Loop factor reverse racism?

I had an experience last weekend that has me puzzled. A situation in which I was fluctuating between feeling guilty, nervous, bold, weak, wrong and right simultaneously. And I'm not entirely sure what should have happened differently. Just that there was this strange feedback loop resulting from a kind of friction between someone trying hard NOT to make assumptions while simultaneously making assumptions.

It was a snowy evening in Brooklyn at 10pm and I was coming out of the subway in Ditmas park in Brooklyn. The station stop felt more like a train station in that there was a little bit of a sitting area and information booth right near the exit, but it was still a coming-going spot and no one was really waiting. I had a broken rolling suitcase, a purse with my Canon strap hanging out accidentally, and I was a bit of a mess. I was limping due to an injury. I realized my camera was visible and immediately covered it up, but not before noticing a man noticing me. He was holding a little bag of cheetos and walked promptly behind me as if following me. In a flash of a second as i was walking out of the door to outside, i got a little bit unsure, so i said aloud, "oh shoot i forgot..." and turned around to go back inside.  I didn't know the area and how long that gate was on the other side of the exit. I have been held up at gunpoint abroad, frolicked in unsafe places with my camera, never been "nervous" as a young woman. Always brave. But this time, i was more careful.

So here's what happened. The guy came back inside right after me and just started hanging out near the little metro card swiper where you can check your card amount. He kept looking over at me and I pretended to be on the phone. We were watching each other with skeptical expressions from the other side of the entrances. I must not have been a good liar, because he suddenly shouted. "Hey you! Why are you looking at me like that? You've got a look on your face." My face jolted, and went into innocent mode. "Huh? Oh man." I did that thing where you act like you are staring into space and then come "about." "Hey  man, i'm in stress mode right now thinking of a million things. If i was looking at you, hey. I was looking and thinking, you know" and acted super cool. "Okay okay. you're looking at me like i dunno."

If it weren't for the fact that a large man was following me out the door and then followed me back IN, in a place where you just don't loiter (there are a million spots around the corner to keep warm), I wouldn't have done that. It wasn't because he was black. Nothing to do with his clothing (i only noticed after he had said all these things.) I take pride in my ability to never judge people--it may be a naive fault of mine. BUt i was injured, with my new computer and camera and didn't want to take a risk.

So basically what happened was that he continued to keep an eye on my eyes that were watching him. IT was this feedback loop. He thought of me as some kind of white girl profiler and almost wanted to prove a point. ANd i get it. I'm sure there are many people who DO do that. And there i was, trying so hard NOT to be THAT person, especially after his comments. But the more he felt obliged to prove a point, the more sketchy his moves were, and the more i wanted to get away from him. But he wouldn't LEAVE! I started to go out the door and then he started to go out the parallel door on the other side (they meet on the other side). It was this strange feedback loop.

Were either of us at fault? Was he just cold and wanted to hang out in there, and i was being overly paranoid since my gunpoint episode a year ago? Was i becoming a profiler? I think no. I was just being safe and recognizing that i might have to think a little less brave with an injury.

But the fact that racial profiling in newly gentrified areas is so obviously common, is what made this such a strange experience. He thought that i was afraid of him and he hated that. So maybe he kept following me because he was curious by my strange expression and wanted to see why I was acting like that. But that just perpetuated the negative appearance that I did not want to believe.

I got out as fast as i could and walked into a grocery store and called my friend where i was staying. SHe and her husband came out to walk me back to their house. The guy was behind us for a few blocks as we walked from a distance, and didn't go back inside.

Was i crazy for not walking alone? I felt incredibly guilty for profiling him, but didn't want to take a chance with my whole digital life in my hands.

Going Native goes bad.

