Job Search Reality Check

I've been having a difficult time finding a full or part-time job in recent months, perhaps due to the current American economic downturn. I'm confident that I've unique professional and personality traits that would make me an appealing employee, but the deadening silence in the apartment from the dormant phone and empty Outlook inbox say otherwise.

In recent weeks I've interviewed with a medical software company that asked that I commit for three years as a help desk agent, and when the managing partner realized that I had writing and editing abilities, he couldn't contain himself. He modified the job description on the spot, with the same low annual salary that would be locked in for three years. I'm not afraid of commitment, and am seriously seeking a stable work environment now that I've a handle of my freelance writing and editing.

Years ago, I worked in two high-pressured investment banks as a help desk agent and software trainer, but I hadn't yet settled into my writing skin. I earned a great salary, but had no healthy outlets. It would've been ideal back then when I worked three thirteen-hour days, to have had the idea to create Morningside Writers Group. Clichés aside: Everything looks better in hindsight. If I knew then what I know now.

The next most recent interview felt like being in a police lineup or a college fraternity hazing. The department manager wasn't a pleasant person, and set about explaining the reasons why he asks certain questions and deconstructing my resume. I didn't get the job. He was more impressed with himself rather than actually conducting a proper interview.

I'm not desperate quite yet. Friends have suggested Starbucks that offers benefits for part-time staff, and I'm not mistaken, tuition reimbursement for fulltime employees. I've worked in a coffee shop as an assistant manager before, which I'm not keen to do anytime soon again. I reeked of coffee daily, and was wired on caffeine to keep up with the customers' demands and employees' needs.

My goal is two-fold: a steady income and regular online and print bylines to build writing clips as I establish myself as a brand. I'm not seeking a rockstar writing career, but to earn my living as a writer, editor, and workshop leader. I don't want unattended homes on several continents, but a log cabin next to a natural lake in Upstate New York during the summers and a brownstone or three-family home in Harlem, Brooklyn, or nearby Alpine, New Jersey during the school year.

I've also other ambitions and goals that hinge upon my younger brother's relocating to the East Coast in a few years. He's a talented pastry chef and all-around cook, and we'd love to open a writer-friendly café/lounge with book readings, book signings, and occasional live entertainment.

Every job I've had until now has been educational, which I don't want to go to waste. I now know who I am and what I can offer an employer until I am able to support myself and a family from my writing, and other creative business ventures. I excel as a Project Manager and community builder, witnessed by the five-year anniversary of Morningside Writers Group. The task is to find a job that will bring out the best in me professionally and personally, leaving me time and energy afterward to continue writing film, theatre, and dance reviews, personality and neighborhood profiles.

Sundays at Granny's

My granny's house was the central hub for the family for as long I can remember. Since her death in November and subsequent burial in December 2007, the surviving relatives have gone their separate ways. My architect cousin continues to work eighty-plus hours a week, my schoolteacher aunt enrolled in computer classes two years after having first purchased her desktop, and there have been two stillborns within the last two weeks.

Granny was the glue that held us together, even with my cousin and his new family stationed in Germany, and me in New York, she had a way of uniting all with phone calls. She keep us updated on who was doing what, and possible reasons as to why if it were something untoward.

She was ninety when she went home to glory, and I'm glad she lived as long as she did, but her long life brought with it a sense of expectancy. We all expected that she'd outlive us all as a testament to her will to survive and personal strength.

There's a void at granny's house in Houston. It's difficult for some to visit the house in her absence, because they know she won't be sitting on the corner of the sofa when they step inside the living room.

Sundays at Granny's after church were second-nature. The children raced inside to change into play clothes, some of the women stepped out of their heels and into slippers, while others headed to the kitchen to warm up the meal that had been prepared the night before or that morning. My mother or other aunts usually made the dessert.

There's no tragedy to speak of other than the splintering of my family back home. I'm powerless from where I sit, not that I could do anything to heal and reunite my family. It's painful to face Granny's absence. We all remember how she'd shuffle about her house, sometimes refusing help, her path blurry due to cataracts.

