The Verbal Droooolings of a Marked Psychopathic Deviate

ethics and other bullshit

due to some ethical constraints, i decided to remove my mugshot from the 'configuration' of my blog.

this resolution resulted for many reasons:

1. i ain't that cute (you should see me after a hearty night of drinking, or better yet, after a workout the day after a hearty night of drinking)

2. i think someday, somehow my students might find this sight and use it against me (and having my face staring back at them is the ultimate proof that the author is, in fact, the judith dumont that is their professor judith dumont)

3. my sister gave me the rad shoes you see in the new picture for my bday (they are so fucking cute i had to broadcast her $2 thrift store find to the entire universe)

4.  i'm the kind of gal who likes to mix it up every once in while; surprises are nice as long as they're of the tasteful variety (for instance, once, when i was bartending at this gay club, i walked into a unisex bathroom and saw a tranny suckin' off another feller...you could file that one under distasteful surprises; this, this surprise, is tasteful)

so that's that. now, moving on...

i have been locked up in a hole (otherwise known as my bedroom) for the past couple of weeks.  and unfortunately it wasn't for the sex i was rejected by (ala the comment on my pitfalls of monogamy entry--thanks, shari, may your vagina rot in celibate hell...), rather it's because i discovered a new author.  i love new authors; it's like making a new friend.

anyhow, i feel i must, i must, i must SHARE.  (jesus, the counseling skills are already beginning to surface.) it is rare that i demand people to read certain books.  that ain't my style. and while i am a damn fine, classy lady, i'm not some external dilettante who bolsters wild fascination for 'hot-off-the-press-literary-giants' at random cocktail parties.  i always wanna kick people in the shin who are all, 'wow, blane, you should really get your nose into the new david sedaris book.  he is hilaaaaaarrious.  fucking hilaaaaaaaaarious.  i mean for a homosexual man, he really seems to understand what it means to be human.  and that's great.  just great.  i'm glad he's dealing with that.  grandmother whitney always said humor helps.  it really helps.'

so, without further adieu, i present to you my new friend, my new author of the month:

James Frey. 

***applause***

he's a genius.  a fucking genius.  and i'm picky, so don't take this accolade lightly.

i picked up his first book, A Million Little Pieces, about a year ago.  i didn't read it.  i just picked it up while at the book store and thought about reading it.  (i was stoned at the time--and not on crack, crack is whack.  we're talking weed, people, y'know, mari-jew-anna; doobie; grass; stanky-stank; meatballs; fat sack; herb--and it was during the summer on a sunday on the way to the pool, so don't go a judgin', you non-weeders...)

anyhow, i decided against reading it at that particular moment because this book--AMLP--is a memoir about one man's fight to get sober.  and like i said before, i was stoned.  and i thought it would be weird if i wasn't sober and i was buying a book about getting sober.  like that might mean i needed some profound insight on this rare condition that i was incapable of reaching at that particular moment: sobriety.  so i freaked out, walked out of the store and had a serious maniacal rant inside my own head about whether or not i had a problem and if i did have a problem did i know i had a problem and if i knew i had a problem was this the first step and i don't believe in taking steps that other people inform me to take so fuck them and fuck everybody else I DON'T HAVE A PROBLEM.    

yeah, so, where was i?

right.  James Frey.

okay, so as you all know, my bday was three weeks ago.  and my lovely friend alex, who didn't show up at my bday party but who still got me a gift, gave me a gift certificate to Borders.  (a fantabulous present, by the way...)   and as i was walking around the store last week spending my free money, i noticed this book with a flamingo-pink cover that had a picture of a glass ashtray in the center.  across the cover in white handwriting i read the title My Friend Leonard.  and coincidentally the author of this book was none other than, you guessed it, James Frey. 

and i have a psycho memory. so i flashbacked to that particular stoney sunday and thought, 'wait... i know this name.'  and then i turned the book over and it announced MFL was, in fact, the follow-up book to AMLP.

i think it's weird to read things out of sequence, so i decided to go ahead and get both.  and lord, oh lord, who'd a thought i'd flip through 800 pages in one week!  but my ADD-ass did, and that's nothing short of phenomenal.

that's how good they are.

