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Happy Birthday Suebob!

It's still Suebob's birthday for 45 minutes as I write this. However, since she has been celebrating for 50 days, I think (hope) she will forgive me for being a little bit late.

One of the first blogs I ever discovered was Suebob's Red Stapler. I immediately fell in love with her sharp wit, slightly cranky but always loving viewpoint and her great link collection. I commented, she responded and even, if I didn't dream it, came over and commented on my little blog. Not to mention that for a gal who named her first blog after her dog, anyone who loves their dog as much as Suebob loves Goldie is a girl after my own heart.

I had a certified blog crush and when, while working the registration desk at BlogHer '06 she picked up her credentials and I met her in person for the first time,  I think I might have freaked her out a little. I didn't get to take a red stapler photo that year. But in 2007, as I was in line to check out of the conference hotel, I had my chance and I was baptized into her sorority.

Sue is one of my spinster soul sisters and one of the great joys that blogging has brought into my life. If you know Suebob and her red stapler then I'm merely joining the chorus affirming her light and love. But if you should stumble upon this not knowing Suebob, then I urge you to head over to her Red Stapler and find out just why she is a force of nature. Your life will be better for it.

Thank you to Karen Sugarpants for organizing this little online celebration (where you can find links to all the love) and to Laurie White for alerting me. And, unlike everyone else, I cannot figure out how to steal photos from Suebob's Flickr stream so you'll have to click on links. It will be worth your while.

Undercover Black Woman

Undercover Black Woman* is one of several potential names for my autobiography. It refers to the fact that I look white but identify as black. I say identify because race is not a fact of biology but a construct that varies across cultures, societies and nations.

If race isn't a thing that can be measured and assigned, despite the efforts to do so throughout this country's history, why then does racial identity matter? When I was growing up some white kids would ask me why, since they thought I looked and spoke and acted like I was white why didn't I just call myself white? They didn't understand why I needed to proclaim and explain that I am other.

My great-great-great grandmother, Ellen Craft, was the child of a white slave owner an a slave, as was her mother. Therefore, she was 3/4 "white" and 1/4 "black." However, by the laws of the United States at the time she was legally defined as "black." Those laws no longer exist and so I can now choose my race, my identity. Although I clearly have European ancestors, I identify solely and completely as black.

I choose blackness rather than whiteness for a number of reasons. In part it's because of my family history. In part it's because, though most of my family are fairly light skinned, my father and sisters, along with other family, have brown skin. To proclaim myself white would mean to me "passing" and rejecting my family.

Because I perceive myself as black while people who don't know me treat me as white, I am acutely aware of the privilege whiteness brings. As I wrote in a post a few years ago:

I know this because I benefit from white privilege even though I'm black.  I'm made aware of my privilege every time I go to dinner with friends and I am the only person at the table the waitress will speak to.  I'm made aware of my privilege when I go into shops with family and they are followed and I am not.  I'm made aware of my privilege when white people assume I share their racist thoughts and they spill their secrets to me unaware that I'm working undercover.  I'm made aware of my privilege and thus the corresponding depth of racism every day.

Bearing witness to such behavior only strengthens my identification as black.

I sometimes want to wear T-shirts stating my racial identity. Or perhaps hand out some of Mollena's fabulous race cards (Though Mollena is thoroughly awesome, her link is possibly NSFW) or maybe a calling card like artist Adrian Piper:

Dear Friend,

I am black.

I am sure you did not realize this when you made/laughed at/agreed with that racist remark. In the past, I have attempted to alert white people to my racial identity in advance. Unfortunately, this invariably causes them to react to me as pushy, manipulative, or socially inappropriate. Therefore, my policy is to assume that white people do not make these remarks, even when they believe there are no black people present, and to distribute this card when they do.

I regret any discomfort my presence is causing you, just as I am sure you regret the discomfort your racism is causing me.

