Phlebotomy plebe

I owe this blog post to Laura the Nervous Intern.

I haven't been feeling much like writing lately. December and January were difficult months. I'm still healing from my breakup with Monte and reeling from the realities of living in a strange place. My friend Rebecca has kindly allowed me the use of her home for a couple of months until I get back on my feet, and that's been a blessing. But frankly, living alone in an unfamiliar place has not a been barrel of laughs. I've been feeling kind of lonely and removed from my life, and I haven't really wanted to write about it.

Stress set in a few weeks back and I was laid low with a bad illness. It felt like strep, or tonsillitis. With no health insurance, I turned to the Glide clinic for care. They put me on a slew of meds and fixed me right up. I was impressed that the nurse practitioner spent more time with me than any doctor ever has. And then for good measure she sent me to the hospital for a full lab work-up. "Just to be thorough," she said.

So today I went to the hospital to get my blood drawn. I'd been fasting since the night before, but then I overslept, so by the time I arrived at the lab it was late in the morning and I was getting hungry.

I checked in at the front desk. "Hi Errin," said a cheerful man in scrubs, locating my name with the merest glance at my forms. "Have you fasted for 12 hours today?"

"Yes," I said.

"Great. And do you mind having a student take your blood?"

"Nope."

"All right. Have a seat and someone will be with you in a few minutes." He gestured toward the chairs.

It was about twenty minutes before someone called my name, but I was occupied with my book and not perturbed. As a matter of fact, I didn't mind waiting, because I'd been doing the math and realized that it had really been more like ten and a half hours since I'd last eaten. I was hoping it didn't matter too much, but I figured it couldn't hurt to wait out the clock a bit.

People kept checking in at the front desk. "Do you mind having a student take your blood today?" I heard more than once. Nobody seemed to mind. I thought it was nice that we were all willing to help the students learn. It didn't make me nervous or anything. It was just a simple blood draw.

"Is there an Errin here?" came a low, timid voice. I raised my hand halfway and gathered up my things.

"Hi there," I said as I followed the woman down the hallway. She ushered me into a room.

"Hi," she said in a hushed monotone. "Um, have a seat." I took off my jacket and sat down. I noticed her name tag said Laura.

Another woman (another student phlebotomist I assumed) entered and greeted me as well. She and Laura conferred for a moment about what time they would each take their break.

"So, I think it's been more like eleven hours since I last ate," I told them. "Is that going to matter?"

For an instant they both froze. Laura looked at me with big round eyes and said in her odd voice, "That depends. Do you get queasy around blood?"

Hmm. "Probably," I said. "But I'm not going to watch."

She stared at me. "Do you have a problem with needles?" she asked.

"Well, sure," I said. "Doesn't everybody?"

"I sure do," said the other student, and laughed.

"I don't," said Laura emphatically.

I was starting to get a weird vibe from Laura.

"Anyway, it's more like eight to twelve hours," said the other student and she waved away my concerns. I watched as she took a juice box and a granola bar from a cabinet, dropped them into a labeled paper bag and then walked out of the room. There was a stack of paper bags on the counter beside me. I peeked at the label:

Phlebotomist who served you today is _______.

In our continuous efforts to provide you with Quality 5 Star Service, we acknowledge that you have been required to fast for these laboratory tests. If you have no other procedures that require you to be fasting, please enjoy this snack we have enclosed for your benefit.

I thought that was a nice touch.

Laura seemed unsure of what to do first. She picked up a few vials then put them down. "I'm an intern," she said abruptly. "I have to tell you that."

"O-okay," I said, in what I hoped was an assuring tone of voice. She seemed a little nervous. I adopted a pose of unconcern in hopes that she might draw from my well of calmness.

It didn't seem to work though. She pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and I knew right away that I was in trouble.

When doctors on TV pull on their rubber gloves they do so with one decisive snap. Putting on the gloves is second nature. It's not something you should have to think about.

But Laura was thinking way too hard about her gloves. She slipped her hand in halfway and then wiggled her fingers to try and shake the thing down to her wrist. When that didn't work she gave a series of half-hearted tugs, then pulled awkwardly around each finger until she finally shimmied her digits into place.

My heart sank. My physical discomfort was in direct proportion to her manual dexterity and the woman couldn't put on a pair of rubber gloves.

"Okay. Lay your arm on the table," she instructed, and I did. She tied a rubber strip above my elbow. It was WAY too tight. I lost the feeling in my hand almost immediately.

"Ow, that kinda hurts," I said.

"Oh, sorry," she said, pulling it off. "Was that too tight?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Sorry. Sometimes we can pull your sleeve down like this," she said, pulling my sleeve down, "and tie it over the fabric so that the rubber doesn't pinch your skin." It sounded as though she were quoting directly from a recent lesson and my unease started to grow. Still, I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, so I smiled at her and said, "That's better."

"Okay. Um...okay." She was looking around the room, for clues, it seemed. I could almost see her reciting the order of operations in her head.

"Now I'm going to look for a vein. Make a fist." I balled up my hand. She inspected my arm closely.

"No, make a fist like this," she said, demonstrating. I released my hand, then made a fist exactly as I'd done it the first time. "Yeah, that's better," she said.

She leaned low over my arm and poked experimentally at the crook of my elbow. Poke. Poke. She looked at my hand. "Did you stop making a fist?"

"No," I said.

"Oh. Okay." Poke. Poke. She took my arm between her hands and turned it slightly. I felt a tremor in my arm and looked down at it.

Holy shit. Laura's hands were visibly shaking. We seemed to become aware of it at the same time, and she pressed harder on my arm to smother the trembling.

"Oh, there's one," she said, and her voice sounded weirdly high. She pointed at a vein that seemed to be out of the poking zone. It was closer to my forearm than the crook of my elbow.

"All the way over there?" I asked doubtfully.

"Sure," she said. "That should work." She let go of my arm, immediately lost the vein and started poking at me again.

At that point I started looking around for a supervisor.

"I'm just going to, um..." Laura said, losing her train of thought as she fumbled around in the drawers for supplies. "I'm going to...um..." She consulted my paperwork two, then three times.

I watched her with mounting alarm as she set up four vials on the counter. "You're filling four vials?" I asked her.

She squinted at my paperwork again. "Uh, yeah. You've got a lot of tests."

Oh my God. This woman was going to try to pull four vials of blood from what even I could tell was a non-participating vein. With shaking hands! Was I really going to let her do this?

She pulled out an alcohol swab and swished it tentatively over my skin. Her look of concentration was intense. I opened my mouth, feeling the words rush up from my gut. Wait, I was going to tell her. Wait just a minute.

But I didn't say anything. Because honestly, the blog post was already writing itself in my head, and I kinda wanted to see what would happen.

Laura discarded the alcohol swab and patted the spot uncertainly with a cotton ball. Then she prepped the needle. I watched her attach it to a vial and prepared to avert my eyes.

She swooped down on me. "Don't watch," she said fiercely.

Don't worry, I thought. I trained my eyes on the ceiling.

"You're going to feel a little pinch," she said. But I braced myself as though I was about to be stabbed.

To Laura's credit, it really was only a little pinch. I concentrated on the ceiling and breathed deeply in and out. It's not the needle prick that disturbs me so much as the perceived sensation of blood leaving my body. It's an odd thing, but sometimes I think prolonged discomfort bothers me a lot more than actual pain.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Laura shake her head back and forth.

That couldn't be good.

But she made decisive movements with her hands and I thought I sensed her switching the vials, so I focused on my breathing and let her do her thing.

A moment later, another shake of the head. And under her breath I thought I heard her say, "Oh no."

