ever said. At the point when I said it, it was true. Tonight, when I'm supposed to be catching up on a week's worth of schoolwork, it is still true.

Maybe these seem like simple requests out of life. Sure, I have an inescapable urge to try and fix things and help people. I'm an organizer, whether I'm in school or not. But sometimes, goals and ambitions are too much to handle. I just need to take a break from everything and wait for the oven to preheat.

Instead, I've got another book and a half to read tonight. All I want right now is to take a nap and bake some more cookies.

A Conscious Double Standard

On the way home from Washington DC, yesterday, I found myself telling a Midwesterner that, while it was okay for me to make fun of the South, I wouldn’t tolerate it from him or others who didn’t know what they were talking about. 

I realized this came up several times in the past week, so I’ll address it.

I’ve talked about being a Georgia girl with Jonae. We’re typically nice, warm, and take care of people. If we don’t like somebody, bless their hearts/God love ‘em, we’re still cordial and accommodating. We can’t hide our emotions. We care probably too much and, as typical of the South, have large and loving families. 

I can’t help that, on one side, my grandparents’ first date was the Gone With the Wind premiere and the others met because he sold her dad moonshine. I make damn good cornbread in my grandmother’s cast iron skillet and have never picked up a date at a family reunion. Surprisingly enough, our schools do have running water, and I even wear shoes sometimes. While we have some of the lowest SAT scores, it’s partly because we make everyone take it. We’re in the teens when ranking AP scores by state. Really. I couldn’t make that up. 

We’re by no means perfect. We’re still a red state, barely turning purple. I’m not saying the South will rise again and I’m not about to lecture on the War of Northern Aggression or anything. I have every intention of moving away and will be among the first to make fun of my state. Lots of Georgians are dumb and some are racist. Same with lots of Americans, though. We have a higher concentration of them, sure, but my aunt makes sweet tea that converts even Northerners to liking sweet tea. So don’t write us all off. Otherwise, you’d have no Otis Redding or Sarah Langley. 

Unassuming

It's been a pretty crazy week. Lots has happened, and I'm not quite ready to reflect on all of it.

But I promised I'd do this, so here it is. Not sure what it is but that'll come. 

I remember this one conversation I was having with Jonae, a community organizer and friend, who told me I was utterly unassuming. 

I think how much I liked that description alone disproves her and am pretty sure in its very nature, blogging is self-aware and thus, well, assuming. 

But I wouldn't mind if you, too, found this and me unassuming.