i don't wanna spill the beans and go into too much detail about the content of James Frey's life, but i will tell you this: he moved me.  then he moved me again.  and again and again and again.  i like the kind of book where you have a good solid character who wrestles with existence. i also like it when the character who is caught up in this struggling comes to some grand conclusions about what, maybe, this whole chaotic, repetitious pattern of living and breathing means.

frey does this and he does it well.  he mos def has his own writing style, i think he maybe used a total of 7 commas in both books.  but it works, pulling you in and twisting you through the emotional and physical process of a pure addict handling getting sober for the first time since the age of ten.  (yeah, that's right, ten.) 

he enters rehab at the ripe old age of 23 after finding himself on a plane with four missing teeth and a gaping hole in his cheek--both of which he does not remember happening.  he has no idea where he's going or how he got there, the only thing he does understand is that he's sitting inside a pair of piss stained pants and has snot and sweat reeking through his toxified pores.  he then endures six weeks of rehab where he meets a slew of interesting and REAL people, a couple of which turn out to be life-long friends.  and yes, one of them is leonard.

the second book, then, My Friend Leonard, takes us through frey's life after rehab.  and, again, i don't wanna give away much, only that him and this leonard develop a unique relationship, one that left me weeping myself to sleep after reading the last page. (this has never happened...i mean, really.  i am soooooo not a crier.) what they both accomplish and manage in their lives is nothing short of amazing, and, quite frankly, left me staring at the dark, bleak ceiling in my own room thinking, 'wow.  do i have that kind of strength?  integrity? depth? sense of humor?'

i really love my new friend and would like you to get to know him too.

so read his books.  and i'll quit writing.  and we've got ourselves a deal.  a fantastic literary deal.

for more information, please visit: www.myfriendleonard.com or www.bigjimindustries.com

OH!  and i wanna give a cyber shot out to my wicked cool little sister, leah, who is turning 27 today.  holy shit! we're growing up bageah, we're growing up.  i! love! you!  and your vision.

 

 

 

creation vacation

dear fans:  (allow me to live in my fantasy reality, please, where i am adored and valued and missed...)

i have been on what some might call a 'creation vacation'.  in an attempt to prepare me for today--holy shit! my first day of graduate school--i have been regressing to my adolescent self.  and  this means i  have been drinking entirely too much alcohol,  been watching entirely too much television, and gossiping entirely too much with my girlfriends.  basically, some might say i've been 'dumbin' down', people.   all in an effort to saddle up for scholastic slavery.

i apologize for the hiatus, but hey! back off.  every genius needs thier rest.  and i am officially rested.

so expect new stuff, new pics, new stories, new gripes...and i'll see you all very soon.

as if you really missed me,

Judith C. Dumont

the pitfalls of monogamy

so there's this big contraversy out there concerning the statement Kate Hudson made...i think her exact words were something to the effect of  'i believe monogamy is unrealistic...'

and i agree with her. 

think about it: when you have the same lover for 30 years, the romance suffers. the mystery becomes obvious; the passion becomes routine; the fantasy becomes reality. the amorous episode that once had you all high and flighty, turns into a syndicated rerun: all the lines become memorized, and the hilarity of your partner's jokes become cliche and tired. 

because seeing the same person day in and day out clips the fluttering wings of the comely butterfly.  when you first fall in love, you can't eat, you can't sleep, you lose a bunch of weight from all the bedroom cardio...but by relationship's end, it's the exact opposite: all you do is eat, and all you do is sleep.  and those ten pounds you lost?  well, they usually come back in multiples. and while sex is still possible, it's usually passed up for mediocre television.  the excitement of 'hey honey, you're home!' dissipates, and your homecoming--if even noticed--generates blank stares and non-verbal messages of  'oh. you again.' 

the relationship becomes relationshit.  all stinky and old; a remnant of the fantasticalness of your delightful dating past.

but i'm a little bitter, so i decided to do a little research: i struck up a conversation with some friends the other night on this exact subject. and to my surprise, i discovered my ideas were in the minority.  most of my friends wanted monogamy.  craved it even.  they even saw it as this 'rite of passage' into adulthood.  i was a little taken back.  *scoff!* since when does becoming a woman have anything to do with preserving your vagina for one particular person?

being the liberal thinker that i am, i refused to accept their answer.