CHeck out this blog post: http://tequilasovereign.blogspot.com/2012/11/an-open-letter-to-hipster-indian-dufus.html

One of my professors recently posted this blog post about Gwen STephani and her recent apology about how she was dressed for a video shoot. The post reveals an excellent opinion about cultural respect and commercial "cool" when Gwen Stephani gets critiqued for her Native American wardrobe. Identity is not "frozen in the past to be used as a fashion accessory." I wonder... Where is the moral line drawn? Are certain things just off limits for certain people? Fashion and commercial music--culturally inspired or not--is often all about hypersexualized images... but as the author says, dont try to believe that you are being "culturally inclusive" if you are blatantly wearing a costume for the cool factor. I agree with the author, but i'm just curious how Gwen could have been dressed if she WANTED to promote inclusivity in some way? My opinion is that Gwen STephani has worked hard (maybe) to become a sex symbol. Whether she likes it or not, she is a sex symbol. So she has to understand the powers and views that will form as a result of that symbol. If she were to wear a nun costume--- a real nun costume-- it would be disrespectful because she is clearly not a real nun. So, is wearing native clothing inspired by Native American cultures simply off limits? Is it certain parts of her attire? Is it the degree to which she is pretending that she understands what she is wearing? Does she need to?

things i learned from Cape Verde. 1. Say hello to everyone. Your day will be better. 2. Be patient. 3. Strong women are a forceful engine that cannot be turned off. 4. You can have a beer before 2pm. 5. Prepare. Don't over-prepare. 6. water is sacred. 7.Give give give give. accept a favor. give give. give. karma will come. 8. cockroaches do not die. Accept them but also kill them. 9. If you act stressed, everyone around you will be stressed. If you just say hello, stress will melt away. 10. Just ask. Chances are you will be pleasantly surprised by a person's eagerness to talk, or that the person has the same question. Just ask for what you want. 11. If you have an opinion, others will have an option. Options create dialog. Dialog is good. 12. Family is everything. 13. Respect is relative. 14. Monogomy is relative.

video shoot

Springtime FIre

Disco Dust

Escort, a 17 piece disco band, plays at the Williamsburg Music Hall.


For the first time at a bar/club/concert/ANYevent, the women's bathroom line had absolutely no line. The men's line, however, swiveled and twisted snake-style around the bar. The atmosphere was one of pure motivation. As if folks around were implying a goofy high-five with their eyes, as opposed to the "up-down" classic of many female-packed venues. Inside the stall was the same, for as I sat down the stall writing was not graffiti, silly plus signs and initials, but rather, versions of the phrase, "love yourself!" I peeked under my stall to see if there was a hidden camera. The situation seemed pleasantly bizarre. As I threw on some red lipstick, the girl next to me and i laughed about the lack of line, admitting that we lingered in the bathroom mirror because we had the ridiculous chance to do so.


In the world of disco dust, the lines between old friend and new friend are faint.


Here at the escort show, it is rather impossible to roll your eyes at certain pings of--and yes I am going to say the word--hipster culture. I may have seen three or four blonde afro wigs surrounding thick black glasses. But somehow, even with the tundra hat and silken robes, the more shine, bling, flash, or furr... the better.

Find me a home, where the buffalo roam

CHESS SALONS: Look i see culture happening!

Contrasting with the rhythm of my brisk nyc walking pace, I alternated my head back and forth like a tennis spectator in slow motion. As any person who likes to gaze into a sunset and philosophize, I was, "people watching." I did a double take as I walked by a little store with a group of people playing chess, all in a row like the people you see crouched over in a nail salon. I thought, wow, I really love NYC. Such novel concepts--from bocce ball bars to, "chess salons." Perhaps this is something that is culturally catching on. Chess playing is cool! After all, i did just play chess with my dad when the power was out for days during the recent northeast October snowstorm. But ya know, this is cool happening in front of me, before we can make it cool and say it's cool. I didn't see any immediate evidence of what people call "hipster" at this little chess salon, but perhaps this was the new anti-hipster-hipster hangout, one that appeared popular among women. My analysis escalated as I contemplated the modern female woman and the logistics of how this neat place acquired revenue. There was likely a creative "hook" involved, like a beauty product prize or martini bar. This would produce an oximoronic or perhaps ironic sense of girliness as these female clichés combine with the game. And then, just as my brain was skipping along with excitement about the entrepreneurial possibilities I imagined, I realized it WAS a nail salon. No chess board. No chess figurines. Just little nail polish paints. Just girls getting their nails done near 53rd and First Ave.

Hi my name is S(h)ara, and I am an overly analytical girl. Now, who's down for a game of chess and a dirty martini?