My neck muscles tensed but I was afraid to look. I felt a sudden pressure in the crook of my elbow. "Hold this," Laura commanded with more authority in her voice than I'd heard so far, and I chanced a glance down to see her pressing a cotton ball to my skin. I put my finger on it, and thus relieved she took a big step back from me.

"I didn't get it," she said, looking me square in the eye. "I'm only allowed to try once. If I don't get the blood I can't try a second time." This seemed like an eminently sensible policy to me, and I nodded. "I'm going to have to get a phlebotomist."

There was a curious confidence in her manner now that the deed was done, and failed. Maybe it was a touch of defiance? Hell, I wasn't judging. I was just happy that this woman wasn't going to stick any more needles in me.

"I'm going to get a phlebotomist," she said again and swept out of the room to the right. A second later she bumbled back in and exited again from the door on the left.

While she was gone, I lifted the cotton ball on my arm to take a peek at her work. There was a neat little hole in my skin. It was nowhere near the vein.

A moment later the phlebotomist bustled in, all competence and swift movement. Laura slunk in behind her. "Hello," said the phlebotomist, snapping on her gloves with authority.

Instantly I relaxed. Now that's how you do it, I thought with relief.

"How about we try the other arm, yeah?" she asked as she wound bright green tape around my minuscule wound. I laid my left arm on the table.

The phlebotomist ignored the vials that Laura had so precariously perched in the little vial holder. She flicked a glance at my paperwork and pulled four new vials from the cabinet, then swabbed my skin and prepped the needle with admirable speed and certainty. I looked up at the ceiling again and felt the pinch in my arm. I breathed in and out.

Seconds later she was done. "Hold this," she instructed, and I pressed another cotton ball to my skin. I looked down at the counter and saw four full vials of blood. My God, the woman was good. Four vials of blood in what couldn't have been more than twenty seconds.

She wrapped my left arm in bright green tape. I thought a Band-Aid would have sufficed, but I wasn't going to complain. The needle part was over, and I wasn't spouting blood all over the walls, which was good enough for me.

"All set," said the phlebotomist. She swept up my samples and left, not even glancing at Laura, who had shrunk into the corner. I struggled back into my jacket, with arms that now wouldn't bend at the elbows, thanks to all the green tape.

Laura said, "I'm sorry about before."

"That's okay," I said. It wasn't, really, but at least I'd only been stuck twice and not treated like a human pincushion. It could have been much worse.

Laura was blocking the door, looking glum. I wanted to take her out for coffee and discuss her career options. I wondered if you can get fired from phlebotomy school.

Suddenly she brightened. "Would you like some apple juice and a granola bar?" she asked me hopefully.

"Um, okay. Sure."

Laura reached for a paper bag and snapped it open with authority. She dropped a juice box and a granola bar inside, then folded over the top of the bag with precision. She beamed as she passed it to me with hands that did not shake.

And I wondered if maybe there wasn't a career for Laura in Food Service.

I smiled and thanked her, and as I left the hospital all I could think was: I am going to write about that lady.

I came straight to this coffee shop to jot down the story. I'm still wearing the bright green tape. I haven't had an urge to write like this in months.

And so I'll say it again:

I owe this blog post to Laura the Nervous Intern.

Live in concert!

I should have posted this earlier, but:


The Glide Ensemble is having a concert and tickets are selling out fast!

Wings of Song, a Spiritual Flight with the Glide Ensemble will take place in the Glide Sanctuary on September 13th at 5:00 PM. We'll be debuting lots of new music, which sounds even more fabulous on our brand new, state-of-the-art sound system! Also, the concert will be recorded for our upcoming Wings of Song CD, which you can pre-order through the Glide website.

And, ahem, I have a solo. A new one!

All proceeds to go toward funding Glide's 87 programs. Glide feeds the hungry 3 meals a day, 365 days a year, and offers assistance of all kinds to the community, from free medical care to free yoga.

This concert really is selling out fast - I learned today that there are only 65 seats left. So go to www.glide.org and get your tickets today!

Hurry!

No wonder I'm so tired!

What a week! About a month's worth of events took place in the last 8 days. I'll catch you up briefly:

Last Sunday The Shirelles came to Glide and I got to solo in front of them! Then they came up onstage and sang a song, and when they turned around to thank us, one of them pointed at me and gave me a big thumbs up! After the service she gave me a big hug and told me I was wonderful!


So thank you to the Shirelle on the left! Despite all my internet research, I still don't know what her name is.

That afternoon I did a recording session for a surf band called The Del Mars. I sang background vocals for several tracks off their upcoming album.

And to top the day off, my good friend Becca gave birth to her second child, baby Mason. Welcome to the world, Mason!

On Monday the Glide Ensemble performed at the 2009 National Conference on Volunteering and Service. Michelle Obama was there! I will post a big blog post about that experience shortly, so stay tuned.

On Wednesday I went to the dentist.

On Thursday we lost Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson. Thursday was a very surreal day, as shock gave way to sadness.

On Friday we gained a new little light in this world!: baby Daisy, who couldn't be bothered with the hospital and made her entrance in the backseat of Mom and Dad's car.

On Saturday I had a recording session with Yung Mars, laying down background vocals for his upcoming second album.

And yesterday was the Gay Pride Parade! I had a blast marching down Market Street with the Glide contingent, singing and dancing and waving at the crowd. On our float was a giant wedding cake, topped with all different kinds of couples, and our real-life pastors who 'married' them as we traveled down the street. Our message:


But the message of the day, of the week, really, is summed up in this sign:

Ain't that the truth?

Happy Pride, Happy Birthday, Happy Monday!

A Tribute to Rev

Last night I attended a tribute concert for the late Ron Stallings, a much loved Bay Area musician, who died two weeks ago today.

I knew Ron through Glide. A year or more ago, he was a temporary regular with the Glide musicians, known as the Change Band. Ron sat in on the sax.

Ron was there the day I first sang Smile Again. Filled with nerves after a horrendous rehearsal, I was shocked and delighted to deliver a rousing performance. It was one of those moments that you dream about, where everything goes right and that thunderous applause lifts you right out of your shoes. Afterward, he came up and shook my hand. "You're very talented," he said.

I didn't know who he was, beyond the pinch-hitter sax player. I didn't know he'd played with the Temptations, the Dells, the Four Tops, Gladys Knight, Boz Scaggs, Louis Bellson and Huey Lewis and The News, just to name a few. I didn't know that he was a saxophonist, flutist, composer and singer, or that he'd played all around the world. I just thought he was very kind to say that to me.

My first inkling that he was ill came one day during Sunday service. The sopranos stand next to the band and I was on the end, closest to the horns. Ron kept sitting down on the edge of the risers, sometimes while the rest of the band was playing. I leaned over and asked if he was all right. Did he need a chair? Some water? He assured me that he was fine, but he spent more time sitting than standing that day. Shortly afterward Ron left the band.

I ran into him several months later at the local farmers market. He was surprised that I remembered him. "Of course I remember you," I said. "When are you coming back to Glide?"

"Oh, one of these days, I expect," he said, smiling. "You keep on singing."

That was the last time I saw him.

Last night's tribute concert was packed to bursting with folks who came out to pay their respects. The music was fantastic, but I was mostly touched by the standing-room-only crowd, the line of people who waited outside through intermission, still hoping to make it in.

"What a life," I said to Monte. "Look how many people he touched."

Certainly I didn't know him well, but I will always remember the kind words he spoke to me on an important day in my life. This is my small tribute to him.

A Tribute to Rev from Errin M on Vimeo.

Easter

Yesterday we were driving to church for the sunrise service. Which sounds lovely, until you factor in the 4:15 AM wake-up call.

So it was still dark, because it was essentially the middle of the night, and I pointed out the window toward the full moon. "Lookit the moon," I mumbled, sleepily.