I feel her absence in my life, too. I've been unable to discard the ticket stub for the flight to Houston, as if holding onto it will bring her back to me, to us. It won't. Letting go will take sometime yet. When I close my eyes I can still smell her coffee percolating in the kitchen on the gas stove, and remember what the peach preserves looked like in the corner closet. Each room holds a special memory, all of which involve Granny's wisdom, guidance, energy, and smile.

Stray Cats and Other Tails

I'm working on overcoming my bad habit of welcoming various human and animal strays into my life and home. I adopted my gray calico from the cat lady in Stuyvesant Town in Lower Manhattan, because I was alone and thought I'd find a lap cap to keep me company as I acclimated myself to the East Coast. Clancy was great at first, but like all living creatures with a pulse, personalities and behaviors change over time. We were content in our cramped one-bedroom apartment in West New York, New Jersey, until hell temporarily rose on earth to upend us. We were displaced between the old and new apartment in Manhattan.

I had talked a hellion college dorm mate to move up north months before we moved into Manhattan. I can't recall now why or how I ended up sleeping on the floor of this girl the Texan hellion met and beguiled as was her nature to do, other than the new apartment not being ready at the time. I digress. I was responsible for two strays at that time, and it almost took its toll on me. Adulthood wasn't for the weak of heart back then.

Fast forward. The apartment was ready for occupancy, and I left Clancy to screen and capture small to medium sized four-legged creatures before we officially moved in, which she did a few days later. She meowed, no, bellowed, to get my attention when she caught a mouse. I walked into the kitchen where she held a dead mouse with what appeared to have been a pained or frightened expression about its face. I wondered then and now why she chose not to eat it. Does only happen on National Geographic and cartoons?

Many years later, I look around at my cluttered apartment with stacks of magazines and shelves overflowing with books I might not get around to reading, clothes that are woefully out of style, an aquarium with an overgrown tri-collor tropical shark, and two cats, the oldest of which seems to be purring her swan song.

Where did the time go? How many roommates-cum-strays have I rescued, given shelter, a few of which took advantage of the situation and me? I had to call upon my Peruvian-Irish friend to come over and evict a Spanish con artist that I thought I was saving from all manner of heartbreak and despondency. He pulled the wool over my eyes, and racked up international phone calls, as did another Spaniard, by way of England. Perhaps I had "sap" emblazoned on my forehead.

I have a bad habit of trying to repopulate my life with favorable people and experiences from the past in Houston. What do we say about not living in the past, and letting go? People are different on the East Coast, and no amount of books, parties, and sleepovers will fill the tiny space that at times can seem as vast as the universe that's yearning for emotional and spiritual sustenance. When I was a child, I did childish things. It's high time I put away the bucket of Legos and electric race car set, and get to living as an adult life without so many encumbrances, useless clutter, and spiritual vampires. Perhaps it's time for me to have my own reality show: Simplify Your Life, Now! (Just do the opposite I what I used to do.)

Women's Tennis Fan

Earlier this afternoon I participated in a live blogging event hosted by Shelia on Black Tennis Pros. It was the first time I didn't feel alone while watching competitive women's tennis. I was in the company of others from around the country tuned into their televisions, with an assortment fast food and beverages.

My roommate doesn't understand my fanaticism, but rather pokes fun at me when I clinch my fists at the screen in an attempt to rally Serena, Venus, Asha Rolle, or Lindsey Davenport through to the finals.

My love of tennis came upon me just as The Williams Sisters began dominating the sport. To the uninitiated, I probably behave like an awful stage parent when I move about the room trying to urge one of the ladies to a win. I used to be embarrassed by my reaction, but soon got over those feelings when the upstairs neighbor who makes much too much noise, much too early in the morning with her washing machine, vacuum cleaner, and traipsing back and forth had the nerve to pound on the floor during The Wimbledon 2005 final between Venus and Lindsey. I know these women are capable of victories, and when they fall short, I'm baffled.

Perhaps it's a personal reflection on my not always living up to my abilities in life that I cringe when I see someone else not fulfilling theirs. I applaud them for taking the court in front of a critical worldwide audience. I don't suffer from stage fright, but I don't think I'd be comfortable on a tennis court with a racket in hand.

Film Review : Where Is Osama Bin Laden?