'but what about passion????'  i battled.  'and more importantly, what about sex????'

betsy, a married mother of one, winked at me and said, 'ah...sex is overrated.'  my mouth gaped open.  'look,' she continued, 'when you have a kid, you just spend time together in other ways.  me and my husband play with our baby, eat dinner, and watch TV. our kid even sleeps with us at night.'

i didn't realize the only three-some married people were having included thier small children.

my friend tania, who was recently engaged, backed up her opinion, 'yeah.  i hardly ever have sex.'

'but you just got engaged!  is that what you want the rest of your relationship life to be like?  hardly any sex???'  i argued.

'i don't mind,' she replied.  'derek and i are together for other reasons.  he's my best friend.  we're gonna be family.'

she had a point: nobody wants to 'do' a family member.

so maybe that's it.  maybe that's why marriage is crumbling at society's feet.  because after you sign all the paperwork, say your vows, and wear your tacky, lacy dress---you become FAMILY.  one big, ginormous, dysfunctional FAMILY. and the 'wifey' falls into that mommy role and the 'hubby' isn't far behind, pointing his finger and changing the oil. 

and the image the couple had of one another before--the hot, independent vixen; the studly, self-ruly, bachelor--changes into tradition.  and tradition aint sexy, honey. as much as you want to lie to yourself about how good you'll look when you're a soccer mom with that terrible short hair-do. you won't be.  and it goes for you men, too.  as much as you wanna believe that your big, busting belly and your sagging earlobes won't matter.  they will. 

so you just keep looking at each other.  and you keep getting bored.  and more bored.  and less turned on.  and suddenly your vagina is muddled with cobwebs.  or better yet, it's like the sahara--desert dry and unable to sustain life.

so i'm not getting married.  not now.  not ever.  unless it could be an open one.  because my vagina deserves better.  it does.  in fifty years, when i'm seventy-eight, my geriatric self will be sexually active.  i hope.  i pray.  i beg.

cause as far as i can tell, this monogomy thing is a lock down.  a straght up prison.  and while i believe in having relationships, i'm not sure i believe in marriage.  it's not necessary anymore.  now, in the modern day, we women own our own purses: we don't need you men to provide us with shelter or food or clothes or security.  the only thing we really need is your penis.  and child support. 

i wanna go back to the times where we all lived in community, and we all shared mates.  no rings, no paperwork.  just a casual trade-off here and there.  that doesn't seem so bad, now does it?

i didn't think so.    

you my bro, nate! my bro!

who out there is watching six feet under????

i am. 

and i can't get over nate's death.  i can't, i can't, i can't.  i've been obsessed, completely consumed with the fischer family crisis.  call me a masochist, but i even watched the encore presentation of sunday's show last night, and i still boo-hoo'ed like a little school girl.  it has me so depressed, that i dyed my hair brown and ate a peice of bacon. (have i mentioned i'm a vegetarian???)   

i know the characters aren't real people, but i feel like they are.  i find myself throughout the day thinking, 'poor brenda.  what is she gonna do?'  and 'david.  he just adopted those hoodlum boys, and now this???'  i know this officially makes me a loser, but i'm really not that worried about it.  there are many things about my general character that classify me as loser. 

for instance, i secretly love mary-kate and ashley olsen.  i think they are soooo hot.  even though i was thier size in fifth grade, i still respect their fashion sense and honor the psychological breakdown of MK.  i would be anorexic too if i was forced to film shit-ass movies for the sake of pimple-faced teenagers.  my appetite would also be null and void if my fashion line was only picked up by wal*mart, because you sooooo know that she wanted neiman marcus, or at the very least nordstrom...

did i mention that i sometimes watch TRL?  i do.  just typing this out makes me feel better.  like i'm confessing to being a pop-culture glutton.  what can i say? i love crap television.  it helps me escape.   i have freinds that never watch t.v.  they think it poisons your brain.  and to that i say, 'HOGWASH!!!'  it only sorta-kinda poisons your brain.  so don't be so judgemental.

but six feet under is different.  i contend that is the best-ever written television show in the history of all television.  that's right.  better than seinfeld.  better than sex and the city.  better than the cosby show.  better than arrested development.  and way better than yes, dear.   (that was a joke...i have never watched yes, dear--except  when i was at my dad's house over thanksgiving.  it was a toss up between that and jag, so do you blame me?)

