TIC News: Bloomsbury Seeks Acquistions

Tongue In Cheek News

TIC News reports Bloomsbury Publishing has released proposed covers of books they seek to acquire:

Hardly noticeable in this reporter's opinion but is it right that the image on the cover doesn't reflect the contents?

When questioned about the proposed cover for Geisha a spokesperson replied that since Tom Cruise became the Last Samurai the restrictions of accurate representations have been in flux, and denied that Bloomsbury is guilty of the industry practice called whitewashing. More on this story as it develops.



Links for your review:

New Year's Resolution #7: Stop Buying YA from Bloomsbury at Bookshop's
Celebrating MLK with a Protest
Really Bloomsbury? I'm Done at Reading In Color
Stop Failing Bloomsbury at GAL Novelty

Sex, Love and Jenga

My son is typical male; at least I think he is. He seems to have all the standard insights and blind sights of the gender. He’s on his third real girlfriend (according to him) and this time he feels he is in love. As he said the word, I swear I saw it leave his lips perfectly formed in Jane Austin romantic script. I watched as the words wafted across the table and entered my ear, they rumbled around my head and came out the other side decrypted as “You’re going to be a Granny soon!” If the hallucination wasn’t shocking enough he asked for a few pointers. Pointers? Did he mean pointers as in understanding her or communicating better, or did he mean pointers as the quickest route to making out? Like I said, my son is a typical male and I assumed it meant both.

So we talked and I slipped in as much caution and sex education as his hormone-ridden mind could hold. Where was my husband for this? Sitting in the adjacent family room playing Jenga with my daughter. Not that I mind but I sort of feel like he should be getting the male perspective and not be Oprahsized by his mother. Not that there is anything wrong with house breaking the lion you just have to be careful not to turn him into a permanent cub. Before I could continue trying to lecture the proper amount of testosterone to manageable levels he asked what is love.

What is love? Within Buddha’s teaching is the concept that we should accept love and not define it. These are easy concepts to understand when you look at the love between parent and child, but harder when you look at the connection between desire, affection and the person who is embodiment of these feelings. As his eyes began to glaze over, I said let's just look at romantic love.

Before I continued, I started thinking about painful love, a love that demands a sacrifice of self and often not in a good way. I have been reading lately on Hemmings and Jefferson in particular The Jefferson Hemmings Myth: An American Tragedy by Eyler Robert Coates Sr. and Thomas Jefferson and Sally Hemmings: An American Controversy by Annette Gordon Reed. Both authors take different sides of the debate and rely on far too much anecdotal and outright hearsay to be factual beyond a doubt. That of course doesn’t stop me from having a personal opinion. I believe slave owners brutishly dominated those they owned and come to the conclusion that they did have a relationship, and that he raped her for as long as he owned her. Sorry Buddha, but if love doesn’t have a choice then how can it be love? I’m sure she loved him later on but like I said if it’s not freely given at the start then it grows from something else. I will admit that it is still love but its darker root taints everything. During Japan's empire period, my people enslaved many others particularly Koreans and our history is replete with similar occurrences although none rose to level of Emperor that I know of.

I recently watched a film called "The Death Of Love." It was about a concentration camp survivor who formed an intimate and twisted yet loving relationship with one of the doctors performing experiments. I don’t regret watching the film, but I warm you its not for the faint of heart. If you choose to see it you will certainly have something to think about and discuss around the water cooler. As you can imagine the repercussions of that liaison don’t create ripples but tsunamis later in her life.

After I got over my anger at the over-the-top, ham-fisted sledgehammer ending, I decided it was worth seeing but I would have appreciated a directorial touch that respected the audience's ability to recognize the point without forcing the closing shot down our throats. Is the love like the ones mentioned more Stockholm Syndrome than real? Of course those examples did not offer choice, at least the kind of choice that comes from being free to say no and not be brutalized, killed or both. Maybe love becomes a coping mechanism for some in those cases.

Back to the conversation with my son, what is love? I told him any definition was insufficient but it was about caring and needing someone for obvious and mysterious reasons. Sorry Buddha I have nothing profound on the subject just more questions. Sure I gave him the standard parent speech about respecting her wishes and a few more arguments as to why sex is not love. Not being stupid, he of course said well, they call it making love. At that point I took the emergency flashlight out of the infamous kitchen gadget drawer and shined it in his eyes until he was blinded and his pupils went crazy. In my best "Law and Order" voice I causally offered him a soda or a candy bar in case he was jonesing and then swiftly pushed my nose up against his and in my best bad cop voice I asked, “Have you’ve been thinking about making love"? I hate that term personally. When sex talks are handed out, I use words like intercourse and masturbation while my husband says making love and throws out fuzzy codes for sex acts. Speaking of codes, I’ve heard my son around his friends saying “I’m not hittin it.” I thought he was referring to a game of baseball or something until my husband illuminated me. So I suppose, "Tappin' it" isn't about dancing? What’s wrong with the slang of my generation? These new terms are too aggressive for my taste.

Of course, once I was educated I made an effort to use these terms around my teens. If you haven’t tried it, I suggest you do for the pure evil comedy of it. I always do it after mealtime while we are gathered as a family for an all too brief moment discussing the remains of the day. I’ll look at my kids and say,“I’m gonna be hittin dat” as I point my finger at their father. The owl eyes and disgust on their faces brings tears to my eyes every time while my husband just moans his disapproval. I know where this need to torture my children comes from- it's my parents! Too many times to relate my staid traditional parents would rise up and bid goodnight to me and my siblings thirty-five minutes earlier than usual. My father would command, "Turn on TV, turn on TV or listen to rocken roll." My mother would say,"Cross your fingers you might come out of this with a baby brother." Of course she would say it in Japanese. My father would shoot her a stern look, and we would sit mortified in silence at the thought, and my oldest sister would run for the radio volume knob. I would just sit there feeling queasy. Sometimes the radio didn’t help enough even though we had the volume way up and one ear against the speakers, my mothers vocal styling often pierced our pretense of music appreciation. In the morning my dad would sit red faced in silence and my mother would be humming. Seems Dad knew the lay of the land pretty well, and my mother was an evil, evil woman whom he could not resist.

