Genesis

Genesis.

Child.

Brown child.

Brown child in a dusty world,

Playing soccer on cement

Because grass doesn’t grow well on landfills.

 

Genesis.

Bible birth.

Bible beginnings.

Biblical injustice.

I didn’t see a white child

Stubbing their toe on cement soccer fields.

Genesis

Too skinny for eight years old.

She had dirty feet and a shirt that sagged.

I counted lice in her hair

And let her play with mine.

Genesis

Where Adam and Eve are always cast pale.

Inaccurate and too accurate.

We were all white Adams

Sweeping in to sweep the dirt.

Too bad the best people I met were brown.

 

Genesis

Called me gringa.

Claimed me her gringa.

Gringa from North America.

Put her tiny hand in mine

And paraded me around proud.

 

Genesis

Is where white children are born

To green paradises and bright Nikes.

Houses with doors that come included

Walls that have paint from Home Depot

And water that runs.

 

Genesis

Is born of Ecuador

A green paradox split by a muddy river

Cracked Crocs versus Reeboks

Houses with floods that come inside

Walls that are different heights

And waiting for a faucet.

Genesis

Is where the water started to run

Where we are supposed to start

to understand.

Until we look at all the brown

In a world so green.

 

Genesis

Lives in a brown world

That I couldn’t understand.

 

So much dust on her feet,

So much money on mine.

 

I played with her on a seesaw

I unsettled us and she floated,

Eight years of something heavier than me

Slipping to the cement.

She giggled into finger gaps.

She only wanted to take one picture.

Didn’t even show her teeth.

I beamed, practiced.

Her smile was a whisper.

Maybe posing with a gringa felt too much like a lie.

She retreated to the fence, fearless.

The kids weren’t supposed to climb.

I watched her dangle, perilous.

I realized I wanted to let her rise.

I guess she liked to float.

Daily Yoga, You Disappoint Me

I came home from work the other day exhausted. Not because I don't like my job, not because I am particularly stressed, and not because I got stuck in traffic for 30 minutes extending my 25 minute commute to nearly an hour.

No, I am exhausted because I have a cold. Stupid, right? But there all the same. It's annoying and it's in my head and won't go away, like so many of the stupid little worries that burrow and crawl in brain cells. My brain cells are crawling with a sinus infection. This sinus infection led me, Alex Caulway, to skip the gym and instead plant myself on the couch with a block of cheese. (I know that's a weird food to eat when you're sick, but I love cheese).

Anyway, I plopped my yoga-pant clad self down onto the soft pillows in the living room with a chunk of sharp cheddar and took out my Nook. Which, by the way, is my "relaxing" piece of technology. I don't have work stuff on there. I don't check emails on it. I read and listen to music and today, I went on there to download the audio book app everyone has been talking about - Audible. No, this is not sponsored (Go to audible.com/alex for your free audio book. Ha. Just kidding). I really was just going to try it out.

As I was downloading it, I noticed an app in the corner of my screen that has yet to be opened.

Daily Yoga.

It occurred to me how incredibly ironic it was that I sat on the couch in yoga pants that have, indeed, never seen a yoga mat. They have seen blankets and pillows and the inner workings of my bed, but never a yoga mat. I remember downloading that app. I thought to myself, "Technology is so great. This app will help me do yoga. This app will help me to meditate. This app will make me flexible. This app will make me a normal, chill, non-anxious human being."

Daily Yoga, I had so many expectations of you.

I then realized (and this is humor for the writers in my audience) that I had something to blog about. I thought to myself, "Dammit. I don't feel like writing right now."

But here I am. Writing. Tapping away on this keyboard when I have a headache from emails and a growling stomach (cheese does not a dinner make) because that stupid Daily Yoga app made me realize something about myself.

Every day, a new app comes out that claims to help you do something. Be more organized. Be more fit. Eat healthier. Count calories. Be more punctual. Save money. Make money. The list goes on and on.

I realized that I have indeed downloaded my fair share of apps to help me be a "better person," whatever that means. I have Runkeeper and Todoist and Daily Yoga. A calendar in my pocket and reminders that I don't even have to type in - I just tell Siri not to let me forget to mail that package in the morning.

The scary thing is, I got that yoga app because I thought if it was there, I might actually do yoga. What I really meant was, I might actually be more relaxed and calm and peaceful. That's what we all mean when we download an app to improve something about ourselves. And yes, some apps that I have do work. I am more organized in a lot of ways because of technology. But in a small way, I no longer rely on myself.

There was a time that if I decided I wanted to do yoga, I would have gone to the store and bought a yoga mat. A pink one, probably. Also some Zen music (although let's be real - I am the last person in the world to listen to anything remotely Zen). And then I probably would have done some stretching in these yoga pants that currently only stretch to accommodate blocks of sharp cheddar cheese.