A father’s quest to protect his unborn child bookends a new documentary by writer/director Morgan Spurlock, famous for taking on McDonald’s in Supersize Me. The movie poster is reminiscent of Lawrence of Arabia with Morgan donning traditional Middle Eastern garb atop a camel charging off in the distance into the maze of shantytowns, mountains, and ethnic enclaves in several countries that Osama Bin Laden might have taken up residence.

The theme song continues along a similar lighthearted motif as washboard country music perhaps more at home in Tennessee or Alabama, filters into the theatre. Good ole boys sing, “Where In The World Is Osama Bin Laden?” Should I tap my foot and bob my head to the catchy tune, or would it be in bad taste because it’s an infamous murderer?

Morgan and his film crew set out to find Osama Bin Laden, or at least gather clues to his whereabouts over the course of three years in distant lands such as Egypt, Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Morocco. This was an impressive cause for a layman who wanted to do what highly placed government officials and trained military operatives have been unable to do until now.

Morgan initially takes on a bad ass superhero persona that battles Osama in an enhanced video game. If only if was a matter of squaring off against evildoers with a joystick in hand, then perhaps thousands of American lives wouldn’t have been lost in Iraq. Imagine warfare in the controlled environment of simulated video games with a reset button. We all deserve a do over. If at first you don’t succeed. The audience is next met with a hip hop dancing Osama as MC Hammer’s Can’t Touch This temporarily distracts from the seriousness at hand. The documentary succeeds in that it presents different scenarios for the audience to contemplate in the elusive search for one of the world’s most wanted men.

Morgan takes his unofficial role as layman commando leader to heart with a preventative doctor’s visit, indoor and outdoor survival training, and language and culture lessons. Questions hang in the air as we watch Morgan being poked, prodded, and endure mock psychological abuse.

What if something were to happen to the film crew? Is Morgan getting in over his head for the sake of infotainment? Is it a civilian’s responsibility to hunt down terrorists on their own turf, or is it better to wait for another attack?

The focus of the documentary shifts when the crew lands in Egypt and the locals offer their uncensored opinions on American people and politics. When abroad, it feels as if we’re inside a well-meaning cultural exchange PSA, and the search for Osama takes a back seat to interviews with colorful characters who are either afraid of Bin Laden, his reputation, or didn’t want to be involved in the discussion. In each of the countries visited, there were stark images of poverty, anti-American sentiment, and a sense of exhaustion or disinterest because the locals had other pressing matters weighing on their mind.

The documentary is equal parts love letter to the filmmaker’s unborn child, his wife, America, and the plight of countries that endure ridicule and hatred because of one man. If nothing else, Morgan has added to the ongoing conversation on homegrown and exported terror. One memorable scene takes place in Israel of an irate Hassidic Jewish man shouting and blocking Morgan’s path as he tried to question people. The man propelled our adventurous director backward, as if in a trance, with his opened palms against Morgan’s chest. This man wanted no part of the investigation and Osama dialogue. Police arrived amidst a growing number of black-clad Jews to escort Morgan to the safety of his van.

The world would be a bit safer if Al Qaeda didn’t exist and Osama captured, but what we have instead is one man who has eluded capture and has fascinated a global audience hungry for information on his whereabouts. This documentary will spark discussions and debates, which might have been the filmmaker’s overall intention. How can one man, if still alive, disappear into thin air? I feel an episode of Without A Trace coming on.

Film Review: Sand, Drum & Shostakovich

This documentary explores contemporary dance in Africa. It introduces eight modern dance companies; Compagnie Danse Nyata-Nyata (Congo/Canada), Compagnie Vincent Mantsoe (South Africa), Compagnie Cie Salia Nï Seydou (Burkina Faso), Compagnie Sylvain Zabli (Ivory Coast), Compagnie Tchétché (Ivory Coast), Companhia Clara Andermatt (Cape Verde/Portugal), Compagnie Mathlide Monnier (France/Burkina Faso/Mali), Compagnie Jant-Bi (Senegal/Germany), all participants at the Festival International de Nouvelle Danse in Montreal, Canada in 1999.