There have been some among my ancestors who chose to live as white, who do not have a black identity. However, everyone I grew up with in my immediate and extended family identifies as black to the best of my knowledge. Some of my young relatives might not but just because I think race is less of an issue for younger generations. However, when people over the years have asked me why I don't consider myself white the unspoken subtext is that it would be easier, better. But, while it might be in some ways easier to be white, for me to deny my blackness would mean rejecting my family which would be as painful as cutting off a part of my body.

Living as a racial spy is fascinating and sometimes horrifying. You can imagine some of the things I've heard when people believed that they were talking to a white person. And some of the things that have been said when they learned of my African American heritage. It's hard when I'm the only black person in the room, at a job, on a panel. As many black people can tell you it can be wearying to have to represent all black people and constantly educate even well-meaning non-black folk. I don't always want to be in teacher mode - sometimes I want you to do your own research. And, for me, even when I am happy to be the face of diversity, unless I get a tattoo on my forehead or wear a tee-shirt at all times that says "Yes I am a black woman. Ask me how!" and print the story of Ellen Craft on the back, the impact of the color (pun totally intended) and perspective I bring to settings is lost on anyone who doesn't know my back story. I make for a terrible token.

There are times that I've wished to have browner skin but I have never longed to be a real white girl. Perhaps that's because of the fact that I've escaped most of the overt racism living in brown skin can bring to you in this country. But I hope it's because (say it loud), I'm black and I'm proud.

*I actually coined this name for myself before the late David Mills launched his blog Undercover Black Man. However, if I were going to steal from pay homage to someone, Mills would be at the top of my list. I was a fan of his writing and his blog and in my limited interaction with him he was kind and generous. He died far too young - may he rest in peace.

African American Lives: American History and My Family Tree

Like many, I grew up hearing stories about my family's history. I have a few ancestors whose stories live in history books and who are studied by scholars to this day. There are institutions and organizations named for them. These family stories provide a perfect example of how African American history is American history and another reason why Black History Month still matters.

My great-great-great grandparents, William and Ellen Craft made one of the most daring and inventive escapes from slavery in American history. Ellen, the daughter of a slave and slave owner, was fair skinned. So light, in fact, she could pass for white. She and her husband, William, devised a plan where Ellen would dress as a white man and purchase train tickets for herself and her "slave" (William) to travel north to freedom. Ellen further enhanced her disguise with a sling and face wrap as though she had a toothache so that she would not have to reveal that she could not sign her name (neither Ellen nor William could read or write) or reveal her woman's voice.

When the Fugitive Slave Act passed, their former owners sent slave catchers to Boston to recapture and return them to slavery. Aided by abolitionists, William and Ellen eluded capture, causing the hunters to give up and return home. William and Ellen then went north to Nova Scotia and sailed to England where they lived until slavery was abolished and they returned to the United States. After failing to recapture William and Ellen, their owners petitioned President Millard Fillmore to enforce the Fugitive Slave Act and asked for his assistance in returning them to slavery. Fillmore promised (despite the fact that his faith led him to personally abhor slavery) that he would do everything in his power to enforce the law and even use the military if necessary.

Another President factors into my family history. Thomas Jefferson was a slave owner and Sally Hemmings is the slave most Americans have heard of because of their relationship. One of the descendants of Sally Hemmings' sister, Mary, was activist William Monroe Trotter. Along with W.E.B. Du Bois, Trotter helped establish the Niagara Movement which was a precursor to the NAACP. William Monroe Trotter's sister, Bessie, married Henry Kempton Craft, grandson of William and Ellen Craft. They are my great-grandparents. William Monroe Trotter, the founder of the Boston Guardian newspaper, the first black Phi Beta Kappa at Harvard, was simply my grandmother's "Uncle Monroe."

My grandmother has been interviewed by researchers from Monticello as they acknowledge and incorporate the stories and history of the slaves who lived there and my aunt, uncle and cousins have attended "family reunions" at Jefferson's home. William Monroe Trotter had his own history with presidents in his day. He challenged Theodore Roosevelt and later Woodrow Wilson about the treatment of African Americans. His protests were so forceful that President Wilson banned him from the White House.

