As I was sporting some fancy blue shoes, a lovely couple of women stopped to give me props on my incredible fashion sensibility.¹ In our brief exchange, which started with a glorious smile that powered me through a loooong day, the woman with a matching blue streak in her hair commented on how nice it was to see so many confident, powerful and strong women this year. Her colleague chimed in on what a relief this was compared to the typical dark, slouching women with attitudes she’s traditionally used to encountering. (Slouching is my word.)

This launched a conversation I tend to shy away from: expectations around and the current movement of getting more women in technology (or all STEM) fields. I, like my new friend of 5 minutes, struggle with woman focused initiatives because I’ve always been a female and I’ve always been in male dominated classes and professions. And the few women I’d meet weren’t typically very friendly. I even grew up in a single parent household with my father and my brother. (And there were a few years when strangers would insist that I was a boy, but that’s a story for another time.)

Here’s the struggle. I love when what I love becomes accessible to others. However, while it pains me to write it, I struggle with the expectation that we need a movement, a noisy focus, a show if you will, to attract, engage and empower women. Yes, role models are critical and for those that identify along gender lines, gendered role models are important.

However, what if I don’t particularly care about my gender? What about if I want to do what I want to do, independent of whether the world is giving me approval?² I stuck with math because I was fucking good at it and I loved losing myself in problem solving and winning. (If only my 34 yr old brain were as fast as my 14 yr old brain!) For me, it took a teacher ³ to throw me into computers and since then there’s been no looking back.

When I found myself in Portland for an internship summer, I ended up dropping out of college and moving here to pursue the .com dream. The dream I got was working with incredibly strong women who became my first gendered role models. I had no idea there was anything else out there. These women were working in a field that they loved just as passionately as I was. And before I turn this into a “we had to walk up hill both ways” rant, I’ll stop there.

I certainly don’t mean to insinuate that a new generation (or current generations) of women should have to work as hard (or self-directed) as we did or the women before us. I’m simply looking for a way in which I can reconcile the portion of myself fighting against having to have an expectation of inequality based on my gender and wanting instead to avoid those conversations in favor of leading by action – focus on being a role model for younger women and girls as I once was without ever even mentioning a gender word.

Whichever way I slice it, I’m more excited about the growing diversity in my fields than I am struggling with the nomenclatures and conversations at play. Still, if someone could help me stop from cringing at the sound of the simple phrase ‘women in technology’, I welcome your insights and ideas.

Asides: 

• 1 – Note the importance of an adverb in the previous sentence, as heels are not sensible on their own. On their own, I had to take them off near the end of the day and pack up the booth barefoot. (back)
• 2 – I can’t help but think about my favorite poem, A Poem About my Rights, June Jordan (back)
• 3 – More in a future post (back)

Extra: Today is Day 16, Post 14 of my 30 day blog challenge. Click ‘Follow’ at the bottom of the page to receive weekly updates in your inbox or follow me on Tumblr if that’s your scene. 

The post New in Tech: There’s a line for the women’s restroom appeared first on Jewels.

It’s not a novel concept. Even as I write it, the old hymn from church lulls me back to the days when I loved singing in church. I could be loud and still unseen, lingering in a place where no wrong and no right exist. “Ask, and it shall be given unto you. Seek, and ye shall find. Knock, and the door shall be opened unto you…”

Ehehm. I remind myself I’m not in church anymore and I’ve long since put my Catholicism in a shoe box in a larger box in an attic or basement shelf. Still, minus the goddiness of the flashback musical, the reminder calms me. Cogs that had been grinding and getting stuck are now churning with their counterparts effortlessly. (Like that transition period from a stressful day at work to a warm embrace with your partner and the notion that this is what life is about. Or watching a child (or cat) play with sunlight dancing on the floor. And your brain shifts out of the overstressed, poorly greased life-is-complicated gear into the silent hum of autopilot and life-is-simple.)

Calm, I think back over the past few months as I’ve practiced the art of asking for what I want. (Be it a home made dinner, a quiet night alone, for you to listen or for you to shut up.) And how uncanny it is that my success rate of getting what I wanted shot through the roof.

