Texan-ness.

I watched an awful movie last night called Moon Over Miami, with Betty Grable and Don Ameche. I have to write a paper for my American Studies class on a film about Texas. This movie mostly takes place in Miami (duh), but it's about waitresses in a Texas drive-in who hatch a scheme to go to Miami and trick millionaires into marrying them. (Because there were no millionaires in Texas?)

I never knew much about Betty Grable except the famous WWII pinup poster, but I've seen her in two movies recently. What was that all about? Watching her tap dance is like watching an amateur dance recital. ("Well, isn't she cute?) She doesn't actually bite her lower lip, but you wish she would, just to complete the picture.

Redeeming the film is Don Ameche, only because he's so sexy as a bored millionaire. And Charlotte Greenwood and Jack Haley. They're very funny as you would expect. (Charlotte Greenwood played Aunt Eller in Oklahoma.) There must have been a taboo back then against showing any real heat between older people in movies. (I say older, but they're probably not even as old as I am now.) Their characters -- Haley is a waiter in a fancy hotel, and Greenwood is the truckstop waitresses' aunt posing as a maid -- are supposed to be in love, but in their romantic scenes they act like a cross between 8-year-olds and a couple of old ladies. They have one very funny number in which Greenwood gets to show off her signature high kick.

Oh, and there's a horrifying, hilarious (and huge) production number near the end called "Solitary Seminole." A loving tribute to the indigenous people of Florida. Tap-dancing, of course.

I can't be the first one to point out the resemblance between Don Ameche and Johnny Depp. Not just that they look similar, but watching Don Ameche in this movie it struck me that Depp's whole persona seems almost like a studied imitation. That combination of eagerness and boredom. And the mustache. It was eerie. I was going to do one of those "separated at birth" things but I can't find a picture of Johnny Depp where he resembles Don Ameche. It must be something that happens with movement.

Instead, I'm going to write my paper on a movie called Pigskin Parade. It's a low-budget Fox musical from 1936, also with Jack Haley and Betty Grable. (And Judy Garland in a small part -- she's 14, I think, and it's her first feature.) It's about an obscure Texas college football team that is mistakenly invited to play Yale. Yesterday I checked out a stack of books from the library about college football, which made me laugh, and blush.

For that same class, we've been reading Friday Night Lights, a non-fiction book about a town in Texas and their high school football team in 1988. It's a pretty great book but very depressing, really much more about racism than about football. Maybe I'm getting that impression because I'm skimming the parts where he narrates the games in sports announcer jargon that apparently people find thrilling but to me looks like technical writing. ("Carter dove forward for four yards and a first and ten at the Carter 28-yard line." Hm...)

Sprung.

I dreamed this morning that I was taking a Spanish exam and had only finished half of it but the time was up. I was furious, I wadded up the test and scowled at the teacher as I stormed out.

This semester is very different from last semester. Last fall, except for my Spanish teacher who was inexperienced and struggling, I had excellent professors who were organized and enthusiastic, great lecturers, tough but fair. There wasn't a lot of bovine memorization; their exams were more about understanding complex processes and being able to grapple with the subject matter. Also, I only had 15 class hours and an American government class in which I knew about 80% of the material going in.

This semester I have one really outstanding teacher (he's a grad student, I found out last week), one who is entertaining in lecture, but sometimes vague and scattered, one who is a walking encyclopedia of American and Texas history, and -- for someone who loves to listen to people who know history talk -- a mesmerizing lecturer, but whose exams are straight names and dates, and one who is an absolute dud whose class makes me want to scream it's such a disgrace. And I have two classes, geology and Texas government, packed with subject matter that was totally foreign to me, as well as two hard-core academic thinking and writing type American Studies courses. And Spanish.

The other big difference, the one I'm most concerned with right now, is that last fall everything didn't pile up at the end of the semester making the last couple of weeks hellish like I remember from my first college career. Finals were tough, but I didn't have a lot of big projects and papers due right at the end. This semester is more like old times. Hence, the dream.