As Kim Pearson pointed out in her post on Black History Month and the American Civil War, personal stories connect the past and present and illuminate history in the process. Kim shares the story of Adrien Wing, the great-great granddaughter of Gen. P.G.T. Beauregard. When she visited Beauregard's home in New Orleans, Ms. Wing spoke up when the tour guide failed to mention the whole story:

I will also never forget the guide's face when I told the group that those women on the wall were not the general's only family. He had Black descendants as well, and I was one of them. She blanched and said that she knew that the general was like the other southern gentlemen of his time, but she was not allowed to talk about that. Then she hurried us on to look at the cookbooks.

I'm glad that the caretakers of Monticello and Jefferson's legacy have researched, and now acknowledge and discuss the lives of the slaves who lived alongside Jefferson. History is not created in a vacuum, by individuals acting alone. It happens through our interactions and at the crossroads. Unfortunately, though, in this country, history and accomplishments are too often only made visible or seen when it's through the eyes of white people or embodied in white skin. Black history month gives us the chance to give voice to the too often invisible.

The role of being the first African American to accomplish something notable did not stop with Uncle Monroe. My father was the first African American to earn both a JD and a CPA in California. My grandfather was the first black city councilman in Oakland. My aunt was the first black woman to edit the editorial page of a major American newspaper.

That's three U.S. presidents that my family's lives directly impacted. Three doors my family opened. My family quite literally helped to shape the course of American history. While understandably their stories loom large in my family's hearts and minds, they are just strands in the tapestry that is American history. As long as Black History Month and other events like it help us better understand and add to that tapestry, the stronger and richer it will be.

Cross posted at BlogHer

William Monroe Trotter's sister, Bessie, married Henry Kempton Craft, grandson of William and Ellen Craft. They are my great-grandparents. "Gramps" passed the stories of his grandparents to his daughters, my grandmother and great-aunt. My great-aunt and her daughter were active in the civil right movement. My cousin Peggy carried on William's and Ellen's legacy of civil disobedience and while working as a member of the Student Non Violent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) on helping blacks in the south securing voting rights she was arrested and spent several weeks in jail. A few years ago I met a minister who was moving to South Africa to continue his human rights work. He had been the pastor of my grandmother's church and had ministered at dome of the funerals of Black Panther members. The minister told me how much he admired my grandmother, who as the relatively comfortable middle class school teacher and wife of a civic and community leader would not be expected to, for attending those funerals.

Bad Lady Plumbing: Choosing to End my Childbearing Years

Years ago I made peace with the fact that I would not be a mother. I am not one of those women who never wanted children. At one time I did. However, I have not been willing to compromise my vision of the circumstances under which I wanted to raise a child. I would rather not be a mother than intentionally enter into motherhood single. I didn't meet the father of my child in time. And I'm past the point in my life where I desire to raise an infant. I have tremendous respect for those women who make such choices but these are not the right life choices for me.

Nevertheless, people around me - well meaning, no doubt - feel the need to tell me that I could choose to be artificially inseminated. Several years ago, I spoke to my then gynecologist about my options. She gave me the name of the sperm bank she used and I browsed the online listing of donors. That exercise helped me realize that it was not the right choice for me. I prefer to get knocked up the old fashioned, patriarchal way, i.e by my husband.

The well meaning also helpfully share every news report of senior citizen grandmothers who set records for the oldest woman to give birth. They assure me that it's not to late for me since I'm so much younger.

Helpful hints such as these drive me crazy. I've made my choice and such comments frustrate me and leave me feeling disrespected. I've made up my mind, dammit!

Which is why I'm so surprised to find myself sad and a little bit freaked out by my upcoming surgery to help fix my bad lady plumbing.

The women in my family have a history of heavy monthly bleeding. Some to the point of hemorrhaging so badly that emergency surgery has been necessary. I don't want to get to that point. I've taken birth control pills for years, however, my doctor is no longer comfortable with me continuing this treatment. She's given me several options to try next and I chose preemptive surgery.

It's empowering in one sense. I'm taking control of my body and not waiting until I have no choice in the matter and wind up in the ER.