Some twenty-five years later (last year), I asked my Mom why they did that. My Mom said," Simple your dad is sleep without fail by 10:45 every night of every year since I have known him. So if he is to do his duties, I insisted we go to bed at 9:30. I would have rather waited until you kids were asleep but trying to wake him for his responsibility was impossible." She smiled, looked right into my face and said,"Tonight is an early night for us!" I immediately got the shivers and a flood of nausea washed over me. Like I said an evil, evil woman.

Ah, the tortures of my childhood. Noticing the far away look, my son said," Mom, I hear you. Thanks for the talk and I’m not having sex yet." With my face still an inch away from his I looked deep into his eyes. I couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. Men often lie about sex; they do it so much its like telling the truth. I said,"Good and remember no babies! I’d rather be disappointed and angry that you had sex too young and kick your ass, thanto have to kick your ass 'ause you gave me a grandchild. Ten I leaned in even closer and said,"Seriously, Negro these are two entirely different ass kickins!" I looked over at my daughter in the adjacent family room blissfully playing Jenga with her dad. "Off to your room," I yelled into the air. Both kids looked up startled and cried its only 9:30. Their dad looked up at the clock and said, "You heard your mother." I spoke the word tappin just loud enough for them to hear. They dragged themselves up the stairs mortified and owl-eyed. I could swear my daughter was holding her stomach. All I could think of was that the apple seldom falls far from the tree, and despite our promises to the contrary, in many ways we become our mothers. Yes, I am also an evil, evil woman. Actually all I really wanted to do was have a glass of wine and play Jenga but let them think what they want.
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Camile Ryerson is our regular contributing writer. Her column appears every Wednesday. Read her views on politics, world affairs, pop culture, family and what she's reading. Her favorite genre is sci-fi.

Kryptonite For The Uber Mom

Who knew that when we moved into this community I would at times become Ms Hyde? I try hard to think good thoughts and follow the ideals of Buddah and The Talking Heads ("Remain In The Light") but biology/instinct rears it ugly head and allows the dark side to seduce me. Four years ago the elderly couple next door sold their home and faster than you can say Martha Stewart on speed Uber Mom and her family moved in next door. Yesss, on reflection now I see this is the exact moment when I began begin my search for Kryptonite.

Why is she my Uber Mom? Because she home schools! I wanted to home school but somehow the need to pay off my student loans, buy some crap and forge an independent identity away from my family trumped my nobler goal. Forgive me Buddah for truly knowledge was not my only goal, I wanted to use my college education for making cash. I’m a bad bad mom for unleashing the school system on my children. But I have made sure they have iPods. On second thought that just makes it worse: Buddah, ring up Dante tell 'em I coming express to level 4 or 5.

Truth time, my neighbor has been a great member of the community. Twenty-four days or so out of the month, we are actually quite chummy. It’s only during that special time or shall we say level, that I focus on her refined southern accent and the fact that she went to Tulane. Yah, sure she is as unblemished as porcelain in the moonlight and pale enough to make said moon tan with envy, and when she approaches the fence in the backyard I always imagine her in a white lace hoop dress looking for Rhet Butler. She says things like “Isn’t that darling?” While I say things like “What the frack?” Might as well slather me in grease, knock out my front teeth and put overalls on me cause Imma goin pig callin after I talk to the Missus.

It’s strange how so many things come down to food for me. I have gotten over my lack of trunk and my only self-inflicted weakness in my cooking of soul food. Once Uber mom found out my husband was from southern roots, she started sending pans of cornbread over. She floats to the porch, rings the doorbell daintily with one of those gentile fingers and remarks what a task it is finding traditional southern fare here if you don’t venture into “the inner city.” The inner city? The words hung in the air and rearranged as code for where working class black folks live. I know my neighbor is not prejudiced or racist, but at this time of the month, I imagine her owning many people of color. If I looked like her with that accent and those mannerisms, I would not go into the hood either for fear or hope of a Mandingo moment. I’m Japanese but I sometimes channel black.

I know I have become overwhelmed with my own machinations but why the cornbread always around this time of the month? I smell a conspiracy! Of course what truly bothers me is that I don’t home school. When the yearly scholastic tests come around, I have so far come out on top. This band-aid tempers my guilt quite a bit if I can manage to focus on it. Still, I know one day her children, Ashley and Jefferson Davis will score higher than my kids in reading and math and I will have to deal with it. My husband says I’m being “catty.” I really hate that word. Last Friday she came to the door and as she handed my husband a pan of cornbread she casually touched his shoulder. I don’t know if it were a cramp or her touch that triggered the rage. But as my family gobbled down her warm cornbread at the table I began humming Dixie.

My husband looked up startled and all I could think was Claws in Camile, claws in…
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Camile Ryerson is our regular contributing writer. Her column appears every Wednesday. Read her views on politics, world affairs, pop culture, family and what she's reading. Her favorite genre is sci-fi.

Black Like Me

My children’s identity has always been a concern for me, even before they were born knowing that they would be viewed not only by the content of their character but also by the color of their skin. I worried what’s too black? Believe me I don’t use that phrase lightly and with some shame. Early on I hoped for an American utopia, but now more than a decade in I am more practical.

My children often say that I am blacker than they are. Before I became pregnant I talked with my parents about it. My father in his customary style said, "I want a grandson, do your duty and make it happen!" My mom was closer to understanding, well at least closer to vocalizing one of my fears. She said her fear was that I wouldn’t be able to grasp “blackness” and all that comes with it. After her statement, I kissed her and in a typical Japanese fashion she suggested I study my concern. And so I casually did, for about a month, which is the day, I became pregnant, far too fast for my taste. Sure my husband and I had talked and decided to try, but damn that fertile man if it didn’t happen within a month after I stopped taking the pill. I mean what’s up with that? Luck of the draw or stereotypical black man virility? My mom said the latter and insisted that I stop relations with my husband immediately until the baby was born for fear my husband's brutish Negro super sperm would end up battering her grandchild about the head and shoulders while in my womb.

