I Love the Smell of Victory in the Morning

As some of you may remember, the World Cup was held in South Africa this past summer. South Africa was justifiably proud of itself for pulling off a major tournament, although perhaps that was only because the expectations were so low; after all, a number of developing nations, including Brazil, Mexico and Argentina, have hosted the tournament successfully. And South Africa is now faced with several stadiums built for the World Cup on which they spent billions of rand and the upkeep of which is likely to be in the millions annually, making it virtually impossible to recoup the cost. The stadiums in Cape Town and Johannesburg may be able to do so; Nelspruit and Mbombela, I think we can agree, are screwed.

But it stirred up a fresh wave of support for the national team, Bafana Bafana ("the boys"), which is good in that sports here tend to break down along racial lines: cricket and rugby are largely followed and supported by whites, and soccer by blacks. But for a brief halcyon moment, everyone rallied behind Bafana, which is nice because you don't have to be here long before you realize that under a thin veneer of courtesy people here actually freaking hate each other, and I'm all for anything that postpones the race wars, if only for a time.

It only took about a week for the bonhomie and good will to wear off and the sniping to start again, but it was nice while it lasted. So people were really excited when they heard Bafana would be playing a match in Cape Town against the US national team. Maybe it would resurrect the World Cup spirit.

But no one was more excited than I was. Because no one likes to win, and on the opponents' turf no less, more than I do. Look, I am all for global citizenry. I am a polite and courteous guest in this country. I try to confine my venting about the postal service, poor internet connections, crime and generally shoddy service to my American friends. I watch rugby; I don't really bother with cricket, it's a less refined version of baseball. I can greet people in Afrikaans and Xhosa. I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to explain to people how the American electoral system works and the phenomenon of Sarah Palin. But I draw the line at sports. You are allowed to be every inch the Ugly American when your team is playing. In fact, it's your patriotic duty. And when you win, you tell everyone to suck it, because we are GLEEFUL winners, we are EXUBERANT winners. It is part of the American charm.

So I readied myself for the game, wishing I had a really obnoxious American T-shirt that said something like "these colors don't run" and listening to Toby Keith's "Courtesy of the Red White and Blue," which you may remember for the delicate phrasing of this line: "We'll put a boot in your ass, it's the American way." I was a little dicey about our chances, because we were fielding a very inexperienced squad that had only three members of our World Cup team.

Walking to the game was like being swallowed by a bright yellow whale. Yellow (Bafana's color) everywhere you looked; people in jerseys, face paint, wigs, wrapped in the South African flag. And the singing of the South African national anthem, which is in several languages, was truly beautiful. Just as beautiful was the American anthem, with all 15 of us Americans representing in the sea of 51,000. But we stood and put our hands over our hearts and sang and though some of the South Africans looked at us funny, like they weren't sure where we had come from, they were gracious and respectful of the American anthem.

The game itself was not really a promotion for the Beautiful Game. Our team looked young and raw; theirs could string some good passes together but couldn't dominate in the air or in the midfield and couldn't get many shots. And then, in a golden moment less than 10 minutes before the end of the game, a 17-year-old American reserve player who had just been called up from the junior team for this game knocked in a goal from about 7 years out. Oh it was fantastic. And there is something surreal about screaming and shrieking when everyone around you goes quiet. And by surreal, I mean awesome, because they were so cocksure that they were going to win this game. YES WE CAN. UUUU-SSSSS-AAAAAAA. WE ARE SPARTA. I might have yelled all those things in my euphoria whilst jumping up and down in my seat.

I then proceeded to heckle everyone from the dejected passersby on the street to my doorman, because that's the beauty of sport: it is the last arena of sanctioned aggression. Look, I am tired of unreliable internet, of not being able to go places by myself at night, of having my cell phone stolen, of crappy customer service, of spotty postal service, of segregation, of arrogant attitudes about Americans and American culture as they play on their iPhones and wear Levis, of instant coffee. I would like to start fights, but I don't. I just let that game be the catharsis I have needed for three months.

WE ARE SPARTA. YES WE CAN. AMERICA HELL YEAH. Brilliant.

I know, I'm late but I'm here!

I've been in South Africa about six weeks, and am happily settled into my apartment with its pay-as-you-go electricity (seriously, you buy electricity at the 7-11, which I had to do at 7 pm the other night when suddenly all my lights went out and I realized I hadn't checked the meter in a week or so) and capped wireless. That's right, American friends, you pay by the megabyte here. None of your crazy limitless-free-wireless-in-coffeeshops-and-parks nonsense. We're obviously dealing with a finite commodity here and it must be rationed.

Welcome to the Third World.

I'm in Pretoria for the week, although I'm based in Cape Town, and I'm gaining traction on the research, things are good, I'll write more later when I'm not falling asleep.