But, as I sat with a team of doctors discussing my various options I was sad. And part of me has remained sad. We narrowed my options to two different types of uterine ablation (effectively, burning off the lining of my uterus) or hysterectomy (surgically removing it). Regardless of which of these procedures I choose, pregnancy will no longer be an option for me.

Yes, if I change my mind about motherhood I could pursue adoption. If having nurturing, mothering energy in my life feels crucial I can lavish more attention on my niece, nephews and young cousins. I could volunteer to mentor children. Though the experience would not be the same, I can choose. But I still have this voice in my head that is screaming at me to stop and run to the nearest sperm bank. Then I have a little talk with my inner voice and remind her while she might be happy and feel like I was fulfilling some primal womanly desire, that, recognizing the reality of raising a child for many years, my brain is therefore shutting her down.

For now though, I have to choose my surgery. First things first. Afterward I will grieve the loss of my ability to bear children. And then I will continue to live and love.

Announcing My New Adventure

Please check out my exciting news in my post My New Adventure on my business blog, Fizz.

Thanks!

Learning to Listen: A Humbling Lesson

I can't stop thinking about her. As I watched her walking away, already almost to the end of the mall parking lot, pulling her backpack tight around her shoulders as if it could make her invisible, I debated for a split second asking my friend to drive me up to her so I could beg her forgiveness and ask for a do over. But I didn't.

Instead I've turned our encounter over and over in my mind until it has become like a stone polished smooth by ocean waves. My prayers vacillate between petitions to make me a better person and then feeling too full of hubris by making it about me and asking God to just simply watch out for her.

It was a routine event I've experienced many times but I wish I could go back in time and open myself to being present and listening to another human speak to me.



I had dinner with a group of friends and had planned to pay for my portion with a credit card. The credit card I gave the server was declined. I had been fairly sure that I had room on that card but when it was declined I panicked a bit and hesitated to give her a different one unsure if I had mixed up balances or if there was a problem (I've been a victim of identity theft in the past but it turned out I had forgotten a yearly fee that had automatically processed that day). So, with the help of a couple of my friends chipping in, I spent my remaining cash on my share of the bill.

As we left and were getting into my friend's car a woman approached me and asked in a very soft voice if she could ask me a question. She asked a second time, a bit louder, to be sure I heard her and knew that she was directing her question to me. I didn't answer. Instead I told her sharply that if she needed help I was very sorry but I did not have any cash. Taken aback by my curt lecture, she slunk down and hurried off.

As I got in the car I realized that I had half my meal left over in a doggie bag. I had been so busy focusing on my worries and embarrassment and feeling of lack that I completely forgot what I had right in my hand. When I am approached by panhandlers I am often in a rush and alone. Not that it excuses my impatience but it makes me unlikely to stop and dig through my purse to find my wallet and open it up on the street. Also, given the recession and the fact that I live in a large urban area, simply running errands and going to the grocery store means that I can encounter half-a-dozen requests for aid or more in a single morning. But I feel helpless in the face of relentless need. I think to myself, better to give to a good organization rather than trying to pick and choose between individuals. The result is that I have already answered "no" before I am even asked.

I didn't give the woman in the parking lot a chance to speak. I don't know what she wanted to ask me. I just assumed, my heart hardened by the weight of so many requests. If I had allowed her to ask me what she wanted perhaps she would have requested money or indicated a need for food. I still had two dollar bills in my wallet and some change in addition to the bagged up food I planned to take home to have for lunch the next day. If that is what she needed, I could have given that to her. I had a check in my wallet, a bed to sleep in and kitchen to return to - I could live without a few dollars and some leftovers. Maybe she could not.

I have not been immune to the difficulties of the recession many of us have struggled with. But there for the grace of God go I. This I know. I wish that I had stopped and listened to the woman who wanted to ask me a question rather than the voices of fear in my head. I wish I had remembered the the stories I've never forgotten of similar encounters and how women I admire reacted in similar situations guide my actions instead. And I can only hope the next time she asks that she is heard.

How do you handle being approached by strangers? Do you have a standard response or do you respond based on the request? Is there a way we can best help those individuals in need especially given the economic difficulties so many face these days?