Nine months was all I had to become an expert in black, so I immersed myself in American black history and the study of black culture. By the time my son was born, I was blacker than my husband, at least information wise. His life experience was something I could not channel and so I was left with the impossible task of trying to empathize and understand what can be only be understood by being. In the birthing room as our son was making his entrance, I decided two things: one, to never have another child and two, to make sure our child was well versed in my side of the family tree as well as his father's. With each contraction, I realized that I had spent so much effort concerned with his blackness that I had made secondary his being Japanese. The first promise I did not keep, but the second I did.

As he and our second child grew, we celebrated every African American holiday and event and also every Japanese. I spoke mostly to them in my native language even while taking them on tours of The DuSable African American Museum. They have grown up being forced to identify as African American by society but I know they understand that they belong to two cultures and ancestries. In our home we fly many flags: American African American, Japanese, Italian and Irish. Sometimes just to stir up the neighbors we fly them all at the same time. Despite my early fears, I have found no conflict in celebrating the desperate parts of my children’s culture. They have experienced some difficulty in acceptance but never in their identity. Labels have always been an issue especially so when their peers have asked, "What are you?" I have my own answer for that question, but I can’t answer that for them. I have learned with much difficulty that they will find their own way.

As for me, I am proud to say that I have been in charge for the last five years of organizing my husband’s family reunion. Each year as the poster of the family tree is displayed, I am proud to see my parents' and grandparents' face in the line that extends from Africa to Japan. It is those moments I truly feel a part of my husband’s culture. Although it did take some getting used to when someone in the family looked at me and said, "Nigga please."

I never know what to say when that happens it’s not a word we use in my immediate family. But on a hot day in Indianola, Mississippi after one of my husband's relatives called me such, my son came up to me and said, "Well, Mom I guess you're black like me."

I honestly don’t know what that means.
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Camile Ryerson is our regular contributing writer. Her column appears every Wednesday. Read her views on politics, world affairs, pop culture, family and what she's reading. Her favorite genre is sci-fi.

Four days, Part 2

As I trumped down the stairs in sweats and a T-shirt my son called me selfish because I haven’t done his laundry in over a year. The barb he threw did not sting as I added up all the time I had gotten to keep for myself by avoiding his boxers and other regalia. The moment my children became teenagers I stopped testing hidden corners for colorfastness and abandoned all aspirations of keeping their whites whiter than bright. Why did I do this? I guess because my Mom kicked doing my laundry to the curb when I turned 13. She said: “I did it from 0 to 13 the rest is up to you. Read the label of your clothes, read the bottle of detergent live long and prosper.” So when my son called me selfish, I offered him the Vulcan hand salutation, at least I think it was that or perhaps it was the LA Crips greeting. Despite his frustration, he kissed me on the cheek and whispered in my ear. “Mom you are such a nerd.”

So I did the greeting right after all, but nerd? Sure I have seen every version and every episode of Star Trek but nerd? Yes, I have been to Comic-Con more than once. Had being a nerd callused my husband's sensitivity? I will under enhanced interrogation admit that I have a sexy red Uhura uniform in my closet but I didn’t think the kids knew that. I shudder to think they have seen my husband and me going where no one has gone before but nerd? The more I thought about it the more I had to face the truth. I remember being courted by my husband and watching his hopes fade with every 7Eleven bouquet gave to me. (It was college; he was broke) Did he really think that would get him closer to the promised land? Then one night after going out for a couple of months he showed up at my door with a signed copy of Ursula K. LeGuin's the Left Hand Of Darkness. Insert medieval montage here: (drawbridge lowering, iron gates swinging open, ten stout men lifting beam of wood from across door) The rest as they say is history.

Later that day I asked my daughter if I was a nerd and she said, “Of course you are, Mom.” It’s not that I mind being thought of that way but I always fancied myself in the know, well at least a tiny bit. On a whim I challenged my daughter to Un-nerd me and take me shopping. So off we went to the mall while the men folk grunted and grilled. She wanted to shop on The Magnificent Mile but rather than Neiman Marcus I was thinking Kohls. Although I relented a little and we did stop for a cosmetic touch up at the make-up counter. Now sufficiently dolled up, my daughter preceded to pour me into too tight clothes that rode too low and pinched my crotch like the Marquis De Sade. “Oh , Mom you look so hot!” All I could see was my mature body stuffed in these hellish garments like a sausage. I turned and turned in the mirror sure that my butt crack was exposed despite my daughters assurance that I was decent and that if I bent over all anyone could see was my whale tale. A few more bangles and we left the mall; my daughter insisted I wear the outfit home to show her father. I relented but thought no way as I slid into the driver seat and thought I would pop a kidney when I sat down, and darn that Marquis he seemed to like me sitting better than standing.

As we walked through the door my son’s jaw dropped my husband looked up from the TV and said… well I can’t repeat what he said. While my daughter bragged and gushed my husband looked pale which is quite a feat for a black man. All I could say was “Do I look like a nerd?” He smiled and said, “No, more like a friend of Hanna Montana.” We both laughed and he yelled out “Kids go over to Uno’s and pick up a veggie pizza for dinner. I asked, "What about the ribs for you guys"? He said we could eat those later. The kids cheered grabbed the car keys and bolted for the door. I headed toward the stairs and my honey said wait! As he followed me he said we could put this outfit next to the Star Trek one. I said maybe and hoped that my whale tail was showing as we walked up the stairs.
_________________________________________________________________________________ Camile Ryerson is our regular contributing writer. Her column appears every Wednesday. Read her views on politics, world affairs, pop culture and of course, what she's reading. Her favorite genre is sci-fi.