there are only two episodes left.  and i don't know what to do.  i am mourning the fishers and even that little rat, diaz.  and this depresses me.  and i know i should get a life, but how can i have a life when nate's life is over?  poor, poor brenda.  i would beat some bitch's ass if she slept with my husband and then he suddenly died...stupid quaker maggie...she's a black widow.  only she is kinda sweet and simple and utterly complex at the same time...

so i'm gonna pour a little liquor out.  and salute my pixelated family and send them off.  and i'm not sure i'll ever be the same.   i might even go on television strike and quit watching forever...

nah...who am i kidding?  i could never surrender laguna beach...

twenty eight

happy birthday to me...happy birthday to me...happy birthday DEAR ME!!!!!!!!!!!.....happy birthday to me...

twenty eight things i want to accomplish while i'm twenty eight:

1.  18 hours of my graduate degree
2.  straight a's
3.  see my little sister in vegas two times
4.  convince cayce to move to dallas--or atleast austin
5.  clear my criminal record
6.  learn how to write grants for higher education
7.  go to foreign county--costa rica? argentina? peru? panama?
8.  keep working on my spanish
9.  submit 10 stories for publishing
10. develop better mentoring skills for my at-risk students
11.  have my entire class pass the writing exit test
12.  attend a symphony
13.  volunteer 10 times throughout the year at family gateway
14.  change the oil in my car when i am supposed to
15.  keep working out
16.  perfect my indian food cooking skills
17.  write every day
18.  finish 'choosing your future' documentary
19.  take on 2 more film projects
20.  take my vitamins everyday
21.  go camping
22.  visit my mom and brother
23.  buy a new laptop
24.  read atleast 36 books
25.  write thank you notes
26.  practice patience
27.  get on full-time at richland
28.  love all my flaws

yard bird dumont

i got home on thursday and found a letter from the garfield county courthouse.  i was quite taken back, as i have not lived in garfield county (northern oklahoma...) since i was 17.  why? because it's a horrible place.  when i was growing up, garfield county had the highest rate of teenage pregnancy in oklahoma--i'm sure this has nothing to do with the fact that the most exciting thing  to do there is get drunk on an oil rig while throwing things at malnourished cows.

so i opened the letter.  and this is what it said:

Dear Ms. Dumont:

This is to inform you that CRIMINAL CHARGES have been filed against you for the crime of writing a bogus check.  A WARRANT has been issued for your arrest.

Please call XXXX XXXXX, Investigator for the District Attorney, at (XXX)XXX-XXXX immediately if you wish to discuss any alternative available to you to avoid arrest and to resolve the criminal charge against you.

Sincerely,

A Certain Someone

i was confused, not to mention a little embarrased.  and while writing bogus checks at the puerile age of 17 is totally something i would have done, i don't remember doing it.  so i got on the phone and called the number.  and as my non-luck would have it, i'm guilty.

it seems that back in 1995 i wrote a check for $23.00 to Jumbo Foods (the same grocery store i got caught stealing at in 8th grade...).  and it bounced.  and i never knew.  and now i'm a felon.  and to de-felon myself, i have to pay a hearty 200 bones to the courthouse of the shit-ass town where i grew up.  and this pisses me off.  they should pay me 200 dollars for having to live there for the first 17 years of my existence.  because enid is retarded.  i think the coolest fact about enid is that oral roberts had his first church across the street from my grade school...SCARY!!!  (my poor ass used to brag about this when i was a kid...but that's another story...the pentacostal years will be exorcised soon, very soon...)      

but this whole 'me-breaking-the-law' thing comes as no surprise, because breaking the law runs in my family.  it's a gene i fell heir to upon my being brought into this judicious and corrupt little world.

the first time my dad went to jail, i was 3 months old.  my mom was 2 months pregnant with my little sister and was also managing my older brother (who was 5) AND my older sister (who was 2).  i don't know how she did it.  quite frankly, it baffles me.  it's no wonder she despises my father and pities his meager little existence: he abandoned her when she needed him most, and that's fucked up.   besides, i would rather pull every hair out of my head one by one than have to go through that...