"Uh huh," Monte replied, slightly less sleepily (I hope), because he was driving. "It's a Jesus moon."

"Huh?" I said, confused.

"A Jesus moon. The moon they used to find Jesus."

I paused. "The moon who used to find Jesus?"

"You know, those guys. They followed the moon to find him."

I took this in. "Are you talking about the wise men?" I finally asked.

"Yeah," he said, "those guys."

I whooped. "You mean the three wise men who followed the star to Bethlehem at Christmas?"

Now Monte was silent. Processing. A moment later he said decisively: "Yes."

I laughed myself wide awake. "You need to go to church more," I wheezed, wiping tears of mirth from my eyes.

That's mirth, not myrrh.


Here's a little taste of Easter morning at Glide. Have you ever seen a church so thoroughly rocking?

Easter Sunday at Glide from e marie on Vimeo.

Speak Out!

Last week I went to Speak Out! at Glide.

Speak Out! happens every Wednesday. It's an open mic forum that gives the people of the neighborhood a chance to step up and speak their mind. People use it as an opportunity to check in, make community announcements, read poetry, or simply tell their story. Given Glide's location in the Tenderloin, a lot of the folks who come to Speak Out! are from the streets or the shelters. Many are addicts or recovering addicts, victims or former perpetrators of abuse. Some are on their way up. Some are still going down. Most are just looking for a handhold, something secure to grip, to help them through their day. That's why I was there.

I used to go to Prayer Circle on Wednesday nights, but over the years the group dwindled and eventually disappeared. For awhile I reveled in the extra free time, but after a few months I began to feel a bit spiritually deficient. You'd think that 5 or 6 hours of church per week would be enough, what with choir rehearsals and services, but it wasn't. I found that I was missing that personal connection that I'd forged with the members of my Prayer Circle. I missed hearing people's stories; I didn't know how much they'd sustained me.

So when I started feeling adrift a few weeks ago, I decided to check out Speak Out! I thought a little spiritual grounding might be in order.

The room was full; they actually had to add several more rows of seating. I spotted an empty chair and made a grab for it. I was smack in the middle, between two men whose mingled scents were a bit of an assault on my olfactory system. I thought about moving but I desperately did not want to be rude. (Although come 45 minutes into the hour I was feeling a little nauseous and second-guessing my decision.)

I have to pause for a minute...Just writing that makes me feel snobby and privileged, but that's how it was. The room was ripe.

I soon realized that the man on my left was hearing voices in his head. "Stand up! No! Sit down!" he muttered, alternately nodding and shaking his head. He made as though to stand, then wrapped his arms around his body and pushed himself back in his seat. "Okay, okay," he said to himself reassuringly. "It's okay. It's okay."

I remembered that comedy sketch (although I forget the comedian) about the guy walking down the street talking to himself, whom everybody thinks is crazy, but it turns out he's really talking to God. I decided the man on my left was okay with me.

The man on my right was eating a donut. There were a few boxes of donuts to tide people over until dinner was served at the end of the hour. Every day Glide serves breakfast, lunch and dinner to anyone who's hungry, and Speak Out coincides with the dinner hour, so they serve those folks specially at the end of the session. The man on my right was hungry. He ate two donuts while he waited for dinner to be served.

I was reminded of what a blessing it is not to be hungry.

And as though to underline that thought, a man walked up to the microphone and began talking about food.

"I wanna say thank you for Glide, for the breakfast program," he said. "It's so important. We can't wait for Saint Anthony's to open at 11:30. I'm gonna commit a crime if I have to wait until 11:30 to eat. That's too late. People don't know how this food program is cutting down on crime. I have a friend who said to me, 'I missed dinner. Guess I'm gonna go do what I have to do.' People gonna do what they have to do to get fed."

A woman came up to the microphone and said she was graduating from her rehab program. The room erupted with applause.

"I'm going to miss San Francisco," she said. "I'm going to miss Glide church. I just want to thank everybody for accepting me and feeding me...It's good to have folks to talk to. It's good to not be scared no more. I did a lot of stuff I didn't want to do. I did prostitution. I been beat up, you know. I seen a lot of bad parts of this city. But this city's been good to me too; I learned a lot here. I made friends. Now I'm going to go and I'm sad to go, but I thank you all for being here for me."

The next person rolled up to the mic in a wheelchair.

"I just want to invite everyone to a community meeting at the police headquarters next week. The San Francisco Chief of Police is leaving, and this is our chance to speak up about the kind of person that we want to replace her. This is a chance for the community to be heard, so please come and speak out."

We applauded after each person spoke, no matter what they said. One woman gave a little sermon on the topic of forgiveness. A man read a poem about the strength of a black man. Another man announced that his daughter was the first person in their family to go to college. Several times people walked up to the mic, introduced themselves and simply said, "I want to say thank you." Then they sat back down.

The faces in that room were mostly different faces than the ones I know from upstairs. Although Sunday services are open to everybody, I realized that not everyone who comes to Glide comes for the Celebrations. It was a different community downstairs.

And what impressed me was that Janice, Glide's founding president, knew everybody's name.

"Where's Magnolia?" she asked, looking around. "We haven't heard from her in awhile. Oh, Curtis! Come up here, Curtis! Come say a few words."

Jan, in her impeccable outfit and high heels, was at home down in the basement with the folks from the food line. And they loved her. I've long admired Jan, but I felt my respect for her surge in that moment: How many women do you know who can straddle two worlds in a pencil skirt?

A young man walked up to the microphone. He was part of a group from the nearby American Conservatory Theater. They've been writing theatrical pieces based on their experiences at Glide and plan to put on a performance for Glide folks next month.

"I wrote a poem about the food line," he said seriously. "It's a metaphor." His gaze traveled around the room before he opened his mouth to speak.

I am in line to eat.

He paused, purposefully.

I am last in line to eat so I can step out of line and I won't lose my spot.
I can step over here.

He paused again and I stifled a giggle. I wasn't sure yet if the poem was meant to be funny.

Hey you, look at me, can you stand here?
I'm free.
You are only two people in front of me, and you are stuck.
Stuck in that line.

A final pause. Then:

I'm sitting on this car.

That did it - I howled. I laughed so hard tears came to my eyes. In just a few short lines this guy had managed to tell an entire story. I saw that scene unfold as though I'd been walking past it. Brilliant, I thought. Just brilliant.

Oh, the little jewels you can stumble across in the course of your day.

The hour was wrapping up, and we moved on to the raffle. Every week they raffle off a few bags of groceries, and this time one went to the man whose daughter had made it into college. Then Darius stood up to announce dinner.

Darius is a tall black man with a deep, rolling voice. He took up the microphone and smiled. He said:

"Speak Out! is good, isn't it?"

And I was touched by how true that was. Speak Out! is good. Aside from the food, the community and an hour inside away from the cold, Speak Out! is a forum. How often do you think people on the street get a chance to step up to a microphone and speak their piece? I know how important a forum has been for me. This blog allows me to speak my mind even when I've got nothing in particular to say. I have the opportunity to speak out every day. I've entitled this blog Finding My Voice because writing here is helping me to find my voice, as a writer and a singer, but most importantly as a person. And it's a privilege, this virtual soapbox. It's good.

Darius said, "Now, ya'll know how this works. It's handicapped first, women second, men last. And please throw your trash away cause I got to stay until this is all cleaned up. All right, your menu for the evening:

"Your meat is kielbasa.
"Your drink is juice.
"Your vegetables is vegetables." (That set me laughing all over again.)
"Your starch is potatoes."

Jan beckoned him and he bent his tall body in half so she could whisper in his ear. Upon straightening up he said,

"Oh yeah: kielbasa is a kind of fancy sausage.