Four Days, Part 1

The news came on a faded but colorful chariot. What should have been a normal Friday became a mission of impossible causes. I put this up there with the search for the Holy Grail and Ponce de Leons struggle for the fountain of the youth. Just what does a sista got to do to get a little lovin'? As I walked in the door my husband sat barn owl still in the kitchen chair and yes his eyes were somewhat dilated. He stared urgently at me and said the kids are gone for the evening. A wee chill ran up my tired legs. It had been a tough day at work, and all I wanted to do was lie on the couch and sink into a black hole of sci-fi thinking gals classics. But there was that look in his eyes and suddenly I felt that wee tingle that’s more than a chill.

Oh how I wished I had worn a higher heel. The sensible and comfortable ones I had chosen this morning didn’t exaggerate the calf. The suit though was lady boss sexy and the broken air conditioning in my car had caused me to undo my blouse a few buttons too many on the drive home. Good thing there was a meeting with senior staff today normally I go in nerd casual. I just hope the cleavage overshadowed the heels, and I hope the kitchen light was kind to my tired makeup. As I stood in the doorway, I tried to whip my hair around so that it draped sexily off my shoulder. Instead I bumped my head on the door frame, and the look I acquired was closer to the demon ghosts of Asian horror.

My husband eyes widened, I hope with concern but more likely fear and he said, “Are you alright?” I nodded yes and as I looked at him through my hair the aforementioned chill I felt went south quite quickly as I stumbled away. He said to my back, “Ribs were on sale at the market and I bought a few slabs. I’ll take care of them, no need to do that Asian rib thang you do.” With each step, rage began to replace the chill within me. First, he doesn’t notice I’m trying to be sexy! Two he said thang! When my black husband tries to sound urban/ethnic black it’s not a pretty sight. He meticulously pronounces every bit of slang so that it sounds like Oxford English. Instead of sounding natural, it's more like “Would you like some crumpets and cucumber sandwiches with that 40oz?" Yes the chill was certainly gone now and to make matters worse I felt a bump growing on my head. Tired and more frustrated than when I first arrived home, I planned to tell the children their father hit me in a rage. Then I thought perhaps I’ll keep gel in my hair for that wet look and walk around the house in a white crumpled nightie and heavy black eyeliner. Like my sister Asian ghosts, I thought somebody has got to pay for this sh*t and I don’t care whom!

All weekend it rained hard and grilling was really not practical. Strike a victory for the demon ghosts! Sunday night the rib King gingerly laid a hand on my thigh; I thought about the faded bruise on my forehead and snapped my legs shut. The Queen would have no visitors tonight, Sir Thang!

I took a personal that Monday for some me time and figured I’d soak in the tub and ignore the pleas of my cell phone. Unexpectedly the wind chime ring turned into the theme from Shaft. My honey called and said he was coming home early. In a completely insane reaction I thought he was making up for missing my awkward signals and intended to share a little of that bad Mutha Shut Yo Mouth with me. I just hoped he wouldn’t say, "Gimme that thang"! While I sat in the tub debating the merits to trim or not to trim, he popped his head in the bathroom clever boy calling from the stoop! Upon seeing me in the Gillette birthing position, he loosened the tie around his neck, I gasped expectantly then he said, “Did you buy hickory chips?” I groaned disappointingly and will metaphorically confess while he was thinking wood I was thinking sushi. I screamed out and threw the razor at him. Nothing says the bloom is off the rose more than seeing your mate in an exposed position and then talking about wood and really meaning wood. Apparently ribs are to be on the menu and I am not!
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Camile Ryerson is our regular contributing writer. Her column appears every Wednesday. Read her views on politics, world affairs, pop culture and of course, what she's reading. Her favorite genre is sci-fi.

Everyday People

I make it a point to visit my ancestral home once a year, it’s a big expense and it takes me the entire year to save for it. I’m lucky that I can stay with family when I visit. Half the time I don’t take the family with me; airfare to Japan is robbery and that’s when you get a good deal. While I miss them terribly, one of the best things about going home is losing myself in a crowd. Floating on a sea of faces that look like mine is beyond ebullient, I feel slightly warm. That feeling continues when I turn on the TV and see a version of myself. I go to the movies and see another version of myself. I read the newspaper and magazines, gee they look just like me.

After a few days I don’t notice it anymore and the slightly warm feeling forms a group consciousness/identity with my countrymen. Now when I’m out and about I don’t I notice Asians, just every white, black or brown face in the crowd and I don’t think anything of it, I just notice that they are different. The familiar is important on a conscious and subconscious level. When we leave our collective, we notice that we are being noticed, this can be a little chilling, not in a racist or demeaning way just in a way. The separation we feel is normal and instinctual in my opinion and cannot be evolved away with modern sensibilities.

In America, my collective is different because I am in a multicultural family. Back home, I never feel truly accepted in my Japanese community. There has never been an incident but you can just feel when you are being noticed. The exception is my immediate family although this was not always the case. It’s funny how grandchildren can make tolerance turn into acceptance and acceptance into love. (I mean parents for my husband). When I first got married my mother threatened to harm herself. Oh why couldn’t I be like my sisters who married good Japanese men. She threatened to drug me, pack me in a crate and return me to Nippon. After I popped out two beautiful grandchildren and my siblings did not deliver the goods she now tells them its not too late to find “good Negro man as they are more potent!” My mother's misconceptions aside, she now shows off my husband to her friends at every opportunity. At family dinners my husband sits between my mother and father (this is the most honored seat at the table in my family). I sit next to my father, the children sit beside my mother, and my siblings find a seat where they can.

I’m always beyond anxious to get home from a trip and revel in the faces of my family, to joyfully toil in my garden and walk to the ice cream shop after dinner. The first few days back as we walk down the street people notice us. I know that most of them are like me when I am in Japan and not thinking about anything at all just noticing that we are different still you feel that chill. I nudge my cheek into my husband and on cue he puts his arms around me. I look into his brown face as we tow our tan children by their hands. They squirm a bit but eventually relent and I feel very warm.