the legend goes: my dad got busted for being the middle man in a stolen car ring that was being managed by his two younger brothers.  he has always maintained his innocence, shouting at various family get-togethers, 'WHAT THE HELL DID I DO WRONG??? ALL I DID WAS KNOW SOME DAMN PEOPLE WHO KNEW SOME OTHER DAMN PEOPLE!!!!  SINCE WHEN WAS THAT A GODDAMN CRIME????'

right.

he said when the police brought charges up against him they claimed, 'the people of the united states certify that billy lee dumont is hereby accused of aiding a felony offense...' to this my dad screams, "WHAT THE FUCK DID I EVER DO TO THE DAMN PEOPLE OF THESE HERE UNITED STATES???  I ONLY FUCKED OVER A FEW, GODDAMNIT, NOT ALL OF 'EM!!!!"

sure.

anyhow, he got locked up for 18 months in the garfield county jail. my dad's favorite story to tell is about the night my little sister, leah, was born...this gaurd by the name of johnny something or other snuck my dad out of prison when word reached them that my mom was in labor.  he bought my dad a cigar and took him to the hospital.  my dad got to hold his new little baby for a few minutes, and then johnny took my dad to western sizzlin' for a fancy steak dinner.  before the sun came up, they snuck my dad back into his cell, and no one ever found out.  yeah, it's a white trash fairy tale, all right.  one i heard alot before bedtime as a kid... 

not only did my dad serve time, but so did most of my uncles and thier close friends.  and to date, they all still go by thier convict nicknames.  (my dad was known as 'boneyard bill'.  he said this was because they feed you dog food in prison--baked beans and bologna sandwiches.  so he got real skinny and people started calling him boneyard...)  see, when my dad would go play poker, he wasn't hanging with john, nick, and mikey; he was layin' down cards with weasel, weird steve, and j-bird. 

i think weird steve was the strangest person to ever walk this world.  he was the classic speed freak: he ended up doing hard time for dealing and thieving...but that still didn't set him straight.  every thanksgiving and christmas he would roll up at my grandma rose's house and pop the hatch of his gremlin.  inside there would be vcr's, car stereos, jewelry...you name it.  my dad would always let us pick something out, and in the background my mom would be rolling her eyes, judging as always.  we had no clue they were 'hot'--i think it hit me one day in my late adolescence.  i was like..."oh.........right..........."

weird steve died a few years back, and when i found out, i shed a little tear.  hell, there's nothing like a fake rolex for christmas--now all the jewelry my dad gets me comes from QVC, and this irks me.  weird steve had a way better product line...

while the majority of my siblings consider my dad's past the dark family secret, i find this element of my tribal history hilarious. it makes for good story telling, not to mention a memorable ice-breaker when attending fancy soirees with waspy white people. 

i remember when i was rushing for greek life at osu (don't judge me, i was 18...), and the richy rich snob bitches who were in charge of classifying my social fate asked me, 'what does your dad do for a living?'  confused, i answered, 'get drunk?  roof houses?  pop pills? NEXT QUESTION PLEASE!!!!'   

that was before i embraced my dad for who he is.  i used to be so ashamed, i felt like i was cursed or something.  like i had to cover up the paternal part of my persona.  now i think it's great.  having my dad as a father isn't so bad.  the secret is i had to release any sort of expectations i might have created for him. because  i would always end up disappointed; i would blow up these big ideas of what i thought my father should be and not love him for who he truly is.  and when i quit doing that, and allowed for him to be his authentic delinquent self, all of our problems sort of just fell away...and while it doesn't excuse him for his negligence, it pardons me for feeling like i was robbed out of a real father.

during my childhood--and even today--it isn't rare for atleast one of my cousins to miss thanksgiving dinner because they're galavanting across the plains of oklahoma in an effort to go see daddy at 'sleep-away camp'.  and i figure it's just one of those things that makes the dumonts the dumonts.  and now i'm officially one of them. 

so next thanksgiving when we're all exchanging our hard time stories, i can chime in.  i can talk about the time that damn check came back to haunt me.  and maybe this will lead me back to jesus.  and i can learn what it's like to be free on the inside as well as the outside...and we'll laugh.  and my dad will ruffle the hair on my head and swell with pride...because his baby's done grown up now, and because being a convict teaches you things about life that you can't learn otherwise. 