"Now ya'll, let's eat."

I didn't stay for dinner. I climbed the steps upstairs, toward choir rehearsal. And as I left, I felt good. I felt lighter.

They call the basement Freedom Hall. There is something freeing about a room where you can speak your truth so baldly without fear of judgement. It is a clean feeling, even if you haven't had the opportunity to wash. It's a full feeling, because you're getting fed in more ways than one.

I am better for having been there. And I'll be going back.

(The poet in this post is Philip Martinson. The piece is reprinted with his permission.)

Half black is the new black (bitch)

Some months ago, Tina Fey, while commentating on then-Democratic candidate Hillary Clinton, made this declaration: "Bitch is the new black!" And I laughed.

A few weeks later Tracy Morgan responded with a declaration of his own: "Bitch may be the new black, but black is the new president, bitch." And I roared.

But then yesterday, while surfing the internet, I came across this statement: Half black is the new black. And I thought: Whoa.

It was a genuine C&C Music Factory moment, truly one of those things that made me go "Hmm".

Yesterday I attended the Martin Luther King festivities down at the Civic Center. The Glide Ensemble sang. After the program was over I hung around outside for a while, taking pictures and soaking in the atmosphere of the city one day before our new president took office.

Most people were wearing Obama t-shirts, but there was one small girl whose shirt caught my eye. It said: little mixed girl.

She was a beautiful child: biracial with light eyes and a cloud of dark hair. I bent down towards her and smiled. "I like your shirt!" I said, but she just stared at me, hiding behind her mother's legs.

When I got home I went online, looking for that t-shirt. To my surprise I found a range of clothing dedicated to multi-ethnic people. "Are we a market?" I wondered aloud, knowing even as I spoke the words that the answer was yes, that I was foolish not to have realized this. It was while I was searching for t-shirts that I stumbled on the words half black is the new black. Referring, of course, to the president.

Well, that made me think. Black people all over the nation are rejoicing that today, a man who looks like them took up the highest office in the land. We are calling him our first black president.

I feel that joy. I feel that relief, I feel that justice, I feel that hope. I feel it for my dad, a black man, for my grandmother, from whom Alzheimer's has likely robbed the meaning of this day. I feel it for those members of my family who never thought they'd live to see this, and for those who didn't live to see it. That's my responsibility, you know? That's my place in history: I am a witness to this day, to what it means.

But all along I've been looking at this through the lens of my black history. And you know what? I am not a black woman.

I am a biracial woman, both black and white. I have always looked at life from one side or the other, trying to see both sides of every issue. Interestingly, I am also a Libra, constantly striving for balance. I took turns seeing things from each point of view.

I don't think I ever fully realized, until this day, that as a multi-ethnic person, I am a race unto myself. I am more than half my father and half my mother. I suppose most people don't take so long to self-identify, but when your folks look so different and come from such different backgrounds, it's easy to spend your life quantifying which parts of you come from which parent. And I don't think it ever occurred to me that there is something about me that stands alone. I know something about what it means to be white, because my mom taught me that. And I know something about what it means to be black, because my dad taught me that. But they couldn't teach me what it means to be mixed, and I guess I'm still learning it for myself.

A couple of years ago Monte and I were browsing at a street market and I spotted a t-shirt that made me gasp. The design on the shirt was from a page of an old standardized test, the part where you had to fill in the bubble that described your racial identity. Choose one of the following, the shirt said: Black / White / Other. The Other bubble was filled in.

I grabbed Monte by the arm. "Look at this," I whispered.

"Cool," he said.

I shook my head. "That's me," I told him.

"Yeah, it's cool," he said.

And I couldn't explain why there were tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat. I couldn't explain why I kept touching the shirt, why I was so reluctant to walk on. I still wish I'd bought it.

I used to fill in the Other bubble on standardized tests. When I took my SATs, I remember my dad asking which bubble I'd chosen. When I told him, he got upset.

"Next time, I want you to choose Black, OK?"

"I'm not going to do that!" I declared. "I'm not going to deny my white side!" My dad closed his eyes in a gesture of frustration. He and I were having trouble communicating in my 17th year.

"It's not about that," he said stiffly.

"But I'm not just black!" I insisted. I looked to my mother for help, hopeful that she would understand. She smiled a little.

"It's about tuition assistance, Errin," she said.

I crossed my arms in a huff. I could understand that, but I was still upset.

It's not as though I've spent my life stewing about this Other bubble. But last night I remembered it. And as I sat there thinking about it I realized that Barack Obama probably filled in that Other bubble too.

You see, we're calling him our nation's first black president. But Barack Obama is a biracial man, raised by a white mother and white grandparents. It's ironic, really: his ancestors weren't even slaves here, and yet we're looking at him as a symbol of racial freedom. How many grandmothers have proclaimed this year that they never thought they'd see this day? And yet President Obama's own grandmother, who died just a short while ago, likely never dwelled on dreams such as those.

When we look to the leaders, we all want to see someone who looks like us, don't we?

Yesterday my father wrote about how the optimism of his children renewed his own sense of hope. "They were well protected and provided for so why wouldn't they assume anything is possible?" And I probably have always believed that I would live to see a black person become president.

But it never occurred to me that one of my own would take the office.

Watching him take the oath today, I felt a new sense of definition. I have a race. It's not just the sum of others' parts, it's my own identity.

"For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness."

My president spoke those words today.

Of course, I am joking when I say that half black is the new black (bitch). I think we can all see a part of ourselves in our new president, and that's what makes it such a sweet victory. We no longer have to Choose (only) one of the following. We no longer have to fill in the Other bubble when nothing else fits. There's room for everybody on this page, in this age, and if you need reminding, just look at our president.

He looks a little like us, doesn't he?

Give

I found this little piece of art* a few years ago at a flea market. I think I bought it for $5.

I used to display it on my bookcase, beside an empty bowl, as a joking request for donations. But when I took the bowl away, I found that that little block of wood made a powerful statement standing all by itself.

Give.

When I'm not giving enough, the universe lets me know. This year, the universe sent somebody to rob my apartment. It pissed me off initially, but then I got hip to what the universe was trying to tell me: You have so much. What are you giving back?

I attend Glide Memorial Church. Every time I go there I see people lined up around the block, waiting for food. Glide feeds people 3 times a day, 365 days a year, but during the Christmas season the giving really amps up. They provide new toys for the children of the Tenderloin and bags of groceries for families in need. This year they ran out of grocery bags. This year, more people are hungry.

I walk past the food line twice a week. I know that not much separates me from the folks who rely on Glide's meals. Every time I get an unemployment check, I remember that.

And yet, I still struggle with the act of giving. My savings account is in the low four figures. It's easy to tell myself that I don't have enough money to share.

But then someone like my friend Mark reminds me that my gift creates an opportunity for somebody else. My contribution, no matter how small, may help somebody rebuild their life. Mark lifted the offering at church a few weeks ago and he shared his story. I was moved to tears by all that he had, all that he lost, and all that he's gained.

Give from Errin M on Vimeo.

I give money to Glide because I see real people putting their lives back together with Glide's assistance. I smell the food wafting up from the kitchen during service; I see the line of people who come to eat. I've seen the new Teen Center and the computer lab; I know the Health Clinic will accept me if I need medical care. I found help at the prayer circle when I was last unemployed; I go to Speak Out to hear the voices of my community. There is help to be found there, but more people than ever are in need.

And you know what? I can afford to give.

Who will you give to this year?


*The artist is Albert Reyes.

Dance dance revolution

There's a man at church who stands in the corner of the balcony and does interpretive dance while we sing. He lifts his arms to the heavens and waves them around, as though conducting a large-scale spiritual orchestra.

