Final Blog Project: "The Truthfulness of Hips" (submitted to Speak Magazine)

Showtime.

The audience waited. The music began. Jess and I danced towards each other in front of the classroom, swaying our hips with all of our gringa glory. We bounced from side to side and spun each other around. We giggled.

"¿Alguien sabe el baile?"

"¿Cha cha?" someone offered.

We cued up the Power Point. "El merengue," we responded proudly.

"Oh," our professor said. "You're dancing to salsa music."

A fine start, indeed.

I would have made a lovely ballerina, but I’m not a terrible gymnast. I'm pretty solid in Spanish. Combine Spanish and dancing, and the phrase "analysis breeds paralysis" comes to mind: How come nobody else looks like an idiot besides me?

My incompetence was first revealed during Africana Dance last semester (which, ironically, nearly every gymnast in the class had to withdraw from due to injury). I was pretty good at slapping the floor to the drumbeat and waving my arms in a tribal manner. But when it came time to salsa, my professor inevitably walked over and poked my hips. Move those.

I moved them. All right. I had a rhythm going. The music was moving. I was moving.

I finally looked in the mirror and saw a pale girl dancing in the manner of a child learning to hula and failing at it.

I’ve yet to find a Latina or black woman incapable of rocking out to any rhythm. Turn up the music, clear off the dance floor, and watch them work their magic. Ah, if only my European ancestors had jumped and clapped to driving drumbeats instead of dancing stiffly in a parlor somewhere…

But I won’t take on the burden of my ancestors. So Emeline (the sole gymnast survivor of Africana Dance) turned on Shakira and gave me an impromptu dance lesson in her room one Saturday night before we went out.

“You know my hips don’t lie…” the Colombian singer crooned seductively.

"Loosen up your arms," my housemate instructed. "You're not doing a floor routine."

True.

Emeline poked my hips. She pretended to grind on me and I ran away. She spun in circles and I imitated, knocking a picture frame to the floor.

In the end, she stood back, watched, and said, "Much better than before."

My confidence boosted, I figured the two-step merengue would be manageable as our group project for Spanish 319. Jess and I danced to YouTube videos in the Mac lab. We talked merengue. We visualized it. Miranda was wise and opted to play the music instead.

Undeterred by that minor error of salsa instead of merengue music, we invited the class to join the "dance floor." Well, how about that? Our professor could do the merengue, and it looked nothing like our very enthusiastic version.

"That was perfecta," a classmate said as I took my seat.

Well, perhaps not. But I'll still be moving to music anytime I hear it. Regardless of how I look.

"All good things must pass" -- A reflection on Writing Sports Literature

Well, friends, it's been a ride.

Reading:
1] I've read many a pretentious "how-to-write" book in my day, and Writing True was the complete opposite. The book managed to be both helpful and encouraging, offering a variety of "Ways In" that encourage the writer to be original, rather than, "Follow this format because it's the proper way to write."

2] Several stories resonate from the collection we read: "Dirty Moves," "What Goes Ninety-five Miles per Hour for Seventeen Days...," "The Shadow Boxer," "A (Fishing) Hole in One" (yes, I actually liked that one), and "Raising the Dead." For me, these stories were the most engaging while smoothly combining research and issues. All effectively presented a non-mainstream sport in a way to engage an audience unfamiliar with the rules of wrestling or the dangers of scuba diving.

Class time:

Although we all groaned, writing on the chalkboard did indeed illustrate the structure of the stories: the issues at hand and how they moved, the details, the resolution. Variety during class, though, would help maintain the students' interest: perhaps having a group of students be responsible for illustrating a particular story for the class, or having the class direct the professor as he diagrams the story. Otherwise, the groups focused on their own section of the board without interacting with the other clusters.

The grammar presentation, especially the section about active v. passive verbs, was informative. (Ahh! There I go with a passive statement...) The presentation, however, would have been better timed had it been given before or right after Paper 1, instead of in the midst of Paper 2.

The few classes we had to simply work on our papers were the most effective for me. I could read over my own story or pass it to a friend if I so chose. While workshops are an integral part of the writing process, having the professor look over my paper was most beneficial to me. Sir Emerson took the time to sit down with each student and glance over his or her paper, although many other students waited.

Writing:

The blogs were a fine idea and, from what I've seen, successful. I like blogging.

I appreciated our professor's heavy emphasis on the importance of research: a necessary evil, indeed. The papers I've written for other classes usually include heavy citations from a story/poem, or are entirely creative pieces that don't need any sort of "tangible" foothold. And alas, my writing has drastically improved through the necessity of research. (The Prof. should subtitle this course as, "'Research' is Not a Dirty Word.")

Research was much easier with topics that I had little to no knowledge of -- after all, I was starting with nothing. I struggled with research in my second paper because my search queries were often too specific. Plus, having done gymnastics for many moons, many facts have become internalized over the years.

When I edited that assignment, however, I suddenly found new openings: ways to incorporate general research into a specific topic, thus making the story (hopefully) more relatable to non-gymnast readers. The ability to find, and utilize, such research has most certainly improved my writing. Who wants to read a story that they can't connect to?

The professor's requirement that we all submit to a publication (yeah, Transition!) made our writing a whole lot more "real." We weren't merely writing for a grade, but for (hopefully) a much wider audience. I'm not certain that the New York Road Runner will want to read my Paper 1. Someone out there, however, just might. Perhaps some high school girls on a bus somewhere to a meet...

Miscellaneous:

I learned how to play chess, which I probably wouldn't ever have had the time/motivation to do on my own. And whaddaya know? I really enjoyed playing, which allowed me to enjoy...writing.

Straight from the heart (Bryan Adams-style)

I actually used yesterday's snow day in an effective manner: I worked on my paper and played Steve in chess.

This paper has actually become close to my heart. It was a wise scheme, I believe, to choose a topic I knew nothing about. The more I unearth about chess, the more quirky -- yet normal -- find the game to be. I've been chipping at it for weeks now, and alas, I have arrived to the cusp of page fourteen -- enough pages in to know that there's much, much more to be said.

I think I'm doing an all right job for a "newb," though.

And, of course, Steve owned me. I didn't even capture any of his pieces. But I didn't mind. Strange for a fairly competitive person to say. But really -- I've literally played chess twice. Every male that I've surveyed so far (and my mom, as it turns out) claims to know how to play. Gender isn't the issue, though; it's experience.

So as Steve's bishop slid towards my king and I worked to defend it with my knight -- and ultimately failed -- I was already contemplating how I could improve -- see more -- be better prepared.

I lose gracefully. You can't break my spirit.

Fantastic.

I knew there was a reason I'd decided to write about chess!

Aqui, amigos.

Oof.

Throw your hands up if the end of the semester is kicking your ass!