Daymare: Mom's Metastatic Melanoma

This blog began as a way to tell stories. Stories from the road away from home. Then it began a way to view "home" as foreign by noticing the intricate surprises of every-day corners. And suddenly this past month it becomes a coping mechanism. A final gasp for neutral air as I face the most heartbreaking nightmare I could ever experience. My mother is suffering with metastatic melanoma--a fast moving cancer that can pop up at any time in any part of the body faster than most doctors can track and hunt it down. In the blink of an eye, my adventures have arrived at a daymare of sorts--as if these many travel and home "roads" were being devoured slowly by a team of bulldozers. They move slowly and mechanically so that we can hear every sad crunch as I fight as hard as possible without any control.

My dining room table, typically filled with family and catch-up stories and silly nicknacks like sunglasses and ski passes, has suddenly become a desperate source of ever growing prescriptions. The pile of paperwork explaining the prescriptions, each explaining when to take, what to avoid, what to realize will happen as a side effect, appears just as daunting as the many shapes and sizes spilling from the little bottles.

As I hold my mothers hand, snuggling in a blanket that she bought me for my college dorm days, choking back the tortuous lump in my throat that continues to trigger my tears, I listen to my mom's shrieks of pain and charge my eyes open in disbelief. I force my eyes to bulge outward, quietly. There must be some way to wake up from this nightmare. But it is real. So real that to even smile feels like a painful extraordinarily other worldly concept.

And every day my family and I try to hope that the green from my mother's face will turn rosier, the grimace will turn happier, her newly healing wounds will mend nicely, something becomes worse. The only thing we can do is watch meaningless daytime television, like family feud or Judge Judy, alternating with deeply emotional cries of grief.

I've been a rock for my family, holding us together as we deal with insurance denials of treatment that has happened, through my mom's attempted exits from a moving vehicle, through endless hospital cycles and depression. I--the one family member that my mom insisted could NOT know about her melanoma for over a year--have been the one breathing my way through several breakdowns and coaxing final threads of positivity to knit us together. But rocks crack easily. Finally yesterday I just cracked like a baby. And as I cry with my mom, and apologize for living so far away all this time, and her--apologizing for the fact that she is making us feel this way-- we cannot even embrace one another. The cancer in her back has bloomed so forcefully that it hurts her to hug me, or even sob.

People say we should value our final days together rather than mourn an oncoming death. this is not easy. Mom and I tried this by taking a trip to Target. We used to love shopping together--which usually meant mom finding things and laughing, "I had something just like that in the 60s" and I would laugh saying, "i know, i found it in the basement and wore it out!" But as we walked through the corridors of Target, slowly as she uses a cane like an "old lady" we know it could be our last shopping moment. Regardless of the nostalgia the pain in mom's body is so great that she almost faints walking back to the car. And she suffers extraordinarily during the night after the extra effort. I cry feeling guilty that I encouraged the trip. Enjoyment is physically impossible.

I charge forward, attacking the scene with phone calls, online research, sifting mentally through the overwhelming array of information trickling from friends and relatives who "know someone who had melanoma". I make demands to her doctors even though I appear like a crazy kid, crafting my words to scowl verbally at the insipid insurance company, pointing fingers like a mad barking orchestra conductor to everyone around me who seems lazy. But regardless of my viscous go-getter attitude and hostage-negotiating communication skills with my stubborn mother, most of the moments we, I, mom... are helpless. The meaning of Friday has shifted from "happy hour" and celebratory weekend-welcoming to a dreaded deadline, leaving us free from office hours and in the hands of fate for the weekend, left for our cries to echo alone without the help of doctors. And when the doctors are available during the week, they seem to forget our detailed descriptions of mom's pain, missing important clues, lagging behind as the cancer blooms and takes root faster than her slow moving treatment. My mother, my best friend, my idol, my role model, is in the hands of one world-famous doctor. But he is just a man. A man with research. With a kind heart and a million other patients. A clock ticks loudly in all of our heads. with each tick we are grateful we can tell her again how much we love her, with each tock, we scream silently by all of the horror.


I would never wish this twist. this bulldozed road. on my worst enemy.

Ojai Road Trip