The first time I saw him he cracked me up. "Do you see this guy?" I murmured to the people around me onstage. He was so conspicuous with his huge, sweeping gestures, I couldn't help but giggle. And the remarkable thing was that he was so un-self-conscious. He narrated every song with a new interpretation of movement, waging rhythmic battle during the fast tunes and painting languid pictures during the slow ones. I had to give him credit for endurance; it was like watching a ninety minute aerobics class. Church-ercise, if you will.

Week after week this man turns up to dance his praise, and I've come to realize something: He's awesome. Once I got past my own self-consciousness, my own knee-jerk reaction to giggle at something a little bit different, I realized how much joy this man is putting into his dance. He hears the music and transforms it into something to see. The man dances with abandon. And as I watch him, I feel a little bubble of happiness swelling in my chest. His joy is feeding my own.

So go on, interpretive dancer guy! Do your thing.

Actually, I think his name is Carl.

Go on, Carl!

No on Proposition 8

Man, I've been busy.

In this past month I've been robbed, had a birthday and started training for a marathon. I've also been preparing for a trip to Europe, which begins this weekend! So I haven't had much time to write. I apologize to my 8 readers.

I've also been busy keeping up with this election. For the first time (ever, really) I am learning about the issues because of a genuine interest, rather than a guilty feeling that I should be more informed.

I have tried, in the past, to become more involved in our democratic process. Four years ago I volunteered with the Democratic National Convention. I wasn't working at the time and it seemed like a great way to make a little money, meet some new people and be a part of what was happening in the world.

I lasted one day. And folks, I didn't think I was going to last that long. They had us knocking on doors to request donations, which is something that I absolutely hate to do. I'm a lousy salesperson. I was that Girl Scout who sold the fewest boxes of cookies, okay? I don't even like convincing people to give money in exchange for desired goods, so I surely wanted nothing to do with asking people to give money out of a sense of civic duty. I think I literally would have preferred to spend the day giving myself paper cuts.

As if that weren't bad enough, I didn't anticipate the sheer amount of exercise involved in canvassing hilly neighborhoods on foot. I was exhausted within the hour. My fundraising partner was a dedicated woman in her fifties with an ungodly amount of energy. As darkness began to fall she turned to me and said earnestly, "I think we should run between houses. We'll cover more ground that way." That's when I knew I was never coming back.

Flash forward to present day. I've been watching the debates with great enthusiasm, playing Palin Bingo and having post-mortem discussions with my friends and co-workers. I've given small donations to the Obama campaign and a handful of non-profit organizations. But I did not intend to donate my time. For one thing, I don't have a lot of it, so I consider it to be a bit of a precious commodity. And just as I'd long ago come to terms with my guilt over not giving blood (the very thought makes me woozy), I'd made my peace with the fact that I don't volunteer. About four years ago, in fact.

But lately I've found myself yelling at the TV, especially when I see those Yes on Proposition 8 ads. Proposition 8 is the measure proposed to ban gay and lesbian marriage in California. I have long been a supporter of gay rights, but I didn't realize until this year just how fervently I believe in this issue. In fact, I was surprised to find myself holding back tears when Joe Biden announced in the vice presidential debate that neither he nor Barack Obama support changing the definition of marriage to include same-sex couples. I'd like to believe that was a purely political move, and that in their hearts they want true equality for everyone, but it desperately hurt my feelings to think that they have to temper their views to appeal to the politics of conservative voters.

I suppose Glide has much to do with shaping my views on this issue. Every week I am privileged to be greeted with messages of equality, acceptance and respect. But I've also had the chance to meet and befriend so many different people. It's become a natural thing for me to witness love in its many forms. Sometimes I forget that not everyone is so fortunate.

The first time I ever pondered the issue of gay rights I was 12 years old. I was at the mall with some friends and I saw a man dressed as a woman. It puzzled me, because he was obviously a man with an Adam's apple and a 5 o'clock shadow to boot. But he was wearing a stretchy white dress, high heels and carrying a big white purse. I wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

I decided to broach the subject over Thanksgiving dinner that weekend. "I saw a man at the mall the other day," I announced to my parents and visiting relatives. "He was dressed like a lady with a wig and makeup and everything." I'm not sure what sort of feedback I expected from my announcement. But I was kind of confused by what I'd seen and I think I was looking for some sort of adult opinion to help me shape my own ideas.

I was not prepared for the small explosion that issued forth from my aunt. "Oh Lord, no!" she exclaimed. "No, no, no-no-no! That is not natural. That is not right! My goodness, no." She was shaking her head and shredding her turkey in consternation.

"What do you mean?" I questioned carefully. She really looked as though she might have a stroke. "Why is it so bad if a man wants to wear a dress?" I realized as I spoke the words that I didn't understand why a man would want to wear a dress, but it hadn't disturbed my day, so why get bothered about it? My aunt made the sign of the cross.

"Sinful, it's just sinful; that's all it is! Going against God! A man wearing a dress, it's just not natural. Sinful," she emphasized with the point of her finger.

I was taken aback by her vehemence. I'd never known my aunt to be anything but loving and accepting. After all, we were an interracial family and to my knowledge she'd never had trouble accepting my mom. I couldn't understand her position. "Why is it sinful?" I pressed.

My aunt began rocking back and forth in her chair, pleating her napkin with worry. "Why is it sinful? Why? Lord Jesus, no," she muttered. My parents shot me a look that clearly said, "Let it go". I think we were all concerned that my aunt might have an apoplectic fit right there at the table. So I dropped the subject, but not before saying cheerfully, "I liked his purse."

My aunt snorted loudly into her napkin.

As an adult I look back and realize that that exchange did more to shape my views about gay rights than anything in the years that followed. Yes, at 12 years old I thought there was something a bit odd about a man in a dress, but the absolute intolerance of my aunt's position, the furious way that she spoke against a person she hadn't even seen struck me as being ridiculous. Unwittingly, she primed me for the opposite side.

I was a senior in high school when my best friend stormed up to me one day in a rage. "Did you know," she demanded, "that it's illegal for gay people to get married? Did you know that?"

I did not know that. Honestly, it had never occurred to me. She was the only gay person I knew.

"I'm not allowed to get married!" she railed. "How is that fair? Why is that allowed? What, do they think that just because I'm a lesbian I can't fall in love with somebody? Do they think that gay people don't want to get married and have families?"

"Do you want to get married?" I asked her, curious. I didn't think that she did.

"I don't know!" she shouted. "I don't know! But don't I at least deserve that choice?" I nodded.

She swooped in on me. "Doesn't this bother you? Don't you think it's wrong?"

Of course I thought it was wrong, I assured her. But to be honest, I was having trouble working up to her level of indignation. We were kids and marriage was so far away. And she really was the only person I knew who was affected by the issue. Empathy is hard to come by at 17. I was in the throes of self-obsession.

Today I think back on my reaction and I'm slightly ashamed. Now I have a better understanding of how it must have felt to learn for the first time that you're not allowed the same basic rights as everybody else. Now I have a sense of how deeply that must have hurt.

Interestingly enough, our home state of Connecticut ruled to legalize gay marriage last week. This is fantastic news. But in a terrible twist, Californians now have real cause to worry that the right for same-sex couples to marry may be overturned in next month's election.

Which brings me to last night. Despite my aversion to volunteering I'd been feeling a new sense of responsibility, an increasing awareness that I need to play a part in the solution if I'm going to bitch about the problem. So I signed up for a time slot manning phone banks for the No on Prop 8 campaign. Recalling my experience with the DNC, I was not looking forward to the evening. I expected to have a dismal time. But I went anyway, because I knew I'd be kicking myself if the measure passed and I hadn't done anything to fight it.

