“So, why on earth are you in Canada if you’re from California?” The young man was standing just outside the Toronto Eaton Centre passing out flyers for something or other when he struck up a conversation between my sister and myself. We were heading toward the crosswalk and on our way to grab a couple of Canadian beers and pizza.
My sister turned to the guy with the flyers again. “We just wanted to visit for fun.”
The real reason falls somewhere between my sister’s weird obsessions with the Great White North and my desire to travel the entire globe. Canada was not my first choice, but I was curious to see how America’s hat actually lived. (more…)
Within the span of four hours in the car that had carried us up and over hills and traveled beside the ocean, we had driven under a sky that had gone from a murky brown to a clear bright blue, to a cool misty gray. My sister and I had decided to visit my dad at his new place in San Luis Obispo for the weekend. We planned on leaving early that morning from Orange County and meeting up for lunch on the Central Coast.
We ended up spending the rest of the day getting a tour of the college town from our dad, sampling the local coffee, and walking along the various piers that gave beautiful views of the ocean. (more…)
There’s something about getting lost in the rows of paint, clay, and metal that are hung on the walls and that populate the formerly empty spaces of an art gallery or museum.Within a glance, I can feel the emotions that had flowed through the bodies of artists and can learn the histories of other eras through the stories those artists tell through various mediums.
I spent one of the past weekends, as I usually do, in a half-filled Southern Californian art museum. It was during this time that I was able to hear the stories of African Americans spanning nearly half a century from artist Kerry James Marshall’s exhibition, Mastry.
“Jasmine!” My sister was making her way into my mother’s house where we had been visiting during Mother’s Day weekend. “Jasmine, I found this wedged in between the windshield wipers of you car!”
I took the envelope with my name written on it and proceeded to turn it over. “What is this?”
“I don’t know. I found it on your car.”
I opened it. “It’s a Mother’s Day card—for me?” I felt lost in a sea of confusion. “It’s an anonymous card addressed to me congratulating me on my first Mother’s Day.”
My sister was laughing as she ran to get her phone. She came back snap several photos for Snapchat, Instagram, and Facebook posts. “Oh my goodness, this is great,” she said while attempting to stifle laughs. “You really don’t know who it’s from?”
As far as I know I have never had children. I didn’t remember adopting anyone and I couldn’t find a normal reason why I would be receiving a Mother’s Day card. “No, someone is just really confused.”
Bright lights flashing and bouncing around a dark room. Crowds of people singing and swaying to the sounds of what The Guardian calls “an unorthodox marriage of surf music and punk rock.” I found myself jamming out to a live performance of The Pixies at the first location on their 2017 North American tour at The Fox Theater in Pomona, CA.
I never caught the reunion tour of the band that went on hiatus in 1993 and who returned 11 years later to the spotlight, but I jumped at the chance this year to finally hear “Debaser,” “Wave of Mutilation,” “I Bleed,” “Here Comes Your Man,” and “Monkey Gone to Heaven” from their second album (and my favorite), Doolittle. (more…)