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Camile Ryerson is our new contributing writer. Her weekly column appears on Wednesday. Find her views on politics, world affairs, pop culture and of course, what she's reading. Her favorite genre is sci-fi.

In The Glow Of The Golden Goddess

I’m a fit woman, not what you would call a gym bunny though. You guys know who they are? Gym bunnies are those coiffed, perfumed and tanned specimens of womanhood who go to the gym. Their eye makeup coordinates with their tops, which are coordinated with their shoelaces. They have done me no harm nor called me any names, yet I know my enemy when I see her.

I am the other side of that coin, often wearing one of my husband's old t-shirts and an assortment of faded sweat shorts that neither hug nor amplify my assets. To me the exercise room is the last bastion of “I can look like crap and be proud of it” area for a woman, a no makeup, no designer, no bullshit zone. When my gym would fill up with gym bunnies, I would cancel my membership and move on to a find a jock friendly gym. In the last few years, I have found it more comfortable to exercise in smaller places that typically cater to men. The patrons often assume I’m gay (that’s a whole other essay waiting to be written), they let me be and best of all, no gym bunnies.

Take it from me; being one of the few people with a Y chromosome has it advantages. I figure should a civilization-damaging event happen, being in a place full of physically fit men ain’t the worse place on the planet. One of my favorite fantasies as a teen: As buildings collapse around me the ground rumbles as shirtless, sweat dappled men grapple mano-a-mano for the right to posses Queen Siamese (my name in the fantasy). I would consent to offer my favors to the winner who always seemed to be Chow Yun Fat. Ah, my sweet Chow Yun, even twenty years later, I hope you find me in the apocalyptic aftermath indeed me love you long time.

Forgive the digression, so here I am grunting and sweating like one of the fellas when the normal symphony of clinking and clanking comes to a halt. It’s so quiet I can hear the sweat running down my cheek, so quiet that I notice my exercise bra band chaffing against me and ponder whether NASA should be wasting their time pursing the next manned space flight mission or focus their considerable resources into building the universes first truly comfortable bra.

I shake my head to clear the thought to find someone is blocking my light, as I push the barbell up into its cradle I look up and up (I’m still on the legs) I look up more, now at the crotch up past a bare midriff, up until a huge pair of boobs eclipse my vision. The boobs speak, I have to assume it has a head but I can’t see it, and I have never heard of a talking pair of breast. So I take it on faith there is a head while I watch the boobs sway this way and that. I want to get up but the boobs are asking Do you need a spot? I say sure and half expect them to reach down and grab the barbell themselves. Instead arms delicately muscled appear and grab the bar and I come face to face with Barbie on steroids. Let me clarify that she really doesn’t look like she’s on steroids, she just looks too perfect to be real and she really doesn’t look like Barbie, she looks like Barbie’s better looking sister. I immediately know in the apocalyptic battle of my fantasy I am going to have to put this sister down or Chow Yun Fat will be having blond babies.

I finish my set and offer to spot her she smiles asks me to add twenty pounds to my bar and lays down on the bench. As the phrase “Oh no she didn’t” goes through my head and prophecy is fulfilled and the four horsemen thunder around the room whispering her trespasses:

1. She added weight to your bar.
2. Her boobs defy gravity.
3. Her top is purple.
4. Look! Her shoelaces are purple too.

My blood begins to boil and I wonder if I should screw the lock nut on the weight bar all the way down or let a five pounder put a stop to this. I hate being a stereotypical catty woman but it’s a cross we all sometimes have to bear. I look around and notice that all the men have turned Asian. I say this because their lids narrow as they try to steal looks out of the corners of their eyes at my new workout partner. The smarter ones jockey amongst the stations to find the best-reflected view in the mirrors. In the apocalyptic future these would be the smarter ones and I make a mental note of their faces.

I fight centuries of instinct and evolve enough to lock the weight and spot my new friend as she does her reps. The moment we finish the men take turns accidentally passing by to casually introduce themselves. In the two years I have been here they patted me on the back and called me “Pal” and “Bud” and that’s the way I like it. Now one day with the Golden Goddess and I know their names. I don’t really blame the Goddess. It’s not her fault she was born with the body of a porn star and the face of Meg Ryan. Yes, her face is beautifully accessible rather than model pretty or sultry. Yes, I want to kill her but heck she’s a nice person and I’m not changing gyms. I have matured and I realize I’m not in competition with her or anyone else. She is new to the Chicago area and wants to be friends “oh swell” she even has two kids “oh joy.” I consented to work out with her next week but my sensible behavior only goes so far. I will not bring her home to meet my husband for fear he will ask me to put on a blond wig, she will not meet my teenage son who does not need another reason to go through more Kleenex. I have decided to let Chow Yun fend for himself.

Oh don’t judge me! This is the week I “say hello to my little friend.” To have the Golden Goddess show up at this time is cruel and my evolved feminist sensibilities can only compensate for so much.
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Camile Ryerson is our regular contributing writer. Her column appears every Wednesday. Read her views on politics, world affairs, pop culture and of course, what she's reading. Her favorite genre is sci-fi.

If I Had A Rocket Launcher

Its time to question the order the universe, In the ever present seesaw of yin and yang it seems yang has left the building and taken her marbles with her. I’m mad just hopping mad; hide the Ginsu knives, if I had the means, I’d do some serious sushi on President Robert Mugabe. I know there are plenty of countries in crisis, but is there really a country more at the ass end of fate and fairness than Zimbabwe?

The prime minister of Zimbabwe Morgan Tsvangirai was making the rounds a few weeks ago seeking aid and financial support for his beleaguered country. The problem was no one he wanted to help brought their pens to sign any checks. The specter of Mugabe hung over the entire affair and reduced the Prime Minster and former opposition leader to pleading. My heart broke for him, but how can the world respond when Mugabe had single-handedly turned the country into nightmare of biblical proportions.