To my surprise and delight, it was a wonderful experience. From the moment I walked into the Castro headquarters I was thrilled by the operation; the atmosphere was charged with purpose. The large room was filled with people, but right off the bat I spotted several friends from Glide. I was 10 minutes too late for the first training session, so I was urged to help myself to food while I waited for the next round of instructions. The training was more thorough than I'd expected; for half an hour they led us through our talking points and had us practice making calls. We were given a script to follow, so there was no need to speak off the cuff. And then they turned us loose with our cell phones to start changing the world.

Here's where it got a little disheartening: I made 63 phone calls last night. I only reached 3 people who pledged to vote No on Prop 8. Most of the numbers I dialed never picked up. I actually whipped through my entire list in an hour and had to be given another one.

After reaching my 25th answering machine, I put my phone down and heaved a sigh of frustration. But then I took a moment to glance around the room. Everywhere I looked volunteers were crammed in at tables, sprawled on couches, perched on folding chairs or laying on the floor. Everyone had a phone pressed against their ear; half the room was jabbing in earnest. Every once in awhile we heard the ding! of a bell as someone signified that they'd gotten a No vote. And the rest of the room would flutter their hands in silent applause. Taking in the scene, I was filled with hope. I felt like I was part of history in the making. Turns out I didn't miss the civil rights movement after all.

So here are the stats from last night, and this is why we need you: 609 people pledged to vote No on Proposition 8. 7 people pledged to vote No and made a financial donation. 112 people told us that they were voting yes on Proposition 8. 1 person said that they were voting yes and made a financial contribution to the other side.

90 people were undecided. That's 90 undecided folks who learned more about the issue last night, due to our phone calls. That's 90 people who might take the time to go to the website and get the facts before casting their vote. And this election is going to be so close. Just a few of those 90 votes may be enough to tip the scales in our favor.

Now here's the troubling thing: Many people told us that they hadn't heard anything about Proposition 8 and didn't know what it was. So the message isn't reaching far enough. Even more troubling: several folks reported, "Yes, I support same-sex marriage, so I'm voting yes on Proposition 8." No, no, no! Granted, the language is a bit confusing, so we have to call more voters and make sure the message is clear.

Last night I learned that the opposition has out-funded us by 9 million dollars, which means that people are seeing more of their ads than ours. And because so many people are undecided or uninformed, it's really mission critical that we get our message out. The message is that all of us are worthy and deserving of equality, acceptance, respect and love.

So I urge you to participate in the phone banks, donate your time or your money. With less than a month till Election Day, our collective action is needed more urgently than ever before.

As a biracial woman, I often ponder the fact that I'm not too many generations removed from a time when it would have been illegal for my parents to marry. And then where would my brother and I be? My mom and dad waited for 5 years before having kids because they weren't sure the world was ready for us. And not everybody was. But could you look at me now and say that the love that brought me into this world was wrong? How can we look at anybody and say: The love you feel for that man, for that woman, is wrong?

Love is not wrong. You can't go wrong with love.

Please vote.


For more information, go to www.noonprop8.com .

Oh, doo-dah day

My friend Boz has been visiting this past week and I took him to Glide yesterday. He skipped the 9:00 AM celebration in favor of breakfast, and I planned to collect him in time to score a good seat for the second service.

I hadn't soloed in quite awhile due to my strep throat, so I figured the odds were good that I'd get called on that morning. The congregation doesn't realize that the choir rarely has advance knowledge of what we're going to sing. What we rehearse on Wednesday night may not have any bearing on what we sing Sunday morning. As a soloist, I have to recognize the opening chords of my song and get down to the microphone in time to sing the first phrase. It can be more than a little nerve-wracking.

But yesterday I was hoping for the chance to sing. And I was glad that Boz was coming to the second service, so that I could warm up during the 9:00 AM and feel a little more secure with my song. We hadn't rehearsed it in quite awhile.

Sure enough, the final number of the morning turned out to be 'Smile Again'. I heard John murmur to the band, "Keep your head up!" which is a line repeated in the chorus. Suddenly a wave of nervousness flooded through me and my legs started trembling. I took a few deep breaths and directed a silent prayer toward the stained glass window in the balcony. For some reason, I always feel like God is hanging out back there.

When I approached the mic I'd regained a measure of calm. The anticipation is always worse than the act; once I open my mouth there's nothing to do but plow forward. You've just got to sing.

"Tell me how you feel..." I began. "When you're all alone / No one to say, 'I love you' / You feel all your hope is gone." My voice came out strong and smooth and I relaxed into the song.

"You call your best friend / And she's not there / So you wind up feeling empty / Feeling like nobody cares." I glided through the first and second verses. Things were going well, and I felt confident enough to throw in a few vocal squiggles.

That may have been what tripped me up.

After the second verse there's a bridge to the chorus. As we approached the bridge I felt a flicker of confusion; it didn't sound as though the band was heading in the right direction. Instead of building to a crescendo they were pulling back, and seemingly leading me toward the quieter vocal improv section. Had we already done the bridge? My brain hit rewind as I tried to remember, but everything was a blur except those damn vocal squiggles. I was so focused on my embellishment that I'd lost my place in the tune.

Afraid of being left out there on my own if I belted out the bridge, I began the improv - and immediately realized that I'd skipped ahead. Crap. I'd jumped right over the bridge and the chorus and cut to the finale. Oh well. The song would just be a little shorter.

"Ooh...ooh, ooh..." I crooned my way through my mistake. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Dee dah doo dah, dee dah doo dah..." Have I mentioned that vocal improv is not my strong suit? Feeling like a bit of an ass, I made a mental note to enroll in that improvisation class at the Berkeley Jazz School.

I glanced behind me at the choir and threw them an apologetic smile. "Oh well," it was intended to say. "Let's just take it to the finish." But the choir didn't come in with the chorus - and rightly so; they were looking at our director, which is what I should have been doing. But when I glanced over at John he was frowning like thunder and I panicked and launched into the improv section again.

"Oh...yeah...Doo doo doo, smile again..." Oh dear God. Why wouldn't they cut to the end? The band just kept playing so I just kept ooh-ing, and then I started gesticulating with my free hand to seem more sincere. "Oh yeah!" I sang, waving my left hand spastically. "Dee dah-duhn, dee dah-day! Smile again!"

I made a quarter turn to the left to grace that side of the audience with a few doo-dahs and glanced surreptitiously at John. He was scowling at me. Wide-eyed, I shot him a pleading look: End it! For the love of God, end it! But the band played on. They launched into the verse again and I followed them helplessly into a third round of be-bop hell.

With glassy eyes and a plastic smile, I tried to communicate to the audience that everything was A-OK. "This is the way the song goes," I ooh-ed at them reassuringly. "No need to feel worried or uncomfortable. There's supposed to be three verses of improv here, honest!"

Beyond the dull roar of panic in my ears I heard John holler to the guitar player, "Take it up!" And with a metallic Thwang! we lurched into the new key, mid-verse. Undaunted, I threw out an "Ooh yeah!" before I recognized that the band's crescendo was intentional; they were trying to drown me out. Tim began his guitar solo and I took a step back. The smile stuck stubbornly to my face but inside my heart sank; the vocal improv section comes after the guitar solo. I was going to have to do the whole thing over again.

Oh, kill me now.

Usually I say a little prayer during Tim's part, something along the lines of, "Lord, please guide me through this next section." But God appeared to be just as shell-shocked as I was. In my mind's eye I saw Phil Hartman dressed as Jesus, shrugging his shoulders at me. So I stretched my face into a grimace-y smile and plunged ahead into one more round of vocal gibberish.