The film opens with a powerful visual image on a blackened stage. Cinematography, lighting, costumes, and sets add to the overall effect. African dancers from Mathlide Monnier enter the stage seemingly from all directions; some might have descended from Heaven, performing acrobatic and rhythmic dances. The chiseled dancers defying gravity on film would make anyone head to the nearest gym and then on to an African dance class. Continuing with the opening sequence, there's a dancer from Companhia Clara Andermatt standing in front of a metallic door of what might appear to be an exclusive club, save for the fact that he's topless, barefoot and wearing a pair of body-conscious shorts. He isn't there to exclude anyone; he's there to welcome the audience to a multi-ethnic dance and drum jamboree. The film is narrated in French and English by various choreographers, artistic directors and noted writers as snapshots of performances that are seen later in their entirety phase in and out of focus.

The theatre audience at the Walter Reade Theatre in Lincoln Center shifted in their collective seats, not knowing what to expect as sounds of African drums poured from the speakers. African dance involves every fiber of the human body, as demonstrated by solo performers and groups. African dance has endured for many years, and has been embraced by modern dancers who have meshed their influences to create a valuable gift to their ancestors. Traditional dances have not been abandoned; they have been enriched by collaboration between the western world and African dance into a hybrid that is not exclusively western or African. From the joint efforts both have a stake in keeping the history in tact and an evolving dream alive.

In Africa, there are over fifty countries and every country has more than two-to- three thousand dances. It is clear to see that a single African dance does not exist. In the film, illustrated maps of Africa guide the viewer along the journey of African dance history, including its modern collaboration of dancers, drummers, musicians, and guest choreographers.

The film also explores the spirituality inherent in African dance. Sand is very important in African culture as a reminder that one comes from the ground and will return to the earth. The fragility and strength of the human body and soul are demonstrated by the use of sand. In one of the performances, three dancers from Compagnie Cie Salia Nï Seydou are seated on stage mimicking each other's moves as they contemplate the depth of friendship. One of the dancers sifts sand through his hands like a rope pulling him forward in time, toward his inevitable death. Later, sand is poured over the head of another dancer in the company until he's completely covered, an hourglass turned upside. The screen fades to black.

Dancers are aware of negotiating the space in which they perform which acknowledges and pays homage to their ancestors. Dancing is therapeutic: healing to the mind, body, and soul. Music is an important accompaniment to the dancers on stage, communicating on various planes, transmitting and receiving different messages, which are transferred to the bodies of the dancers. There's an internal connection between the dancers and musicians, witnessed by a similar call-and-response in African-American churches.

Masculinity and femininity are woven into the texture of the film as the viewers are challenged to address the stereotypical roles men and women are relegated to in African society. Compagnie Tchétché, an all-female company, has explored the dynamics of female solidarity through the use of improvisation and theme. Béatrice Kombé, choreographer, set out to create a piece about the sensitivity of African women as they step outside of their expected roles of wife and mother.

One outstanding concept is an outreach program sponsored by Compagnie Sylvain Zabli. The project trains street kids in music and dance, and then sends them back out into the community to teach others what they have learned. The lives of the participants are changed upon completion of the program; they leave the program with a new skill, no longer having to live on the streets and follow destructive life paths.

As depicted in this film, African dance is dramatic, animated, spiritual, and verbal. It educates as it tells a story and builds bridges between communities and cultures. Westerners at first don't have enough expressive emotional means to perform African dance, while in Africa, there is an enormous palette for expression. Westerners usually have to be taught to free their body in order to appreciate the levels of African dance, whereas Africans are more naturally free and expressive in their movement.

In the final performance of the film the viewer is treated to the unexpected. Men from Compagnie Jant-Bi are dressed in designer suits dancing to traditional drum music until the advent of a Shostakovich string quartet. The company demonstrates that it's possible to perform African dance in sand to classical music, thus bringing home its universal appeal and adaptability. Despite outside influences, African dance will remain African.

For more information on the film, visit the web site: Kino Dance.

Writers Working For Free & Clips

I am so exhausted from the all the online ads seeking writers to work for free from would-be literary, cultural, or urban magazines. This video clip featuring Harlan Ellison best answers the question: Should writers work for free? Warning: Some of the language might offend those with delicate ears.