take it from me, i know...

judy cash

i had a dream last night that i was playing the piano and singing this song i wrote about a year and a half ago...so i thought it deserved a little resurrection:

blue collar blues

cause my collar's blue
yeah my collars' blue

my back aint been right
since long times past
i'm sick and tired
of what you ask
it's all about me
drownin' in this capitalist sea
the only preserver available
aint available to me

so go back to your
paper cuttin' white collars
cause this one here's blue
i've got the blue
the blue collar blues

it's about what you have
and what i don't
i'm unlockin' the chains
and freein' the bolts
cause the green in the world
aint about the color of the grass
it's about payin' the bills
and bustin' my ass

so go back to your
paper cuttin' white collar
cause this one here's blue
i've got the blue
the blue collar blues

i don't need a degree
cause what's mine gotten me
i thought my mind was a vessel
not a computer screen
how'd it turn out
how'd this come to be
i'm only livin' what you're givin'
all i have is me

so go back to your
paper cuttin' white collars
cause this one here's blue
i've got the blue
the blue collar blues

living paycheck to paycheck
to buy a gallon of milk
fuck all that chiffon
taffeta and silk
cause my dress is cotton
with a ruffle of blue
i guess white aint my color
it don't suit me like you

cause the green in the world
aint about the color of the grass
it's about payin' the bills
and bustin' my ass

go back to your paper cuttin' white collar
cause this one here's blue
i've got the blue
i've got the blue
the blue collar blues

insulation

about an hour ago, i was surfing the internet, checking my email, reading people.com--i was jonesing for a sienna/jude update--and i had a walk-in appointment show up in the writing lab.

my first thought: fuck.

my second thought: go away. 

my third thought: i do not feel like being around people. 

i grimaced.  and then instructed the kind lady to fill out her information for our files.

'what are you working on?'

'a paper.'

she had an african accent, and if i were to guess where she was from in that moment, i would have said nigeria. 

'and what's the problem?' i hadn't made eye contact with her, i was too busy scowling, irritated about the interruption.

'well...i...i have to write a paper on genocide and why it happens.  and i can't seem to figure out how to get started.'

'oh.  well that's an interesting topic.  what's your thesis?'

'my thesis?'  she was confused.

'the point of your paper.  the controlling idea.  what's your thesis?'  i was in robot writer mode.

'well.  i don't know.  i mean, i have to write and provide research that supports one of these topics.'  she handed me her assignment sheet and it directed her to do the following:  outside of the holocaust, choose a genocide that has happened and uncover one aspect of this genocide in a 5-7 page research paper...i.e. why it happened, how it could have been prevented, how it affected women and children.

'which aspect are you drawn to?'

'i think i want to write about why it happened.  and these are the notes i have taken so far.' she handed me a crumpled stack of paper with ferocious pen streaks jotted across each line.  some of the language was english, some was not. 

i noticed the words 'hutu' and 'tutsi' inside her scribbles.  'are you writing about the genocide in rwanda?  that is such a good movie, have you seen hotel rwanda?  that would be a great source for your research.'

'yes.  i am from rwanda.'

'oh.' we finally made eye contact. 'really?'

she stared into me; an unspoken revelation awoke inside my mind.

'so...' i stammered, 'you were in rwanda when the genocide...'

'yes.'

fuck, i thought.  i just attributed her life experience to a hollywood movie. 

'i'm...i'm...so sorry.' my face flushed, splotched with shame and ignorance.  'now i understand why this is hard for you.'

'yes.'

there was silence. 

i looked at my feet.  i looked at the wall.  i looked at her.

i voice inside my head whispered healing. 

another moment of silence.

'sometimes when we write, we write to overcome.  to heal ourselves.  so i propose this paper to be an opportunity for you.  an opportunity for you to tell your story.'

'but i cannot figure out why it happened.'  her eyes were still and penetrating.  'i read these books and i read the internet and i cannot find out why.'  she pushed the books away from her that were resting on the table.

'how about we don't write about that part.  let's write about a different aspect.  after all, sometimes things do not have a why.'  i took out a sheet of paper. 'what if we wrote about the effects the genocide had on women.  this you know; this you understand.  do you have family and friends here in the states that are also from rwanda?'