The stories I've never forgotten:

Jen Lemen: Everything We Needed: A Story about Vince, Me & the Streets of DC

The guy starts to talk, but I cut him off. “Tell me,” I ask him warmly, feeling like it’s old home week. “What do you need? Tell me what you really need.”...

I don’t know why I do these things, but I think it has to have something to do with wanting to feel the common threads that tie us all together. You can do something nice for someone which is all fine and good, but when you can connect–human being to human being–that goes so much farther than ten bucks at the Sunoco ever will....

What do you need to know today? I hope someone comes your way to help you know it in a powerful way.

Julie at Tangobaby: please please please let's help her

I met this beautiful family on my way home from a photo shoot today. I walked past them, just like the other people on their way home. I admit it. I saw her and sailed on by. I read her sign ($60 for a motel room... you know what kind of motel room $60 will get you in this city).

But I had seen the tears in her eyes, too, and so halfway down the block, I yelled at myself inside my head for being an asshole and went back. I had $30 in my wallet and gave it to her.

I'm not telling you this story so you can think I'm some sort of hero, 'cause I'm not.

Carolyn Tyler at KGO-TV: Homeless woman helped by Good Samaritan

When Julie Michelle got to the end of the block she turned around.

"So you go back and?" asked ABC7's Carolyn Tyler.

"Give her my $30 and tell her I would do more but I just lost my job," said Julie Michelle.

If she had not lost her job, Julie says she never would have been walking around the day she met the young woman.

BlogHer CE Mata H: A foolish thing I do when I am anxious about money

I have developed my own cure for those moments of anxiety which I offer here. I do a stupid thing. Something so stupid that if I had real reason to be anxious, I would be unable to do it-- consequently the doing undoes the anxiety. It is the Zen of financial anxiety for me. (I do not recommend this as a financial strategy - I am not a money doctor - your mileage may vary and all the usual caveats.)...

I gather up all the coinage in my pocket or at the bottom of my purse -- I wait until no one is around, and I throw it away. As I do it I know that if I had real reason to be fearful, I would never do this. So the fear leaves.

Image credit: Wikimedia Commons

What Have You Done Today?

Often, doing > analyzing.

Building something (like a company) is hard and I admire people who are.

We live in amazing times.

I am really 'effin privileged. (h/t Amy Gahran at Contentious)

Prosperity 2010: The Year of Puppies, Unicorns, Rainbows, Wonderment and Light

I am grateful to 2009 and the lessons I've learned but I still have to stifle the urge to tell 2009 to #suckit! Annus horriblus or a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad year - call it what you will but I'm saying good bye to 2009 and hoping declaring 2010 will be annus mirabilis.

Like many, I don't do resolutions. In the past few years I've taken to the practice of choosing a guiding word or theme for the year. Last year my word was fearless. I plastered it on my vision board and focused on living fearlessly (which to me means living in love because I believe in the concept of love and fear being the two basic emotions that are the basis for everything in life). The problem is that in order to live fearlessly you have to have the opportunity to meet fear with love, that is, to love the scary.

And 2009 served up the scary by the metric ton. The good news is that I not only survived but I did a pretty good job of building my fearless muscle. But I am ready to say lesson learned and move on. Move on to easier, happier and less challenging times.

So I'm declaring my 2010 hashtag: #puppyunicornrainbow. Srsly.

O.K., not so seriously. But my carefully chosen word of the year is prosperity. The online Merriam-Webster dictionary defines prosperity as: the condition of being successful or thriving; especially : economic well-being

And while I certainly chose my word, in part, for the love of money aspect of its meaning that is not all. I want to thrive and I want to help myself and others prosper - in joy, in knowledge, in fun, in entertainment, in connections, in laughter and in life. Financial security and abundance can help facilitate all that and more.

I want a more prosperous world in addition to a more prosperous me. I want a world where people flourish and thrive because they have enough wealth to feed themselves and their family, to have clean water to drink, to have access to health care and medicine and education. Certainly there are other necessary conditions but economic empowerment is a huge block in that foundation.