I have a sinking feeling last fall was the anomaly.

My Grandfather.

Here's a picture of my father's father, whom I was writing about a couple days ago. I think this must be his high school graduation picture.

The World Now.

I was watching this clip with my political hat on, as a supporter of Obama's campaign for president and as someone who has very little patience with anything anyone in the Bush administration has to say, especially about Iraq, especially someone like Rice, who was so instrumental in starting the whole fiasco, and suddenly it hit me that these two people are both black, roughly my age, one a woman, one of whom will likely be our next president and the other of whom serves our country in an office that wields great power and influence in the world. Regardless of how I feel about this particular debate, the fact that they are there having it moves me deeply.

I'm getting to the age where I'm beginning to have moments when I think, "the world has changed so much in my lifetime" -- a phenomenon I always associated with old people. I could never have imagined Condoleezza Rice and Barack Obama when I was 9 or 10 and my mother was organizing in our neighborhood in Indianapolis to stop banks from redlining and to fight discrimination by racist realtors, when my elementary school changed from almost all white to nearly all black within a few years because of "white flight."

I guess one would expect the world to change some in 40 years. Maybe I just never thought I'd last this long!

Third Ward TX.

(I sat down just now to write about a film I saw last year and loved, but I got sidetracked. Eventually I meandered back to the film, which is called Third Ward TX. I just want to say that, if you get bored with me pondering about my ego, scroll down and follow the links to find out about this great movie.)

I've been invited to participate in the American Studies (that's my major) honors program, because I'm one of the top 25 students in my class. The invitation has unexpectedly, but not surprisingly, stirred up a swirl of old feelings.

If I participate, I will write a 60-100 thesis, on a subject I choose, over the course of next year. On top of my regular course load. I may be able to make a film instead of a traditional written thesis. Either way, it'll be a shitload of work --actually the film would probably be quite a bit more work -- but it will be great preparation for grad school, and it will strengthen my application for the MFA program, especially if I make a film.

But I wonder if I love the honor part of it too much? The way it makes me feel: smart, special, etc. I feel like I'm in high school again, jumping at every little bit of recognition. (They told me that holding offices in clubs would enhance my chances for scholarships, so, in my senior year, I ran for and was elected president of art club, thespians, and the honor society. It's not like I had big ideas for what I could accomplish in these clubs, and I don't remember really doing much; I just wanted the titles.)

I can hardly imagine the amount of work the honors thesis would be -- not only do I need to take a full course load both semesters if I want to graduate any time soon, but I won't be able to get through another semester without some kind of job. Make a film on top of all that? Wasn't the idea to finish a B.A. as quickly and easily as possible so I could get on with grad school? And isn't my grad school application already pretty impressive. I've made a feature documentary, not to mention over 25 years of fairly interesting (and applicable) life and work experience. Still, it's hard to say no. I want the prestige.

I was discussing it with J the other night and he interrogated me a bit about "why?" Do I think there's intrinsic value in this type of academic recognition? Yes, but... Is this type of recognition a life-long dream of yours? Yes, but... Ever since I knew what they were I've wanted an Oscar, a Pulitzer, a Nobel Peace Prize, whatever. My attachment to recognition has loosened some -- most significantly around the time that I realized that these desires (more like neuroses) were at the root of a lot of my unhappiness -- but apparently there's still a bit of it lurking somewhere in my soul.

The focus of my life in the last 5 or 6 years has been to unravel this part of my personality. To relax about it. To enjoy being smart instead of needing desperately to be regarded as smart. I want to be honored, but because I've done good work, not because the honor makes me feel for a moment like I'm a good person.

I have a perfect thesis idea. If I decide to do it.

In my Intro to American Studies class, we just read a book called Dawn at My Back: A Memoir of a Black Texas Upbringing, by Carroll Parrott Blue. It's a very American Studies-type book: family stories, pop psychology, cultural history, photographs (the author is a photographer, filmmaker, and academic), letters and other ephemera, haphazard and beautifully connected at the same time. I loved it, and it inspired me.