Since his reign life expectancy has gone from 60 to 37 for males and 70 to 34 for females. Torture, political suppression and imprisonment have become status quo. Due to fiscal mismanagement the country’s inflation rate is hovering at 150,000%. Once the breadbasket of the region they now feed the majority of their population with UN and NGO supplies. Some things are going up though:

• HIV is rampant
• Cholera is rampant
• Starvation is rampant
• Orphans are the fastest growing segment of the population
• Unemployment is at 90%

In one of Morgan Tsvangirai]s speeches he said things are getting better. After all he is now Prime Minster. Of course that is only the consolation prize; he should be President at least that's what the people of Zimbabwe wanted but good old Mugabe stole the election. Then the government tried to run Tsvangirai out of the country. Then Tsvangirai and his wife mysteriously were involved in car accident. Seems a truck drove into them head on. Tsvangirai was injured and his wife killed. After continuing protests and unrest Mugabe agreed to a power sharing arrangement and Morgan Tsvangrai accepted.

Things are getting better? The BBC reported that the situation in the city and rural areas is out of hand. Girls as young as 12-years-old are selling themselves for food. One child of fourteen said:

"I don't want to do that but life is so difficult, so very difficult. Both my parents are dead and I rarely see my two sisters. Recently I stood by the river and I thought about throwing myself in but I didn't. I don't know why."

There is also evidence that many girls are being targeted by child traffickers. South Africa is holding the World Cup in 2010 and young girls are being solicited to work as prostitutes during next year's football World Cup finals. Many have simply disappeared from their villages. In school one day and gone the next.

Save The Children is trying to address the issue within both countries. But I don’t have much hope. Prostitution is already rampant in South Africa. It has been estimated that between 28,000 to 30,000 of South Africa’s prostitutes are under the age of 18. Also, about half the child prostitutes are between 10 and 14 years of age and the other half between 15 and 18. Read more at Doctors For Life.

The tidal wave of children from Zimbabwe is making the situation beyond desperate and the need of sex workers for the upcoming world cup has prompted some the traffickers to begin using young boys between the ages of 8 to 10 dressed as girls. Some villagers in Zimbabwe have said that regional officials have been going through the villages identifying the orphans and it is those children that seem to disappear.

To me, it doesn’t matter who is orchestrating this. I’m sure there is some involvement between the local people and the sex traffickers. I can barely bring my lips to form the name Mugabe and without fail the thought causes me to abandon my Buddhist principles and start humming the Bruce Cockburn tune if “I had a rocket launcher.” Good luck Mr Tsvangirai. Let's hope you and your supporters can change the country around. If you want more than minimal handouts and food aid you have got to get rid of that ass. I’ll continue to donate to the food relief effort but perhaps I can interest you in the slightly used rocket launcher?
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Camile Ryerson is our new contributing writer. She'll post a weekly column on Wednesdays sharing her views on politics, world affairs, pop culture and of course, what she's reading. Her favorite genre is sci-fi.amile Ryerson is our new contributing writer. She'll post a weekly column on Wednesdays sharing her views on politics, world affairs, pop culture and of course, what she's reading. Her favorite genre is sci-fi.

The Colonel Can Kiss My Flat Asian A^^*!

My mother-in-law's birthday is coming. While my husband is looking forward to it, I’m contemplating calling in a priest for an exorcism. Before I go too far into lala land I should inform you that my husband is African American. "So what you say?" Well, I’ll tell you so what. And with all due respect to the Jewish and Italian mother- in-laws, there is nothing more frightening than an African American mother-in-law. When my inscrutable Japanese ancestry comes up against her “I’m from the South" sistagirl sensibilities it's like WWF on Friday night. Take off the earrings and pass the Vaseline cause it's on!

Of course you wouldn’t notice it by the conversation; it's in the looks and mannerisms where the throw down really takes place, and there is no more an epic battlefield disguised as the dinner table. This battle royale has been going on for fifteen years, and for seven I will admit, I got my ass kicked. On the eighth, I decided I was going to put a beat down on her or commit seppuku.

For seven years, I sat through my husband rolling his eyes and feigning a heart attack due to the culinary ecstasy of every bite of her homemade fried chicken, cornbread and greens, potato salad, macaroni and cheese, ham with the denouement being the sweet potato pie for desert. Yes, you read that menu correctly; I always wondered why his heart didn’t stop and my in-laws didn't pass out with the need of resuscitation after a holiday meal. The coup de grâce was of course, her fried chicken. For seven years, the East bowed to the West or should I say the South? I made it a point to visit her every few weeks and learn at the foot of the master how to make soul food for my man. No, I couldn’t use olive oil it had to be shortening! No, I couldn’t omit the neck bones with tofu and liquid smoke. Yadayadayada.

This went on for seven years, then I grew a pair. When she brought out chittlins, I brought out octopus. When she talked mountain oysters, I talked sushi or at the very least real oysters. The great showdown took place over chicken. My husband has raved over her fried chicken since for frakin ever. Early in our marriage when I said I was going to make fried chicken he would say, "Don’t bother I’ll stop and pick up some Colonel." When we would visit my mother-in-law she would send us home with fried chicken. For Christmas, they got gifts; I got her chicken recipe. Chicken became for me the last battleground. Even my children would say, "Let’s go by Grams and get some chicken."

It took eight years but I was finally able to hold my head high On Wednesday April 11 at 6:30pm in the year of our lord 2004 or as we say Heisei 16 I created fried chicken that was equal but not better than his mother's. Now years later on her birthday I bring my Japanese never- been- below- the-Mason Dixon- line fried chicken to her birthday feast. To her credit she eats it and mutters so low that only I can hear,"This is really good," and then she bashes me over the head with greens and sweet potato pie. But I don’t mind. It’s not that I think my fried chicken is better but at least I can say the Colonel can kiss my flat Asian ass.
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Camile Ryerson is our regular contributing writer. Her column appears every Wednesday. Read her views on politics, world affairs, pop culture and of course, what she's reading. Her favorite genre is sci-fi.