I want more prosperous colleagues. I want to see those around me and those whom I admire from afar to have the confidence to charge what they are worth and get it, to - in the words of Havi Brooks - biggify their thing and for everyone who wants to engage them, be they big corporations or individuals, to have the funds to support healthy commerce and exchanges of goods and services.

I want a prosperous economy that supports governments so that they can do the things they are charged to do like maintaining infrastructure and that which we want them to do like supporting services for battered women and sick, hungry and homeless people.

I want individuals to have meaningful work to do so not only can they earn a living but so that they can have meaning and purpose to their days that many find is sucked from their souls by endless unemployment. No more living in a tiny plastic bunk or pimping out a Chihuahua to pay the rent. It is obscene that in the United States we have millions of people with no income other than a couple of hundred dollars a month in food stamps.

You may have noticed that I mentioned, but did not choose as others often do, abundance. I had among the good and the lessons and the strength and character building experiences of 2009 an abundance of suck. Abundance can bring much that I do not want. I purposefully chose prosperity instead. 2010 is only about the does-not-suck, dammit!

So my darlings, go boldly forth into 2010 to live long and prosper, beautiful people.

Much love,
Maria

Contemplating The Radical: Could I Give Up (Nearly) Everything I Own?

As I prepare to move from my home but not having yet identified my new one, I am seriously contemplating what I will place into storage and what I will let go of rather than pay to house in anticipation of future use and enjoyment. A number of thoughts and factors are guiding my decision making and leading me to possibly a somewhat radical place.

I find myself toying with and returning to the thought of letting it all go. That's right, giving up everything I own save for the stuff I must keep like my computer and other work tools, client files, tax records, important documents, clothing so I don't get arrested for public nudity, etc....

I saw a news piece about things people place into storage units as they lose their homes in the recession. Several of those profiled were paying to store beat up couches, bags of broken and unloved toys, and collections of stuff that had no value to anyone but the individual. A few of the people the reporter talked with admitted that they hadn't thoughtfully considered what they were paying to store or for what purpose. That report has stuck with me as it is easy to spot another person's folly while remaining blind to your own. Ever since I've looked at what I own with a critical eye towards whether or not it is something I should pay to store and maintain especially since I eventually will give it all up one day.

Recently I drove to a house to pick up some moving boxes that were offered on Freecycle. The house they were at was in one of the neighborhoods that had been devastated in the 1991 Oakland firestorm. Many houses had been rebuilt, some were still under construction and, like the mouth of a child awaiting a visit from the tooth fairy, there were gaps where still-empty lots dotted the winding road. The sight got me thinking... what would I mourn if it was lost in a fire? What would make my life difficult if I were to lose it? What would I be able to replace if I had to start over from scratch? I can tell you that virtually everything falls into the third category.

Even my sofa. I love my sofa. It took me nearly my entire adult life to find a sofa I love. I'm apparently like the princess and the pea or Goldilocks and porridge when it comes to sofas. However, I found it. And if I found a sofa I loved once, I could find one again, I'm sure.

Some things though it strikes me that it might make some sense to store. Like my TV. I couldn't sell it for much given how quickly technology upgrades and prices fall. However, it would likely cost me several times over the cost of storage to replace it eventually so on a strict cost-benefit analysis basis, big screen TV gets a passing grade.

Pragmatic ROI considerations aside, there are more spiritual considerations. Like should I even have a big screen TV? Perhaps this is an opportunity to move on to a non-television way of life without the distraction and with the opportunity to focus on writing, reading and other potentially more enriching pursuits. Maybe I can reduce my carbon footprint and tread more lightly on the earth by responsibly recycling or passing things along an not replacing them. A radical de-cluttering might not only be good for the soul but might open up the path for non-stuff kinds of goodness to enter my life.

I suspect though that ultimately this will be a fantasy that should I ever commit to will have to happen down the road. Getting rid of stuff takes time! Time that I don't really have and energy that is flowing towards all the ancillary business of moving. I am certain that I won't stop thinking about this idea, though and if nothing else I believe it is a useful frame through which to evaluate and view everything I hold on to and bring into my life.