'yes.'

'okay.' i finally knew where i was going. 'the beautiful thing about research is that it isn't all found inside a book or inside an article.  i think the most powerful research can be done through the interview process.  kinda like what you see on dateline or oprah.  i did a lot of my papers in this format when i was an undergrad.  see, i'm too hyperactive to sit in a library all day and drool over musty books written by old, white men.  besides, what do they know about anything?'

she smiled.  'so i can use my own experience as a resource?'

'absolutely. in fact, i think experience is the best teacher, the best possible resource.'

'and the thesis?  what do i say for my thesis?'

'i cannot answer this for you.  only you can.  ask yourself this: how were women effected by the genocide?  how were you effected?'

'well, we were raped.  harassed.  tortured.  and we were forced to give up our children.'

my stomach dropped as i wrote everything down that she said.  'okay.  good.  now, do you see how we just formed a general statement?  because of the genocide, women were raped, harassed, tortured, and were forced to give up their children.'  i ran my fingers over the words--her experience--as i said them out loud.  'now what you need to do is unfold these general ideas.  you need to demonstrate the truth of these claims.  give your reading audience specific details and examples of how women were raped, why women were raped; of how women were tortured, why women were tortured...make sense?'

'oh! yes. yes.'  she began to take notes as i spoke.  'so i can interview my family members and have them answer these questions.  and then when i go to prove that, yes, these were the effects the genocide had on women, i write what they said.  they are my sources.'

'exactly.'  i smiled. 

'many things happened to the women.'  she looked into me again.  'if you were a woman and you worked for the government, they would kidnap you.  and when you would not do what whey wanted, they would cut off one of your breasts and leave you bleeding.  and when you did not die, they would cut off another breast.  they would kill you piece by piece.'

my face sunk.  my heart sunk.  my being sunk.

'if you were a pregnant tutsi woman, they would cut open your stomach and take your baby out and throw it on the street for all the people to see. they would hang the fetus in front of you, in front of everybody.'

the commotion in the room fell away. in this moment all there was was me and her.

'but...' i was about to ask why, and then remembered that is what brought her here in the first place. 'have you talked to your professor about this? is this going to be too difficult for you?'

'i talked to her.  she told me i could use my story in the paper. i want to do it.'

'it just seems unfair,' i said. 'here, in america, we are so guarded.  so insulated.'  i shook my head. 'because to every other student in your class, this genocide thing isn't real.  it isn't something they, even i, can fathom.  it's a movie or a history lesson, not a living, breathing situation.  it's something that we write about and talk about, but it's not something we comprehend.  and i think it devalues the weight of what happened.  and for that, i'm sorry.  it is impossible for us to get it.  to really get it.'

'yes. but,' she turned to face me. 'here, we are still dealing with the same problems: money, greed, power, domination.  so it is the same.  only different in the way it is sought after.'

'right.'

i sat and talked to caroline--the woman from rwanda--for another half hour about the layout of her paper.  we figured out an outline and a system for how she was to appropriately communicate her ideas.  and it felt good to help her, like i was actually serving a purpose. 

i so often get wrapped up in the petty nothings of my everyday life; they tangle and rip at my experience, causing frustration and irritation.  i walk around telling myself i have high anxiety and this grants me good reason to cloak my perception around darkness and negativity.  and i know nothing about suffering.  nothing about real suffering. 

the college where i work has over 132 different countries which make up our student body. it isn't rare for me to work with 10 different students from 10 different countries, all in one afternoon.  and being a girl from rural oklahoma, i tend to disregard just how lucky i am to have the world visit me on a daily basis. 

this life i live, i take for granted.  i am a woman who is awarded a plethora of freedoms.  i choose the path i walk.   the street i drive down.  the food i eat.  the clothes i wear.  the job(s) i have.  the arena of subject i study.  the people i hang around.  the words i speak. the thoughts i think. 

and there are people out there who can't. 

i'm a horribly self-absorbed person.  my ego insulates me from being vulnerable to the world around me.  and at some point i must surrender my own shit and allow myself to be of better service to my global community.

so, basically, i feel like a real ass right now.  a real leech.  i'm too damned selfish, too caught up in the capitalistic motion of my own culture to look out.  and see.  and be thankful.