Putting Away My Blinders

Today I took off the blinders and let the world in. I can’t afford to do it everyday or else I’d start building a bomb shelter and hording can goods. Don’t laugh I have unconsciously done it before. The last time I went in survival mode it took my spouse mentioning how the cans of Vienna sausages, bean sprouts and bottled water seem to be breeding in the pantry. When I took off the blinders this week I was vulnerable to the HIV/AIDS crisis. With the advent of some successful treatments HIV/AIDS too often gets pushed off the front burner of our consciousness. But steadily and quietly its growth continues here in America and runs at epidemic speeds in many parts of the third and second world.


A few weeks ago in Canada a jury found a man guilty of first-degree murder for the deaths of two of his former sexual partners stating that he killed them with the virus just as if it were a slow acting poison. In total this one man has infected nine women with the HIV virus. You can read more about the verdict and the case at Canada.Com.

This prompted a discussion with my children and caused me to give my husband the evil eye when his arm wandered to my side of the bed later that evening. Is it time to consider the use of a condom mandatory in a committed relationship? My husband is a great guy but his half of our species deserves the evil eye because it seems married women and those in committed monogamous relationships are one of the larger growth segments for the HIV virus. Man’s inability to keep junior on a leash carries deadly consequences for our side of the species. I trust my husband but I bet all the women who haven gotten HIV or AIDS from their spouses said the same thing. Soon my husband may be wondering why his reading glasses are buried under packets of condoms in the nightstand drawer. And what the hell are they doing next to the Vienna sausages in the panty; our sex life may go into survival mode.

From The World Health Organization
Africa: Aids prevalence highest in married couples
Latin America: Aids prevalence highest in married couples
Russia: Two thirds of all new cases married women
Europe’s: HIV Infection rate has doubled since 2000 with the largest growth segment being married women and women in long-term relationships.


On NPR an AIDS activist responded to the Canadian Case and voiced a fear that it would cause the virus to become criminalized. I don’t really share that fear, and I don’t think we need special laws for people who willfully spread the disease. I do think we need to treat anyone who purposely infects someone as harshly as the law allows. I agree with the Canadian prosecutions claim. Here in America there are encouraging and troubling trends. Women are the fastest growing segment by percentage. While African Americans comprise 13% of the population they account for 45% of all new infections. Again with women being a fast growth segment.

From the CDC for the year 2004 (the most recent year for which data are available) AIDS is:

· the leading cause of death for black women (including African American women) aged 25–34 years.
· the 3rd leading cause of death for black women aged 35–44 years.
· the 4th leading cause of death for black women aged 45–54 years.
· the 4th leading cause of death for Hispanic women aged 35–44 years.
· In the same year, HIV infection was the 5th leading cause of death among all women aged 35–44 years and the 6th leading cause of death among all women aged 25–34 years. The only diseases causing more deaths of women were cancer and heart disease.

Incidents of HIV infection in white couples is up 52% over the last decade with women accounting for the fastest growing segment.

Doesn’t seem like HIV/AIDS is under control anywhere to me. I know I sound like Chicken Little because the overall infection rate is down in the U.S. I’m really glad that people in the sex trade are forcing their clients to wear condoms more, and the poor souls whose addiction and needle use put them at risk are learning to take advantage of the many but still not enough free needles programs across the country. What keeps me glum is the incident of homosexual transmission is starting to creep up and these damn can’t control my crotch now I think I’ll go home and infect my partner people.

How do you feel about the issue? Would you or do you practice safe sex in your marriage or committed relationship? Have you talked to your children? When I spoke to my kids about this they acquired the caged animal look they so often wear when I’m speaking about health/sex related issues. I can see the thought bubble over their heads, Moms been reading and listening to the news again!

Still, I know they listen and that’s what’s important. I long for the old talks though when they weren’t tweens and teens. After the discussion with my husband he acquired a pained look and said condoms? After a couple of days of professing his love and fidelity and some intense negotiations I relented but I did buy a gun safe for the bedroom and apply for a gun permit. Shocked my husband asked me why, and I told him “If I get any virus from you short of a cold/flu bug I promise you will die before I do”

Time to put my blinders back on at least for a couple hours, more than long enough to drag my family to see 24 city (Er shi si cheng ji)

For more information on HIV and AIDS
The Body is a great site with links to the WHO, CDC, data on HIV/AIDS in Europe, Asia etc.
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Camile Ryerson is our new contributing writer. She'll post a weekly column on Wednesdays sharing her views on politics, world affairs, pop culture and of course, what she's reading. Her favorite genre is sci-fi.

With Great Power

I was in the kitchen making gyoza when I heard the footsteps of my daughter clacking across the wood floor the sound worked in concert with the lilt of her voice, speaking what my mother would call sushi English. That phrase would still fit but I would describe her truncated sentences punctuated with slang as text talk spoken. I eavesdropped for a moment absorbing fragments that caused me to wonder why my husband and I have driven the same cars for a decade so that we could send Ms. Shakespeare to a private school. The thought of cars not leased, clothes not purchased and trips not taken put a forlorn look on my face.

My daughter noticed my grimace of sacrifice and abandoned the BFF smile she was wearing, tilted her head, and kissed me on the cheek. Her affection caused my what if face to morph into a grateful glow and all thoughts of shiny new hybrid Hondas melted away. As she turned I watched the sway of her hips and I guess because I was still thinking of cars I wondered when exactly my child got junk in her trunk? I don’t have junk in my trunk; I wouldn’t mind a little junk in my trunk but in my case that would require surgery. I chalked it up Darwin and the benefits of a multi-racial heritage. I also noticed her bust rise and fall as she talked staccato to who I hoped was one of her fave fives, I kept looking at my little girl even as my rose colored spectacles shattered into lasik lasers that performed corrective surgery on my reality. After a few blinks I was pulled into a memory.

