During games group this afternoon we played a game that I had never heard of and could not win for the life of me. The men all claimed they learned on the street. (I mean, how can I argue with that?) After an hour in which I thought perhaps I was either having a stroke or was just way to dumb to ever understand the rules this happened:
Mr. RT: Miss Rachel, you you can’t go, you got skipped.
Me: What?! Why??
Mr. GT: That’s the rules.
Me: This game doesn’t make any sense at all. I swear you guys are just making up rules to make me lose.
(all start snickering and looking around) Continue reading “Game Changer.”
I’ve gotta say, it’s pretty humbling to walk down the urine saturated streets, stepping over what I hope was a pile of chicken bones, to get to your car and find this:
Mr. JC: Miss Rachel, I’m going to be honest, when I first met you I thought for sure you couldn’t handle us here, but I was wrong — I think you might be more thug than me.
Me: Ha! Thank you…I think?
Mr. JC: No, no, it’s a good thing. We need to come up with a good nickname for you, like Little Casper.
Mr. AB: Maaaaan no, that’s what every white person gets called, we need to give her a better one than that.
Mr. TF: How about Snowy?
Mr. AB: Nah man, that’s so lame. What about White Magic? Continue reading “Thug Life.”
It’s been a little over a week now since we heard the verdict and I’m going to be honest, I have made a fairly diligent effort to avoid most of the internet chatter about the Trayvon Martin case since learning of George Zimmerman’s acquittal. It’s not because I don’t think it’s an incredibly important conversation and it’s not because I’m lacking emotion regarding the issues at hand. Rather, the last few days I have found it more valuable for me to stop and listen than to speak.
I am a white woman, I always have been and I always will be. It’d be false to say as such I have never experienced my own amount of prejudicial oppression, but it’d also be ignorant for me to think it stands out in comparison to many others’ experiences. Continue reading “I’m Listening.”
A few years ago I was given the opportunity to interview for a job in Knoxville, Tennessee. The job was pretty similar to the one I have now, although as you can assume, a bit different in exact population, needs etc., simply given the diversity between the areas of Knoxville and Los Angeles.
This is also the first and I pray to God, only time I have ever cried in a job interview.
The interview started out fairly normal; we toured the facility and chatted with some of the sweetest folks I have ever met in the field of caring for the homeless. We then sat down to talk. Our conversation started out typical, discussed strength, weaknesses, goals, etc. Continue reading “Meeting Lazarus.”
I’ve gotta be honest, even with all my talk of being an independent woman and loving the freedom that comes with doing things on my own, I’m a huge fan of collaboration of arts. I truly subscribe to the age-old saying that “two heads are better than one” in this regard.
On Monday I received a call from a lovely, talented and often thought-provoking friend of mine, Noah Needleman, who asked if he could use what I wrote in Put A Bird On It to accompany a song he’d written, to be placed on his website.
Honored, humbled and excited, I obviously said yes. Continue reading “Put A Bird On It. (Again.)”