Pedro Jose Ortega Espinal

Dasha and I are trying to decide if my life is real, and if it is, then why?

I'm currently engaged in a month-long project with a couple of friends in which we take on picture per day. The photo is supposed to be of whatever strikes us during the day, whatever we find that is hidden and extraordinary.

So today, I was walking around with my camera in-hand after a bronze statue of Margaret Branscomb that I had passed an hour earlier while delivering inter-departmental envelopes. It was pouring, so water was rolling off of her like her entire being was crying. I was stricken. But on my way to go take this photo, a man crossed my path, and walked passed me. He was gorgeous. Here's the weird part, he stopped on his heel and turned back around to ask me a question.

I thought I died, then I came to the very quick realization that I had no idea what he had just said to me. Wha??? His words were lost in a beautiful Latin accent. I awkwardly search for the words I am looking for, fidgeting wildly and just being generally pathetic. Then I remember the words, "I'm sorry, what?" He repeats and I discern that he either wants a picture with me or of me or for me to take a picture of him. He gets his camera out and hands it to me, removing the ambiguity, explaining that he's going back to his country soon, but would like some photos as a momento. So I took some.
End of our story? Goodbye lovely foreigner.

Then he, remembering the camera in my hands asks me if he could take my picture to "repay me for my work". Pahaha. I, again, misunderstand him and so I say sure without knowing quite what I'm agreeing to. He offers to take my camera, which again, clears things up. He takes his pictures of me standing in incredibly awkward poses, and as I'm walking back over to him to grab my camera, takes one more. This one stops him and he notes aloud, "This is the one. You have a beautiful smile."

And that is how Brittany Bailey died.

I suddenly notice that he's not just beautiful and adorable in all foreign ways, but that he's sophisticated and makes me feel even younger and even awkwarder in his presence. Get a hold of yourself, Brittany.

Small talk: I learn he's from the Dominican Republic. He also tells me his travel plans, for what reason I cannot fathom. He's going to Pennsylvania tomorrow, but coming back from the 16th to the 22nd and then returning to the D.R. His Vanderbilt office is in Calhoun. He might apply here for a PhD program.

Then he gives me his card, points out the phone number and leaves.

The most astonishing thing, to me, about this story is how awkward I am for the entire duration of this exchange. I only reason that, with our apparent cultural disconnect, he assumed that girlishness was an eccentricity. Whatever. I can't call him, Dasha said he'll try to seduce me because he's 25ish and gorgeous and foreign. And I'm an American girl.

And that is why Dasha wants to take my life.

The end.

my "country" song.

We're all the lone citizen of our own country
Our own country, our own country.
I share a language and a culture
But I prefer a dif'rent dialect than the people 'round me.

And we all share the same ground
Share the same ground, share the same ground.
But we're all livin' in the idea of different world.
Yes, we see dif'rent reasons when we look around.

But I ain't gon' be open-minded, open-minded. I'm close-minded.
I ain't gon' like, ain't gon' like the people who keel.
And I ain't gon' like people who cheat and the people who steal.

But I do like. do like. do like. do like.
The poor people who need.
And I do like. do like. do like. do like.
The nice folks who give.

And I'm livin' in my own country.
And she's purty. She's purty. She's real purty.
I like her stockins', her ideas, her faith, and her kids.
But sometimes I gotta take a vacation some place, a dif'rent place.

And when I go I look out over the sea.
And wonder if we've discovered all of the countries.
If I set sail righ' now and float and float,
Will I end up back here? O where will I go?

O will I land someplace with some strange lookin' folk?
O will I land on the New World or will I hit the old?
Might I colonize, leave a little o' my self for them?
Or will I head on home, 'cause they won't have me in?

But I ain't gon' be open-minded, open-minded. I'm close-minded.
I ain't gon' like, ain't gon' like the people who keel.
And I ain't gon' like people who cheat and the people who steal.

But I do like. do like. do like. do like.
The poor people who need.
And I do like. do like. do like. do like.
The nice folks who give.

So I get back home and say, "My, I sure missed this ole place."
But I brought back a blanket that I might sleep a couple nights with.
Cause I did like. did like. did like. did like.
That other country I saw.

But I ain't gon' be open-minded, open-minded. I'm close-minded.
I ain't gon' like, ain't gon' like the people who don't visit my country.
I ain't gon' like the people wagin' war on the places 'round me.

But I do like. do like. do like. do like.
This here world I'm in.
And I sure hope, sure hope, sure hope, sure hope.
We can all live in peace.

the boy who looked daggers in thought.

I love you who walk alone frowning in thought.

You, whose eyes are crinkled around the problems of the world.

You who try to compose the solution in your mind, 

That the world's dissonance might one day be heard as harmony.

I love you who rely on yourself.

You who cannot and will not wait for the change,

But knows the power of one good man's hands.

I love you who are unsatisfied.

You are a poet twisting in stationary discomfort.

Your head aching with the depth of you dreams.

I love you who by your confusion prove that you understand so very much.

I cannot wait until the day that the answer finally occurs to you:

And you begin telling your friends.

I have to blog this.