We reached the pinnacle of the song, where I belt out a note and sustain it for eight beats. Halfway through, I felt all the moisture in my mouth dry up at once. I finished the note with a croak and desperately tried to conjure up some spit to get me through to the end. But I couldn't do it; my tongue felt like sandpaper. I rolled my eyes heavenward, but now Phil-Hartman-as-Jesus had covered his face with his hands.

I stifled a coughing fit. "Yeah!" I hacked. "Ooh yeah!" I wheezed. "Smile again! Smile again!" With blessed relief I heard the choir rolling to a stop behind me and I heaved out a final phrase: "SMI-I-I-LE again, yeah yeah yeah-eh-eh-eh!" Then I gave a weak smile to the congregation, a quick hug to each of the pastors, and scooted my ass right off that stage.

It was over.

After chugging a bottle of water and hiding out behind the robe racks for a few minutes, I went to find John. Glenn and Eddie (the bass and drum player, respectively) were sitting on a bench in the hallway, taking a break during the sermon. "Hi guys," I waved sheepishly at them. "Um, I'm sorry about that."

They chuckled. Glenn shook his head. "Don't sweat it," he said. "Yeah," added Eddie. "You did all right. You kept going. At least you didn't get that 'deer-in-the-headlights' look." Then John came out of the office. I met his gaze with some trepidation.

"You forgot the turnaround," he said to me. "And without the turnaround we couldn't change the key."

And without changing the key, they couldn't end the song.

Ohhh.

I cringed. But then I rallied: "I didn't forget the turnaround. It didn't sound like the band was going to go there. I thought you guys had skipped ahead, so I skipped ahead too."

John replied, "You're the soloist. We'll follow you."

Right. I knew that. I felt a little dumb.

After a minute John conceded, "We might be able to take half the blame." And we all started laughing.

John turned to Glenn and Eddie. "She started going, 'Hmm, hmm, hmm,' and I was like, 'What the hell is she doing?" He bent in half, wheezing with laughter and the guys started cracking up. Tears were coming out of John's eyes, he was laughing so hard.

Well, come on guys. It wasn't that funny.

I toyed with the idea of falling into a funk, but decided against it. Instead I found Boz, stationed him in a prime spot, and squared my shoulders to do it all again. And I'm proud to say that at the second service, I kicked that song's ass.

This time I looked at John right before the turnaround. He rolled his eyes at me and looked away. I smothered a grin and leaned into the key change. And when the improv section came along, I sang those little doo-dahs like I was born to it.

Some of what the world needs

I went to see Douglass Fitch preach yesterday and my insides woke up.

I'd already been to two services at Glide and witnessed a great sermon by Karen Oliveto (twice). Karen is our newest pastor and she's brought her own light into the church. She's already stirring things up, much to the approval of the ministry team.

But a sermon from Pastor Fitch is a rare treat these days, since his retirement from Glide. I first heard Douglass speak when I came to the church almost 3 years ago. His words triggered a great leaping feeling in my chest that I later came to associate with joy.

I'd never had a pastor before. My family attended Catholic church when I was a child, but more out of duty than desire. Eventually we stopped going altogether. I certainly don't recall ever hearing a sermon that moved me.

I will write about how I came to Glide on another day, but right now I want to organize my thoughts surrounding Doug's sermon yesterday.

He spoke about potential, or more specifically, how so many people are living below their potential. So many of us have become accustomed to thinking that some dreams are simply beyond our reach.

It was a pretty appropriate message for me yesterday, as I'm given to periods of self-doubt when I'm unable to sing. I'd mouthed the words to all the songs at the morning services, still waiting for my voice to return to full strength.

Sometimes I feel kind of stupid for having announced to so many people that I'm going to be a professional singer. It builds this expectation that can be difficult to live up to. And Glide is not an objective place to gauge your successes. There's such an abundance of love and support, I'm not always sure how my talent will stand up outside those walls. Suppose the rest of the world is just not that interested in me?

So I sat up a little straighter when Doug Fitch said, "I know that I have some of what the world needs. I don't have all of it! But I've got some of it."

I was listening harder when he continued, "Somebody needs my particular touch. Somebody needs my perspective."

And I was taking notes a minute later, as he insisted that God has given us some assignments. We're supposed to fashion our unique gifts into something that brings light into the world. We've got to understand that our potential is unlimited; it was given to us at birth before we were even given a name. And that potential is only diminished if we put a ceiling on it.

"'Your best days are not behind you,'" he quoted. "'Your best days are in front of you.' I'm saying, don't die with your gifts still in you!"

I looked around the room. We were in a small chapel; it only seats about 80. Every seat was full. Half the people there had already sat through at least one church service that morning. But they came to hear Douglass speak. They came to be inspired.

Sometimes I wonder if music is important enough to build a life around. I think that surely it's not as important as being a doctor or an architect or a professor, someone who heals or builds or teaches.

But then I think: people come in droves to see their favorite musicians play. They pack giant arenas, they pay hundreds of dollars. They come because the music moves them. They come to be inspired.

And whether I sing for one or for thousands, I'm sharing my light with the world. I'm not going to die with my gifts still in me.

I expect that God wouldn't be too pleased about that.

Stupid Murphy

Yesterday just pissed me right off.

It was one of those days at work where everybody needed something. I was trying to concentrate on a big project but every few minutes there was a phone call or an email, something that demanded my immediate attention. I'd been working through my lunch hour all week in order to take the afternoon off for my doctor's appointment, and when I left the office at 2:00 I hadn't gotten much accomplished.

I went through the dance routine of dragging my bike on the BART. It goes a little something like this: Unstrap tote bag, unhook pannier, pick up bike, walk up 2 flights of stairs, put down bike, scrape right calf. Re-situate pannier, re-strap top bag, wedge bike into small space on train, move to accommodate wheelchair. Fight through the throng to exit train, unstrap tote bag, unhook pannier, pick up bike, walk down 2 flights of stairs, bang right ankle. Re-situate pannier, re-strap top bag, exit station.

At the doctor's office I explained about my reoccurring ailments, the sore throats and the chest colds. The doctor took a cursory peek in my mouth and said I looked fine, except for some rather large tonsils. I asked if I ought to have them removed but she was noncommittal. She diagnosed me with allergies and suggested I take an over-the-counter medication.

I wasn't satisfied with this diagnosis so I pressed my case. To appease me she did a strep culture and measured my peak flow, and of course I exhaled like a champ, lending little credence to my breathing complaints. My peak flow registered normal, just as my computer always reverts to its best behavior when the IT guy comes around.

"Allergies," she said again in an authoritative way. I left her office in a funk. What a weenie diagnosis. I mean, who gets ill five times in one year from allergies? I was ready for some kind of disease, man. Give me something I can stand and fight! But don't send me home with Flo-Nase and a wimp reputation. Come on.

I went across the hall to the pharmacy to collect my prescription. In addition to the nasal spray I was supposed to receive a peak flow meter so I could continue to monitor my breathing at home. But the prescription didn't call for a peak flow, so I had to go back across the hall to the doctor's office and wait 15 minutes for the scrip to be re-written.

Back to the pharmacy and this time they tried to give me an inhaler spacer. "But I don't have an inhaler," I said. "Are you sure?" they asked me. "Pretty sure," I said. "I'm supposed to get a peak flow meter."

"That's not what this is," said the pharmacist.

"Uh huh." I said.

She considered for a moment, rubbing her pregnant belly. "Well, we could call the doctor's office," she mused. "But we'd have to leave a message and then wait for them to call us back. It would probably be faster for you just to go back over there."

I'd like to reiterate that the doctor was across the hall.

So I went back to the doctor for the third time. And waited another 15 minutes. Finally the doctor herself appeared and escorted me personally to the pharmacy.