Think of it like being a passenger in a car. You can either sit quietly in the back seat and just hope the driver goes where you want them to. Or you can call shot gun and do a little “front-seat” driving by asking the driver to take you where you want to go. Yes, they can still say no (and likely will if you insist on telling them exactly how to drive vs where to drive). But your chances just got a heck of a lot better than when you weren’t saying anything at all. And you can be your own driver. I imagine being Joan Didion as Maria, driving fast in my convertible down the freeway and feel my lungs expanding to take in the fantastic freedom and exhale both serenity and anticipation (a delicious cocktail).

So when (and how) did I fall out of the practice/convertible’s front seat without knowing it?

Damn, it feels good to be a gansta. (I’m really digging this driving a convertible feeling!) It’s not that I don’t want to spend hours/days/weeks trying to figure out why I’m afraid or forgot the art of asking. I just don’t want to clutter the moment. (And, until I thought about it, I was happy to not have the hymn still stuck in my head. “Damn, it feels good to be a gansta…..

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Today we do a little sight seeing and I discover my favorite market. While Paul drops me off at the shops in Paiea, I stumble into a grocery upon their promise of fresh sushi in the deli. I want to take this entire market back to Portland, or move to Maui so I can claim it as my market, as I do with my coop. Tiny aisles lined with fresh, local fruits, vegetables, bread, dairy and the prices compare with crappy, florescent lit Safeway. I spend a good 1/2 half hour reading the produce labels. Tangellos, limes and dragon fruit grown in Maui. Potatoes from Oregon. Peppers and tomatoes from California. Local asparagus, green beans and lemon grass. Yams from another island. Local avocados the size of a Bocci ball and half the price of the imports from Safeway.

I’m disappointed in the rest of the shops I visit. Same imports from Bail, Indonesia and Philippines we get in Portland. My friends requested “something from Maui” and I take that as something made in Maui.
We take a scenic route out of Paia, past a beautiful church and the only sugar cane plant left in operation. I expect it to smell sweet but instead am greeted with a nauseating sulfur/sewer smell about a 1/2 mile before we pass the plant.

Paul snags a great deal on used snokel equipment at Snorkel Bob’s, with his kama’aina discount and a sweetheart at Boss Frog’s gives me a similar discount for my rental. (Even though kama’aina means “children of the land” or a native-born Hawaiian, many stores give discounts to Hawaiian residents. All you need is a driver’s license, which Paul managed to get with the help of a friend’s address. Technically, he’s a malihini, or newcomer, though he’s been visiting since 76.)

I’m a lowly haole, or cracker-faced minority, and frightened to snorkel. I want to see the fish but I don’t trust that I’ll breathe OK w/the tube. As I lower my head in the water, my breath quickens and heart races, making it even more difficult to trust that I’ll be able to hold my breath should water get in. After a few minutes, my breathing resumes to normal and I’m already trying to take pictures of the most amazing fish I’ve swam near (and seen). The Humuhumukununukuapua’a with its neon tips that almost appear to glow in the dark, some long skinny translucent fish that mesmerize me for some time. Other colors I haven’t seen since 1990, when I thought it was cool to wear biker shorts & tanks splashed in neon. (Thank god I was only 11 and can blame my mom, as it’s her and my same uncle Paul in all the pictures that prove I wore such brilliant fashion.)

To top off a perfectly relaxing day, I cook the Moonfish we bought earlier at the Paia market in a spontaneous sauce of: milk, butter, grated ginger and garlic, Bragg’s ginger and sesame dressing and a Soy Tahini sauce. It is received with great glee from Paul and will be my favorite food accomplishment this trip.

The post Maui: Day 2 appeared first on Jewels.