I like South Africa. This isn't my first trip, it's about my sixth. South Africans always ask me eagerly, "how do you like South Africa?" Honestly, I have never seen a country so desperate for affirmation. That's really what the entire World Cup was about: spending billions of dollars that you'd spend years paying off so the cool kids would come, drink your beer, and like you, at least for a little while. It is panting to be liked, to be cool--even though, as every cool kid knows, the essence of coolness is not caring (or at least acting like you don't care) if you're cool. If a 15-year-old insecure freshman were a country, it would be South Africa.

So I tell them: lovely country, lovely beaches, lovely people. And--here's what I don't tell them--people who are inadvertently hysterical. Like the South African blogger in the US I read the other day who mentioned the foolishness over whether or not Obama was Muslim and said "don't people here understand the concept of reconciliation? Mandela could teach them a thing or two." The irony is too much for me, I rolled around on the floor and wished I could call friends in the States. With all our problems--and I'm the first to admit we have them--we've elected an African-American president; if African-Americans were to form their own country, their economy would be among the top 15 in the world; and yet a WHITE SOUTH AFRICAN, apparently oblivious to the seething anger and disdain I regularly hear voiced by black and Coloured South Africans who tell me with relief that they can talk freely with me because I'm a white American and not a white South African--is going to tell us about reconciliation? Do tell, we eagerly await. Until then we'll go on being the *real* Rainbow Nation (check the demographics, we're way more diverse). Oh, same blogger said Americans don't talk about race as freely as South Africans. Certainly this has everything to do with where you are and who you hang out with, but again--rolling on the floor clutching my sides. I grew up in integrated schools, had African-American teachers and friends from the earliest days, had an African-American mentor professionally, have worked, lived and worshipped in majority-black environments. A generation like that has not yet come of age in SA. Meanwhile South African schools don't really look much different than they did pre-1994, very few people have cross-racial friendships of any depth, and the surface politeness hides the fact that most black people will commute back to the townships in the evening and whites will return to their monochromatic neighborhoods and monochromatic friends. As a black American friend of mine said, "I didn't really appreciate Arkansas until I lived in South Africa." ARKANSAS, Y'ALL. Exactly.

So: I love being in SA, I really do. It's an absolute blast, I love the work I'm doing, I love traveling, I love meeting people and hearing their stories. But the very best part is that I don't have to stay here. Someday I will return to a place where people don't routinely get killed for their cell phone (I called my hostel from the street the other day because I was lost, and the guy said carefully, "you really want to avoid talking on your cell phone on the street"), where books and laptops and cell phones and blenders and software are cheap because that's what happens when your countrymen actually produce things, and where the people at fast food restaurants put enough ice in my cup without me having to send it back three times (which I do, because I'm the Ugly American).

Save me a peppermint mocha from Starbucks, kids, I'll be home for Christmas. (And then back here for another 9 months.)

More later on more substantial things, but really, the reconciliation comment demanded a response, no? I mean we can't just let absurdity go unchallenged, that's how civilization crumbles. That, and inadequate amounts of ice in the Coke. (Seriously, is there a shortage?)

World Cup Woes

One of the great things about being a country which plays so many sports is that no single sporting disappointment can linger for very long. I was bummed for about 15 minutes when the Celtics lost to the Lakers, but then the World Cup started. Then I was kinda disappointed when the US lost to Ghana, but I didn't actually watch the match--I had a training all day--and anyway Argentina is my pick to win it, plus baseball is in full swing and there was that crazy Wimbledon match and the NBA draft (do we think Lebron James will stay with the Cavaliers? I say yes).

So what is souring the World Cup for me is not the US performance, but the round of commentary on why the US doesn't play "global sports," with the implication that it's because we're arrogant and don't care about the rest of the world. News flash: not being soccer-mad is not the equivalent of pulling out of the UN. Perspective, people, perspective.

It does not help that I regularly read a South African newspaper along with its comment section. I'm going to have to take a break from it, because I find the kneejerk anti-Americanism and misconceptions to be so exasperating that now I'm grossly overreacting. I realized this about myself the other day when someone said that he was glad to see the English and Americans cry when they lost because they thought they owned the soccer field, and the Americans need to start playing global sports and stop saying they are world champions at sports only we play.

Well. And then I lost my shit.

First of all, of the many places we are arrogant, soccer really isn't one of them. Americans always come in as underdogs, at least in our own heads. But here's the thing: soccer is now the most popular youth sport. We're going to be a force in global soccer very soon. And all the people whining about how Americans won't play their sport may soon have reason to regret when we do. As Time magazine said a couple of weeks ago, "Face it: the US is going to play, watch, market, manage and own your sport sooner or later." We have 300+ million people; we can have soccer be our fifth or sixth most popular sport and still be a top-10 team.

However, let's talk about this whole not-loving-soccer thing. We are hardly unique in this. As writer Matt Iglesias noted, "It’s worth pausing for a moment to note that the USA isn’t really that much of an outlier in terms of its relative lack of enthusiasm for soccer. For example in China the most popular team sport is basketball and there’s tremendous passion for table tennis. The most popular sports in India (and Pakistan and Bangladesh) are cricket and field hockey. I’m told that in Indonesia badminton and tennis are the most popular. In Russia and Canada it’s ice hockey. Which isn’t to deny that many people in those countries may enjoy soccer as well—many Americans like soccer. But 'the world' is not the same as 'Europe and Latin America.' Indeed, I believe the countries I’ve just been naming account for about half the world’s people."