For years, I've wanted to make something with the story of my grandfather. I wrote a song about him a long time ago, called My Family Tree, but I want to do something more in depth. Right after I came out to my family, when I was 20, my father (through my mother) told me about his father who he's certain was homosexual, partly because he disappeared several times when my father was growing up only to be found living with a man, the same man each time.

The story is compelling just on its face, but the background is fascinating too. What must it have been like to be homosexual (and possibly in love?) in the 20s and 30s in the Midwest? The other element of the story, for me, is the question of what gets passed on from father to son, genetically, socially, by example, and through family stories and mythology. (My mother joked to my dad that the homosexuality came from his side of the family, not hers. My father has a lesbian niece too.) Every one of my male friends has a difficult relationship with his father. Mine was painful as I was growing up but has over the years become a source of great pleasure.

But more on the Carroll Parrott Blue book. Though I love the book, the subtitle set me up for disappointment. The author grew up in Independence Heights in Houston, which was originally an incorporated town, a settlement built specifically for freed African Americans after the Civil War (I think) but much of the book takes place in Michigan and Detroit and other places. I wanted more Texas.

I saw a great documentary in SXSW last year, called Third Ward, TX, which is about a neighborhood in that area of Houston. I wrote about it very briefly at the time. I want to see it again. One of the reasons I'm so intrigued by these neighborhoods (urban, black, usually very poor) is that they are the neighborhoods I end up living in. I move in when they're being colonized by artists. Next come the homosexuals, and pretty soon I can't afford to live there once the yuppies arrive and drive up property values and rents. On the corner of my block a gay couple built two beautiful modern houses, one 2 stories high that they live in and another smaller one that they just sold for $650,000. Across the street there's a house under construction that is three stories tall and takes up almost every square inch of its small urban lot. It towers over the tiny houses on either side of it. I love our house, but it's falling apart and we feel like it's only a matter of time before our landlord sells it. The lot is worth a fortune. Meanwhile 3 blocks away, there's a brisk street business in cocaine and low rent prostitutes.

Anyway, Third Ward TX is a wonderful film. It shows that the arrival of artists in a poor downtown neighborhood doesn't have to mean the end is near, but could possibly be a whole new beginning.

Spring.

It was warm and muggy when I got up today, just like it had been for the last few days. It was raining on my walk to the bus. When I got out of my first class the temperature had dropped about 20 degrees. I went home to get a sweater, but I only wore it for about 20 minutes because a few minutes after I left the house the sun came out and it got warm again. Now it's dry and cool.

I finally got my garden in. We have two rows of sunflowers with green beans in a ring around them which I hope will grow up the sunflower stalks like beanpoles, 4 jalapeño plants, and a patch of cilantro and parsley. It's probably not the time of year to be planting parsley, but, what the hell, we'll see how it does. I also put in a row of red sunflowers along the front of the porch.

I was going to plant cucumbers since they did so well last year, but I changed my mind. We got tons of cucumbers from our farm last year and no green beans and not enough hot chiles. (Those are the two things that did the best in our garden last year with very little maintenance, and this year I'm all about low maintenance/high satisfaction.)

I had a run-in with an anthill, and now my fingers are fat and red like monster baby fingers. I don't know if they were fire ants, but they were tiny and red and they were mad at me.

Speaking of spring, maybe it's just the season but everyone I saw today looked good.

Check Out That Seersucker.

This is my grandmother and her brother, my great uncle. I think this photo was taken in 1910.

I was going through some random photos I have because I'm contemplating a short video piece using old photos and my high school journal, and I found a few very old ones that I ended up with after my grandmother died a few years ago. I love them. (Check out the dog. He has the same expression as my grandmother.)

I never noticed this before, but in pictures of me at that age I look very much like my great uncle. My grandma had lots of brothers, and she adored them.

I have only one sister, and I adore her. Below is a picture of her and me from 1973, which makes me 12. I'm doing her hair. (Whatever.)

They get bigger if you click on them.