"I do not know what the trouble is," she said in her French accent, which was simultaneously melodic and intimidating. "This girl needs a peak flow and I ask for a peak flow. What do I have to write to communicate this?"

Turns out she needed to write PEAK FLOW.

So we went back to her office so she could write another prescription. And then I returned to the pharmacy - for the fourth time - to complete my transaction.

Back down to the street where I unlocked my bike and looked around for someplace to eat. I'd been planning to enjoy an early dinner before my hooping class and choir rehearsal, but now I was short on time. I decided to grab a quick sandwich at a nearby bagel shop before jumping back on the BART. I spotted a rack and locked up my bike, then lumbered into the store with my heavy bags in tow.

Inside the bagel shop I immediately regretted my order, but it was too late to change my mind; they were already assembling the food. I paid for my sandwich and was just sitting down at a table when the overhead lights went out. Confused, I looked back toward the counter. "Sorry miss," said the shop owner. "We're closed now. You have to leave."

Great.

I shouldered my bags and stepped outside again, looking around for someplace to eat. I settled on bus stop bench and took a bite of my sandwich. It was tasteless and they'd used the wrong kind of bagel. With a sigh, I pulled out my library book and balanced it on my knees. The dinosaurs had just escaped in Jurassic Park and I wanted to see who got gutted next.

"You been here long?" There was a slick looking businessman with thinning hair and unnecessary sunglasses resting one foot on the edge of my bench. "You see the Number 12 bus come by?"

"Sorry," I said after swallowing. "I just got here a minute ago." I turned my attention back to the dinosaurs.

"Does the 59 go to Oakland?" he asked.

"I don't know," I admitted. "I'm only sitting here because the bagel shop is closed. I'm not actually waiting for a bus." I flipped a page and resumed reading.

The man spied my bike helmet and thought he'd made a friend. "I just started biking to work myself," he confided. "Man, I'm loving it."

On another day I might have been more encouraging but I was hungry, cranky and into my dinosaurs. I was seeking five minutes of peace with my tasteless sandwich before I resumed the pace of my day. So I mumbled, "Well that's great," and made a rather large show of returning to my book.

"Really keeps you in shape," he continued, as I closed my eyes and counted to ten. And then thankfully his bus arrived and whisked him away.

I finished my sandwich, stuck my book in my bag and unlocked my bike, which goes like this: rummage for keys, undo U-lock, unwind cable, grab for falling bike, scrape right shin. Hook on pannier, strap on top bag, coil cable, store locks, hike up pants, commence ride. It was five minutes to the BART station where I did the dance with my bike yet again. I ascended to the platform only to discover I'd missed my train by seconds.

Twenty minutes later I was crammed in with the commuter populace, thinking hard about my schedule. I would be on time for my hoop class, but barely. Then I'd really have to book it in order to arrive at choir practice no more than fifteen minutes late.

The doors opened and a man in an electronic wheelchair backed into my bike as he exited the train ("Just a minute sir, wait one second please till I get out of your - Whoa! Okay, ow."). He didn't even look back. I shuffled off the train, did the bike dance and pedaled like fury until I arrived in front of the hooping studio, then hopped off, breathless.

Locked the bike up.

Once inside I discovered my teacher telling the class that she'd forgotten the hoops. She came to hoop class without the hoops, people! "I'm so sorry," she said. "I can go back and get them, but class will start half an hour late. Is that okay with everyone? Nobody has to leave early, do they?"

I do, I said silently.

So much for choir practice.

We hung around the studio for forty minutes, waiting for the teacher to return. Several people had brought their own hoops and they spent a happy time spinning, practicing their moves. I sat against a wall.

It was a great class, once we got going, and I was glad I hadn't left. But we didn't get out until 8:00, a full hour after choir rehearsal had started. I debated whether I should even bother going, but after missing Sunday's service I didn't want to miss rehearsal too. I figured I'd go catch the last 45 minutes.

Unlocked the bike.

I arrived at Glide sweaty and out of breath and heaved my bike up the stairs and into the sanctuary. The choir was onstage, holding hands. They were singing the prayer song, the final song. Our director had decided to end practice half an hour early. I arrived just in time to say goodbye to everyone.

"Goodbye! Goodbye!" they chorused. I waved weakly.

Leah offered me a ride home but I had to decline, as she had no room for my bike. So I lugged it down the stairs, over to the station and up to the platform. Hopped a train, then zoned out for 20 minutes until it was time to wrestle the bike down the stairs. I rode home in the dark.

I arrived back at the building to discover that my usual parking spot was taken; all the hooks on the walls were filled with bikes. I couldn't believe it; in nearly a year no one had ever taken my spot. "Well that's just great," I said out loud. "Complete my freaking day."

All right, that's not exactly what I said.

I wedged my bike in between two other bikes, knowing that it would be cast aside by morning. Then I trudged up the stairs to my apartment.

Monte poked his head out from behind a small mountain of cardboard. "Hi baby!" he said cheerfully. "I'm going through my boxes!"

"I can see that," I said wearily. Our closet was in lovely shape after the weekend clean-out, but the living room was still a bit of a disaster zone. The most dangerous area had been dubbed 'Monte's corner' because of the six large boxes containing remnants of his past. Most of those remnants were now scattered on the floor.

I sank onto the couch while Monte excavated mementos, exclaiming over each as though he were pulling rabbits out of a hat. "Hey, it's my yearbook! Check out that handsome young guy, eh? Wow, I've been looking for that sweater. Wags! I found Wags the Dog!

"Hey, check it out; here are my tapes," he said. "Madonna, Cyndi Lauper, El Debarge...wait, I don't remember owning El Debarge."

"Those are mine," I said, crawling onto the floor to inspect the collection. "Dirty Dancing, Janet Jackson...Ooh! DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince!"

"Oh, we've got to put that on," Monte said.

"Tori Amos," I continued. "Couple of mix tapes. That's funny; look at this exercise mix from 2001. It's got half the same songs as my iPod does right now. I guess I haven't evolved much."

Monte had discovered another box. "What's this?" he asked. He opened the lid and ran his hand over the contents. "Here's your old digital camera," he said. "And a film camera too. And is that your Palm Pilot?"

For a moment I froze. "Baby," I said. "That's the technology box."

He looked at me in astonishment.

The technology box is what I'd dubbed the packing box where I'd stored all my electronic equipment when we moved to California five years ago. It was nowhere to be found upon arrival. After unpacking nearly all the boxes ("These few boxes are mine," Monte insisted. "I'll go through my old stuff later.") and searching the house thoroughly, we'd come to the conclusion that we must have left the box behind at the airport. I'd mourned the loss of all my gadgetry at once. It had been quite a blow.

"This is the technology box?" Monte said in wonder.

"Yes!" I cried. "This is it! Look, there's my mini tape recorder! And all my old zip disks! My headphones! This has been sitting in the closet for five years?" I said accusingly. "In your boxes?"

He shrugged and attempted to divert. "Look baby, your Palm Pilot." He held it out to me.

It worked. "My Palm Pilot," I repeated. "Man, I never thought I'd see this thing again. How cool." I gazed at it for a moment. "You know what's so funny?" I said. "Just the other day, when we were cleaning out the closet, I came across the manual and all the software for this in the - " I stopped suddenly.

"Hmm?" he prompted.

I smacked myself in the forehead. "Just the other day I came across the software for this and I THREW IT AWAY. After five years of holding onto that stuff I threw it away and THREE DAYS LATER I find the goddamn Palm Pilot! Sonofabitch!"

Monte blinked.

"I'm going to bed," I said, and stomped into the other room. I brushed my teeth, took out my contacts and flung myself into bed. I threw Jurassic Park onto my nightstand with a thump.

And my bookmark fell out.