I was fourteen as I walked into the kitchen my mother looked up smiled sweetly and then morphed into a look of Buddha-like concentration. I knew I was in for it when she spoke to me in Japanese; she only did that when the conversation was intimate or she was angry. “Camile” she said, what size bras did we buy last week? I said: “C’ my mother looked down at he own chest and said: “I’m a B I think you too many Big Macs!” She put down her knife and said we need to talk” My heart began pumping and I wondered what precious bit of privacy she was going to violate. At fourteen my privacy was a world full of deeds and things that I thought were of utmost important and certainly never to be shared. I stood smiling sweetly as she talked. She was concerned that I had become a woman without her truly noticing and she wanted to inform me of some things that were very important as I blossomed.

Blossomed was her word and any written description of the translation fails to convey the delicate and nuanced way she spoke to me. My mother’s gift with our native language made even the mundane or practical become haiku. In juxtaposition her English operated more like daggers.

Despite her delicate tact sweat began to break out on the back of my neck; we had already had the monthly visitor talk, and the I ‘m not raising any grandchildren talk. So I began to tremble thinking she had found the Sears & Roebuck hand mixer under my mattress and deduced that the device could be used without the beaters for recipes of a more personal nature. (Someone please tell me I am not the only one!)

Instead she launched into a discussion about maturity, the size of my breasts and my vagina. I’m going to repeat that last word again my VAGINA! Her delicate lilt cast aside she switched to English and went at her point with a frankness that would make Eve Ensler catch her breath. I won’t go into detail but I will say that basically she gave me what I now call the Spiderman speech. For those that don’t know or remember that’s the speech when Peter Parker (Spiderman) gets sage advice from his grandfather, and old grandpa says “With great power comes great responsibility.” That’s pretty much what my mother said while pointing at my breasts and vagina. By the end of her talk the color had drained from my face and I staggered out of the room horrified. She told me that my power was not really in my body parts that only the boys perceived it was and also that this power should be stored until a more appropriate time. After all there was no need to toss it around frivolously. She stressed the not tossing it around part and I wondered sheepishly if the mixer counted. Between her frankness and the metaphors I had heard enough. I promised to protect my blossom and use my blossoming femininity wisely and I reminded her I didn’t eat meat so what was with the Big Macs?

Watching my daughter leave the kitchen I realized it was time for me to have my version of that talk with her. Do I go Buddhist (my side of the family) or Christian (my husband’s) perhaps the modern twenty-first century full steam ahead approach? Upon reflection I didn’t know what direction I would take but I held a queasy confidence that it will be just right and reflect my closeness and relationship with my daughter. Of course can anyone parent get that close to a teenager? I am ashamed to say that in contemplation of the event a mischievous smile played across my lips, and the thought of the goods not consumed came back into my mind. I won’t go old school, I’ll go blunt and throw slang around like daggers. I’m looking forward to the pale look on my daughters face and the “Oh gross” remarks she will mutter. As I unsheathe my “Don’t even think about getting bizzy wit sumbody”! I will think of my own horror so many years ago and plunge the “I can’t believe she said that” dagger into my daughter simply because it’s payback time!

Knowing my daughter, she may well deprive me of the generational happy dance and think our conversation was cool and thank me for treating her as a responsible person. But I hope not, I hope to find our Kitchen Aid mixer or some equivalent in her room and quietly leave it undisturbed under the mattress as I complain about not being able to make a cake just as my mother did, and I hope my haiku conveys the responsibility of womanhood and burgeoning sexuality within a context she can embrace. If that fails I can always quote Spiderman’s Grandpa “With great power come great responsibility,” oh and I can’t forget the part about “I ain’t rais’n no babies either…”
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Camile Ryerson is our new contributing writer. She'll post a weekly column on Wednesdays sharing her views on politics, world affairs, pop culture and of course, what she's reading. Her favorite genre is sci-fi.

The Hajib, The President and Me

Days after the President’s speech in Egypt, a myriad of things are peeking in and out of my consciousness. Today’s thoughts were full of women wearing jilbabs and hajibs. I live in an area of Chicago where seeing a women wear one is not unusual. I thought I didn’t notice it but today this portion of the President’s speech stuck with me:

"Likewise, it is important for Western countries to avoid impeding Muslim citizens from practicing religion as they see fit - for instance, by dictating what clothes a Muslim woman should wear. We cannot disguise hostility towards any religion behind the pretense of liberalism."

Could my own liberalism be a mask for hostility? I would never think of imposing any of my beliefs or opinions on anyone. Still I felt that maybe some part of my liberalism masked something. Today I found part of that mask and in it I felt sympathy, some part of me reaches for the ridiculous notion that the woman inside one of these garments is somehow trapped. Now this isn’t a thought that rushes to the surface but rather stays below poking holes in my conscious mind causing me to mutter things like That’s got to be hot! and Thank goodness that Puritan phase didn’t last forever here. When I see an Amish or Quaker women covered head to toe I don’t react quite the same. But I do know that I have never received a Freudian inkling they were being forced to wear that getup.

So there it is my crime, my mask, my intolerance. I have no idea where it comes from but it’s there. My rational mind cannot seem to purge the idea that a Jilbab and hijab are restraints rather than displays of modesty. This may seem trivial and play completely into an intolerant stereotype but I tell you I am not intolerant, yet some part of my subconscious saw a bearded man strapping a hijab on that woman before she left the house in the same way you strap horses to a cart. That’s my confession and I’m putting it out there. I’m going to blame the President for bringing my folly to the surface and I have made an appointment with a sensitivity counselor.

Presidents speech link
Information about Jilbabs Hajibs

We recommend the following books related to Islamic culture
Does My Head Look Big In This? by Randa Abdel-Fattah (YA)
Infidel by Ayaan Hirisi-Ali
Sadika's Way by Hina Haq
Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi (graphic novel)
Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini
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Camile Ryerson is our new contributing writer. She'll post a weekly column on Wednesdays sharing her views on politics, world affairs, pop culture and of course, what she's reading. Her favorite genre is sci-fi.