Mahalo. Not sure what this word means, but the folks on Hawaiian can’t get enough of this word. A friendly gentleman tells me that tomorrow and Sunday will be the best days to learn how to surf and I’m not sure if this is truth or the days he’ll be at the beach. And where are the Hawaiian shirts, sari’s and clear blue skies? (Finally! A girl dallies to her gate in a floral sun dress. Hope trickles in.) The air is muggy and my first destination is a bathroom where I can shed my layers and don a loose fitting white t-shirt. Other than the outdoor and open air walkways and terminals, the airport is San Jose’s … a tiny strip with baggage claim at the end where it curves and transforms into car rentals. The sky reminds me of Phoenix, both bright and dreary simultaneously.

And then I get the call. My uncle is pulling up in a red, convertible turbo PT Cruiser and I’m swept away to meet Maui for my first time. (Don’t forget the turbo! We’re not sure what it means, but Paul loves revving and punching and accelerating fast.) Kahalui is a sprawling suburb. We drive past the Cosco and almost stop to pick up IPod speakers and then realize we don’t need them. Gas stations (at $3/gallon) and shopping centers line the 2-lane crowded street and we crawl out of town. Paul points out Hakalalia, nearly undistinguishable in the vog. Vog. My uncle’s a funny guy and I wonder if this is a word he’s coined or island slang. Apparently, I chose a bad day to fly in, as this Volcano ash fOG has only been blown in by the Kano winds this morning. And they will persist for my first few days.

A few minutes out of the city, the landscape morphs into sugar cane fields which remind me of Vietnam war movies than any farmland I’ve seen. No “rows” pop out as we drive by. (Not like rows and diagonals of corn and soybeans as you drive by, which could mesmerize me for hours on long car rides.) Simply overgrown jungle grass. And it’s beautiful in it’s seeming disorganization.

== SPOILER ALERT: Do not read below this line if you don’t want to become overrun with jealousy or have never visited Maui and need not discover how your life may be lacking. ==

After some grocery shopping in Kihei (I won’t bore you with the insane prices … but I won’t complain about $3 milk anymore) we head to the condo my uncle’s rented at Mana Kai Resort. I’ll later learn, from an essay written by Tara Bray Smith on Hawaii in “State by State: a Panoramic Portrait of America” that mana is the life force Hawaiians believe inhabits all things. Kai is the sea. I’m greeted with songs of the tropical birds.

It’s nearing sunset already, so we don our suits and wade into the ocean. A seasoned ocean swimmer, Paul dives right in as I wait for something … a warm current perhaps? (Do fish pee, I wonder. And if they do, perhaps it’ll be just enough to warm the water.) And then the waves roll in and I’m under water and I’m instantly relaxed. We wash off and watch the sun set into the horizon, just to the right of the shadow of Kahoolawe Island. I try to recall uncle Tom’s notes on how far one can see on water (he was in the Navy) and end up Googling it instead. Turns out we see 3-4 nautical miles. But I digress.

It’s now time to head up to Maui Meadows for a relaxing and delicious dinner party, on the “foot hills” of the large volcano, Haleakala. I’m stunned by the lush vegetation on our climb and the open entry way of the hacienda style home. Art everywhere! Sculptures, paintings, photographs, a large mirror rumored to mimic those in Versailles (and I make a mental not to look this up and visit some day). And the people … they’re energetic, young, healthy, attractive. I’m by far the youngest person at the table and suddenly I’m afraid of being the boring, tired, naive niece. I don’t do yoga, work in the “new age” fields, eat a raw-food diet, own my own business (anymore) and haven’t traveled out of the US. But the Moon Fish is delicious and I even though I want more, I eat the salad. If I can look this great at 50+ I’ll eat the salad and learn how to keep my body’s acidity down by consuming foods high in Alkalinity: apple cider vinegar, limes (which can be confusing since they’re citric), millet and quinoa, and most veggies. And pay attention to the energy of my foods: cold (raw fish, veggies) and warm, yin and yang. And give myself a few breaks to enjoy alcohol, like this tasty Rum.

I’ll save the conversation which compares the Hawaiian archipelago to the Chakras for another time.

The post Maui: Day One appeared first on Jewels.

