My doctoral
advisor asked why I was headed to Hawai’i “Do I need to worry?” she said.
Though I’ve verbally accepted the doctoral position in Alabama this Fall, she
knew I had also seriously considered a program in Hawai’i. “Nah, I said. I’m
just having a midlife crisis. Do you want me to look for Gracilaria
while I’m there?” She laughed, one of those “I know of what you speak” kinds of
laughs. Yes, of course, she’d love some samples. That afternoon I also got an
email from a lab mate wanting to know if I could get him some Diadumene
while I was at it. Chuckling to myself, I replied that I would see what I could do, then had to ask
if he knew whether or not one could send invasive anemones preserved in vodka
through the mail. One can.
It rained
nearly non-stop the first few days on the island. I went hiking anyway. A biologist friend of mine suggested a trail and cove I’d probably like, I
decided it was just the thing for another rainy morning. The trail, all
railroad ties and iron, looks like a railway line straight into the clouds.
It’s a tough climb, something like 1100 feet of elevation gain in less than a
mile. Going up was hard, coming down was even harder. The spacing of the ties
isn’t meant for short-legged folk, and the rain made it even more dicey. About
half-way down I slipped and landed not-so-gracefully in the middle of a deep,
squashy puddle. I laughed out loud. A hiker coming the other direction politely
choked down a guffaw and offered a hand. As best laid plans of
mice and men oft go awry, we struggled a bit. Truly, we were absurd:
slip-sliding, gripping hands, and laughing as we tried not to send each other
down the mountain. Eventually, we both stood upright, both covered in mud, and
waived our laughing farewells. I ran the mile or two from the base of the trail to the cove in a heavy tropical rain. By the time I reached the ocean, I had been rain-washed clean. I took off my mud-caked shoes, dropped them onto wet sand and dove straight into the
rain-speckled bay, brightly-colored fish dodging out of the way.
The following
day I sat with a friend I hadn’t seen for seven or eight years. We had just
been snorkeling in her Pacific Ocean back yard (literally) and were now sitting in
mismatched lawn furniture, soaking in the sunshine and chatting. My friend held
her mostly-naked baby in her lap, a little elf-chinned-wide-eyed dearling, while her
oldest, a confident, chatty four-year-old, made cookies from beach sand for us to
enjoy alongside our papayas and oranges. As we talked, her husband, a surfer
and adventurer, piped in with commentary. We small talked; we big talked
(without talking big). We caught each other up on the essentials of the last
several years, the first five flying by in a sentence or two, the last
two requiring an afternoon. My friend laughed easily, both at herself and at
life. Somewhere in the conversation she said, “You seem so happy!” I laughed,
“Well, considering the last time you saw me…” We’d met and worked together
under unusually stressful circumstances for us both, and though we got on well
together, it’s no stretch to admit that neither of us had known the other at
her best. “No,” she objected, “just in general! You just seem… you radiate.
You’re a breath of fresh air.” Gotta admit, that one got me in the feels.
I’ve been
thinking about Maya Angelou’s poem, And Still I Rise:
You may write
me down in history
With your
bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod
me in the very dirt
But still,
like dust, I'll rise.
Does my
sassiness upset you?
Why are you
beset with gloom?
’Cause I walk
like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my
living room.
Just like
moons and like suns,
With the
certainty of tides,
Just like
hopes springing high,
Still I'll
rise.
Did you want
to see me broken?
Bowed head
and lowered eyes?
Shoulders
falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by
my soulful cries?
Does my
haughtiness offend you?
Don't you
take it awful hard
’Cause I
laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin’ in my
own backyard.
You may shoot
me with your words,
You may cut
me with your eyes,
You may kill
me with your hatefulness,
But still,
like air, I’ll rise.
Does my
sexiness upset you?
Does it come
as a surprise
That I dance
like I've got diamonds
At the
meeting of my thighs?
Out of the
huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a
past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black
ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling
I bear in the tide.
Leaving
behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a
daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the
gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the
dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
Now, let’s be
real. I’m white. I have no idea what it’s like to be a black woman oppressed. I
know nothing of a life of slavery or segregation. I know nothing of the
continued indignity, racism, and disadvantage that black women and men all over
my own country suffer still. I know nothing of that fight. So I
cannot speak to that. But, like Ms. Angelou, I do know what it’s like to
grow up in poverty. I do know what it’s like to be raped and beaten. I do
know what it’s like to be shamed into near-oblivion. I know.
And I know what
it’s like to rise.
I know what
it’s like to choose to dream anyway. I know the kind of work it takes to make
those dreams reality. I know what it’s like to laugh anyway. A real
laugh. None of that tinkling, coquettish bullshit. We’re talking self-owning,
self-loving, fear-leaving laughter. Like I’ve got gold mines in my backyard laughter.
I know what it’s like to discover my own sassiness and sexiness, what it’s like
to dance like I’ve got diamonds at the meeting of my thighs. I know what it is
to feel an internal ocean leaping and beating hard against my ribs, and I know
the courage it takes to let that ocean take me home. I know what it’s like to
leave behind nights of terror and fear, a past rooted in pain. I know what it
is to embrace both the gifts that my ancestors have given me, and those that my
friends and family give me now.
I know.
And because I know, I rise.
Determined
and resourceful. I rise.
Graceless and
graceful. I rise.
Laughing and free. I rise.