But instead, I took 30 seconds out of my day and downloaded an application that I have yet to open. For me, even having it on my homepage was a step towards a reflective downward dog. But that's just it. I am relying on the existence of an app to make me do something.

Where is self-motivation? Have all of these tools to make us more efficient, more organized, more Zen actually backfired? Do we rely on Siri more than we rely on ourselves?

Think about it.

When is the last time you sat down and tried something new without first asking yourself, "Is there an app for that?"

Book Review: The Invention of Wings

She sat under the tree every day, working her story into the quilt. Even if it drizzled, I couldn't budge her--she was like God mending the world. When she came to bed at night, she brought the tree with her. The smell of bark and white mushrooms. Crumbs from the earth all over the mattress. -Sue Monk Kidd

It is not often that I encounter a book that continues to run circles in my mind for weeks after I close the cover. But The Invention of Wings by Sue Monk Kidd continues to sneak its way into my thoughts on a daily basis.

On a grand scheme, the novel tackles women's rights, civil rights, and female relationships. And while I was reading, I did appreciate these themes and felt impassioned about all sorts of causes. The book tells the story of real life abolitionists Sarah and Nina Grimke, Southern women who chose to break the mold cast for females in their time. It is told in dual perspective, from Sarah and from her slave, Handful. Their honest and powerful voices carry this novel through to the end.

Readers will be reminded and appropriately horrified at the tortures of slavery and the injustice of gender views, but that is not what keeps me returning to the pages to reread passages. What sucked me in and continued to enchant me throughout all 359 pages was the character development. Yes, I know I just revealed what an English nerd I am. Who would have thought the term "character development" would ever work its way into my personal writing and not five paragraph college essays?

But it's true. I fell in love with Handful from the first moment I met her. Sarah took me a little longer to love.

That's just it. This was a book that I felt something for the characters. I could have a conversation with either of them and I cried too as they became friends, women, broken, and freed. I couldn't tear myself away from the sticky South Carolina sun in the bedroom of a girl who didn't want the slave girl for her eleventh birthday present. I also couldn't bring myself to leave the tiny dimly lit sewing room with one window and a quilt frame in the ceiling that held countless secrets.

If you love words, read this book. If you love history, read this book. If you are a woman, read this book. The Invention of Wings brought female strength to the page in the form of two women searching for themselves. But more importantly than that, I finished the story wishing I could tell Handful my own secrets.

I Dream of Headlines That Aren't Bleeding

To the journalists of Charlie Hebdo.
To writers.
To people who dream of headlines that don't bleed.

I am not writing this to say Je Suis Charlie. I am not writing this to say, "I stand in solidarity with journalists." I am not writing this to say I understand what it is like to feel unsafe because of something you wrote. Personally, I have never written a single thing as controversial and dangerous as the things those writers were publishing.

But I am a writer. And as such, I am responsible for paying attention to the world. By default, I am a reader. A reader who is tired of seeing massacre and terror and 12 killed at the top of page in the morning as they bite into their bagel with cream cheese.

We should write more love stories, but not enough love stories are being lived. Not enough kindness is being spread. We hold up pens as weapons because the world gives us material that calls for weaponry. I wish the world produced material that called for stories to be soft and headlines to be tearjerkers for the right reasons. I did an interview this week for a happy story. I was brought to tears by the purity and honesty and joy that I heard in quotes I can't wait to publish. And I thought, "This is why I love writing. This is why I love journalism. For the stories that make people smile."

I dream of good deeds so profound that they warrant top half of the fold placement. I dream of people reading truths that uplift, not shaking their heads in disbelief. Or worse-- not reading because it disturbs their day too much to witness the pain of the rest of the world.

I know these are impossibilities, there will always be sad stories and hard stories and stories that make me cry. That is my number one weakness as a journalist. Accurate as hell on the facts side of things, but I have never been able to be entirely unfeeling. My soul cried this week because I am a writer and I feel responsible to write something about what happened. Murder in an office where people use pens to effect change. How to fully absorb the tragedy of writers being killed for writing?

This act of terror is an ironic one. Tragic and ironic. In the senseless murder of journalists, these terrorists have actually given the stories the journalists told more power. Because now the world is talking about Charlie Hebdo. Now the world is talking about creative freedom of expression. Now the world is up in pens, and fighting should stay on the page.

I challenge the world to see the wisdom of words as weapons. Why can't we see that the smartest way to argue differences is with paper, not bullets? With explosions of ideas, not bombs? With informed discussions, not strategic invasions?

Argument is a necessity for progress.
Blood is a foolish tragedy.
Stories will always be more powerful than machine guns.