Top Alive Moments, free-write list:

1. This concert
2. Train bridge jump, Traverse City
3. Moments in love: cloves in winter, falling in love is like trees, midnight picnic, waterfront chatter, rooftop escapades
4. Fluting in world premier of new composition, NE All-State Band
5. Music… Andrew Bird, SF shows, Austin, my musical in my car, late night jam sessions, …

It’s true. As I search for those moments of overwhelming passion and aliveness, love and music dominate. And with music, it can be watching and listening, like the recent shows and festivals, and it can be the active participation and exercising of my vocal chords, arms, legs and whole spirit and soul. What’s even better is that music is cheaper than drugs (and I won’t even go into the health pro-cons) and won’t break my heart or drive me to crazy land.

There is the urge to weep. There is the force of creative vision. This pain? This isn’t a heart breaking; it’s a heart waking. The waking world is this one, where our senses clear and we feel the power of transformation, we see that the doors along the corridor of possibility are not, after all, closed to us, though they may be far away and heavy and frightening. We can face them and walk through them nonetheless.

– Luciana Lope, the Oregonian

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This week my uncle Paul invited me out to Black Butte, just outside of Sisters, OR. My friend, Kyle, and I drove out late Tuesday night so we could get in a game of Scrabble (in which I scored over 300 pts) and get up at the crack of dawn, er, noon. Cousin Liz came out with Skylar and Bella and we all enjoyed the resort’s outdoor swimming pool. After several games of ring toss, keep away from Skylar and shark tag the chlorine began to burn the eyes and I had to wuss out.

That night Kyle grilled up delicious sausages (Andouille, Chicken and Turkey) and asparagus and Kiki, Paul’s girlfriend, sautéed brussel sprouts that turned out to be the party fave. Unfortunately, Liz and the kids had to leave that night, so the remaining four of us battled out a game of Spades. After a few yummy sweet and spicy drinks, we’d all had enough and called it a day.

The next day I checked off a major to-do-before-30 and played a game of golf! OK, so it was more of a round of hitting lessons at the driving range followed by practice on the greens while Paul played a single game of 9-holes. And it was fantastic and fun and I’m definitely going to play golf again. And I want my lawn to look like the putting green.

Kyle and I then drove into Bend and visited with his parents, his sister and an adorable mud-faced nephew, Gunner. I was exhausted from golf, so was excited to sit down to a decadent snack at Typhoon (where, conveniently, my friend Elisabeth’s brother is the GM). Unfortunately, we missed Ben, who snagged a chance to leave the restaurant early and left my cell phone behind.

You can imagine my distress the next morning (only yesterday) when I realized I had no cell phone. That meant 3+ hours of driving back to Portland without the internet and without a phone. If you can’t relate, think back to Pee-Wee’s Great Adventures and his fervent cry after asking “what’s wrong with this picture? It’s just me … withOUT MY BIIIIKE!!!”

Good news is that I was able to get a cheap temporary replacement, made it to my hair appointment only 5 minutes late and got a call saying that someone found my phone. And even if they hadn’t I still would have written down this week as one of the best, as time with family and friends can never be lost.

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If only New Orleans wasn’t such an awesome city, filled with fun and friendly people, delicious food and an abundance of liquor and festivals I wouldn’t be in this predicament. Yes, another sign that life on the road can be challenging.

Let me go back to the beginning. As a highway ferry transports me across the Mississippi, I transfer my love of Mississippi into Louisiana. Spanish moss hangs from statuesque oaks, black cats roll on the ground, baiting me to pet them, at the #1 haunted mansion in the world and Jaik’s mom welcomes me with the finest home cooked dinner I’ll have all trip. (I need to take better notes since I’m not quick with French, but the dinner included lots of crawfish in both etouffee and pizza and a French cake with 7 layers of pudding diving a rich, white cake.)

I spend Saturday learning all things Cajun and some of the Creole, before heading to the Atchafalaya basin, towards New Orleans. In Breaux Bridge, locals point me to a meat market for some famous Boudin (pronounced BOO-dan). Though the owner doesn’t want his picture taken, he packs a beer from his personal stash in the back, along with the purchased sausage and stuffed mushrooms in my cooler. And it continues to get better.