Have you ever undertaken a radical de-cluttering. Lost or consciously rid yourself of most of your belongings? If you've put stuff into storage how do you feel about the decision and the value of the price?

Opening Up My Personal Time Capsule

Like BlogHer CE Zandria, I'm preparing to move. Way back in January I vowed I was on a mission. October is here and I am finally actually moving. Part of my mission involved getting around to unpacking boxes I have moved around the country with me for years. And going through my boxes is like an epic episode of This Is Your Life.

In opening up and going through the boxes I'm finding bits and pieces of my past through many life stages. Without intentionally creating a time capsule, glimpses of the random ephemera of my life feels like I did.

I look different but, hairstyles, fashion and fluctuating weight aside, much the same and always like me. Like many women I look at pictures of my younger self and think "I look hot!" and wonder why I couldn't see it and only heard the voices disparaging my body and could not hear those who celebrated my appearance. I'm especially saddened when I remember the gulf between what I saw in the mirror and what I can now see. I wonder how much I'm still looking in a funhouse mirror.

I see that I've always had an urge to journal but have never been able to maintain a commitment to the practice. I can tell that by the number of journals I've found with only a fraction of the early pages written upon. What I hope is that I've managed to find some peace and optimism that I clearly could not in my angst ridden youth. I had forgotten that at age 12 I was the editor for my school's poetry and art journal. However, I had not forgotten that I wrote some really dark poetry in those days. Still I cringed when I read my "published" works. I discovered that by the time I advanced to college level classes my oeuvre of poetry along with the addition of song lyrics graduated from dark musings on the human condition to sharply bitter musings on ex-boyfriends. Perhaps if I had kept at it I could have given Alanis Morissette a run for her bitter ex-girlfriend crown.

Another important self discovery is that there are certain lessons I still need to learn. Ones that I found (and had forgotten) I have tried (and failed) in the past and are now coming up again. Hopefully I am making progress and there will not be a next time of this kind of discovery.

Not all my discoveries are cringe-worthy, though. I am delighting in finding and reading the postcards friends have sent me from their travels from around the country and the globe. Remember postcards? I also am reminded that I am so fortunate to have been surrounded by the love of friends and family like on my 30th birthday when I came across a large stack of cards full of well wishes from that occasion. On the side of bittersweet, I've found letters from friends who died far too young but whom I'm grateful to be reminded of the fortune of having had their too brief presence in my life.

I could easily go back to school (and as I dig I'm reminded of just how many years I've spent on book learning) for nothing but the cost of time. I have the voluminous binders of information from every class I took in business school. I have all my materials from the aforementioned poetry (and, classmates, I'm so very sorry) class. I have assignments and equipment from when I dipped my toe in the waters of interior design. I might have exorcised most of my political science materials. However I am delighted that I managed to hang on to my "Little Red Schoolhouse" binder from my Ph.D. days.

Although I no longer actively collect things, I have found that I could easily build well-illustrated shrines to Bruce Springsteen and Chihuahuas. Don't judge - we all have our skeleton-filled closets that create our unique charm.

My family history is also illuminated through my excavations. I've found notes from and articles about relatives who've passed on. The Kwanzaa cards remind me that we used to celebrate much more and now has tapered off almost completely. I've discovered keepsakes that remind me of the ambition and success of my sister. I've found evidence of how my family has flown around the country to come spend time with me when I've moved far from home. And I've found markers that remind me of the ways in which my parents have been there to support me, each in their own way, when I've gone through big transitions of life.

Most of all I am loving discovering the different versions of me: shy schoolgirl, book-loving nerd, fledgling political activist, emerging feminist, punk rocker, scorned lover, performance artist, junior executive, graduate (and graduate, and graduate, and graduate...), dream and goal achiever, and ordinary human being with troubles, tragedies and triumphs. Hi, Maria, nice to meet you.

Have you ever taken a trip back in time through your life? What did you find? Did anything sadden, surprise or delight you? What would you set aside now for future you to discover and be reminded of?