Once in NO, I manage to get the last dorm bed at the India House, the best hostel in the city and meet up with two fellow travelers I met back in Flagstaff. As we head for the French Quarter to check out the Friday night life, I text Hannah from Tucson. (She’s a friend of a friend I just met and absolutely adore.) A few excited messages later and we’re sitting in the bar Hannah used to work at, doing some shots with her best friend (in her honor of course) and making a positive first impression of the city.

The next day we set out for plantations and will have taken 10,000+ steps by the time we retire at 6am, including the time change. We all stay in the French Quarter and make a trip down Bourbon avenue: drunk people overflowing in the streets, each with beads, beers and fancy daiquiri to-go cups. We try the Texan sized mixed drinks and stand awestruck as a karaoke dj/performer dances MC Hammer style, complete with a standing flip. As we wind up our morning at the hotel, I learn Dutch while teaching Go Fish. Yep, I can really travel the world now with “give me”, “do you have”, numbers and face card names, “go fish” (my favorite!) and a swear word I cannot repeat.

Despite having to check out of our hotel only four hours after falling asleep, we find energy in Cafe du Monde’s coffee and beignets. And I can’t leave out the impressive troupe performing acrobatics and break dancing. Unfortunately, a lavish military performance for Extreme Home Makover across the street in front of the cathedral, forces a frustrated man with a megaphone to shut down the troupe. Apparently they can’t hear their TV show host above the music and fanfare from our crowd. (I’ll post a video, as the guys are phenomenal and I want Joe to learn these tricks. They walk up stairs on their hands, slide across the ground on their heads, break dance and make the grumpiest laugh.)

Lousiana is hard to leave. I want more days to tour the swamps, to walk the antique malls, eat Cajun and learn French. If I don’t get this ticket I may just have to go back.

The post Lovin and Leaving Louisiana appeared first on Jewels.

• Jypsi :: extremely sexy, with style to match their admirable and versatile sound
• Shawn Mayer :: an iowa girl sharing her hypnotizing voice with Nashville. We caught her at the Cadillac Ranch, where she sings nearly any song on request, even Alabama’s “I’m in a Hurry” despite never having played/sang it before.

Sunday spoils me with summer temperatures and sun, and I have no qualms lounging in the suburbs with a friend from high school. (Yes, it almost seems as though I’ve set out on a reunion trip, this being my third childhood friend visit on this drive. Even though it’s all been by chance, swapping stories has me looking at myself in my past as someone else. I’m not quite ready to expand on that at the moment, but I’m curious to explore the identity I hold in others – which, I’d like to think, is apart from letting go of “what others think.”)

Excited from my new Tennessee Tan, I set off for Memphis with two fellow travelers I met at Nashville’s Music City hostel. One chatty, the other exhausted, my passengers remind me of what it’s like to have company, and our 3 hr drive flies by. Not able to have my quiet time in some days, I’m ready for the silence of the Graceland Tour and museum-like walk through Sun Studios. A winter storm hails through Memphis, and I take pleasure in listening to the thunder and puddle jumping in m sun dress and sandals, once I realize staying dry simply isn’t an option. Unfortunately, the temperatures quickly drop to the 30’s or 40’s and Memphis is nothing but a wet, gray blob. The first news we see on the hotel TV is of a multiple murder in north Memphis (several children) and our phone keeps ringing, though no one is on the other line. I’m not enjoying Memphis and I realize that as people can make a city, the weather can break it. Luckily, my new travel companions join me for a dash through midtown, where we discover a bar offering delicious non-fried foods, billiards and killer beer selection.

It’s gray again today, with snow! I know that when I travel again, I will account for “weather days”. In the mean time, I need to flip a coin: heads, stay in Memphis another night or tails, drive south to New Orleans and just do Beale street another time.

Edit: Photo above was added after my return home, when I developed all my film. This was of Hope, our hostel manager, in a room signed by thousands of travelers.

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