So let's put to rest once and for all the canard that we are the lone nation resisting the siren song of soccer on which all future world peace and interdependence relies.

Secondly, why do other people care what sports we play? Do they know what they sound like? It sounds like a little brother whining "Come plaaaay with me, I wanna plaaaaaay with you." Dude, we're not bothering you, let us play what we want. Why do some people take it as an affront? It seems to speak to an inferiority complex: this strange seething resentment that the superpower doesn't think your sport is so super.

And third, if you honestly still think American sports are exclusively that--American--then you're far more provincial than the Americans you're criticizing. American football is the only American sport that is still uniquely American. Basketball is global. Eastern Europe has some of the best teams, European leagues are popular, and the NBA is packed with international players--German, Slovenian, Serbian, Chinese, Italian, you name it. We still win the Olympics but it's no longer by the 50-point margins it once was, it's a fight, because the rest of the world is catching up, and it's hugely popular. Baseball is less so, but even that is global--Japan, Cuba, Dominican Republic, Venezuela, etc. Cuba has won the Olympics more times than we have. And if basketball is an Olympic sport and cricket isn't, then arguably one is more of a "global sport" than the other.

What gets me is that aside from soccer, the sports people always point to as "global sports"--cricket and rugby--are English sports. This comes back to my theory that most former English colonies don't know how to decolonize themselves and give the middle finger to England, and that part of our success was a very clear and decisive break with the mother country. We don't want your soccer, England; we took your rugby and made American football, and took your cricket and made baseball. (Then we changed how everything is spelled, and just for fun and because we can, we make sure American English is the default setting on computer software that we sell all over the world. Ha.) Other former colonies seem to maintain this weird love-hate adolescent relationship that we just don't have. But those are not global sports, they are English sports, Commonwealth sports. Let's call it what it is.

So clearly I care way more than is normal about what some halfwit said on a message board, and I need a break from South African media to regain my sanity. So, back to the soccer: good luck, Uruguay, represent the Western hemisphere well against Ghana; may the best man win in Brazil v. Netherlands (I think that will be a great match); Paraguay, I'm afraid you're outclasses by Spain but greater upsets have happened; and Argentina, I look forward to the clash with Germany but my money and my heart are with you, Lionel Messi. And I'm going to Austin tomorrow to see aunt and cousins (17-year-old cousin: "Nelson Mandela is like an adorable koala bear." Which a) he kind of is, and b) I was just relieved she knew who Mandela was) and a friend who had a baby a couple of months ago.

It's the first time in four years I'll be in the US for July 4. You will not believe this, fellow Americans, but July 4 is actually *not a holiday* in other countries. I KNOW. MADNESS. So I'm particularly excited to be home to celebrate all of us.

M.Div.

And it's done.

Master of Divinity degree conferred, May 27 2010.

A Week From Today

A week from today, I will be drinking mimosas and getting facials with my friend Naomi (congratulation on your MBA from Penn!) and my little sister (congratulations on being a cog in the giant corporate machine!) in Philadelphia.

And two weeks from today, I will be at the beach in Texas with my godson Torian, whose picture adorns this blog. (He is the one not wearing a cowboy hat and bikini.) Side note because it's funny: he was recently overcome with fear of "little people." I can understand that, it would have to freak you out if you were 4 and there were suddenly grown-ups who were your size. Tori saw his first little people in Target and was simultaneously terrified and mesmerized. He dragged his mom after them and, when he couldn't find them in the aisle, whispered earnestly, "Maybe they were magic."

Magic little people in Target. I would love to live inside that kid's brain.

Anyway, the most notable thing is that before I make it to Philly and then Texas, I will graduate from Harvard. All the graduates from every Harvard school will gather in the Yard on Thursday. Someone will give a speech in Latin, professors will show up in their colorful regalia, there will be pomp and circumstance, and you can mock it for pretentiousness but I will be part of a ceremony that is older than this country, part of a tradition that goes back to a mere 16 years after the first Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock. For all the "liberal elite Ivy League" reverse snobbery that the Sarah Palins of the world like to throw at Harvard, there is no more American place, and I am proud to take my place among the ranks of its alumni, who are present in every field of endeavor and every corner of the globe.

Here's a glimpse of where I've spent the last three years:

In Harvard Yard in the Fall

Widener Library, where I spent more time than I care to remember.

This is the statue of John Harvard.  You're supposed to touch his foot for good luck.  You're not supposed to know that drunken undergraduates routinely have contests to see who can make their urine arc elegantly onto John's foot.

This is the view from the steps of Widener Library, across Harvard Yard to Memorial Church.  It's  a sight that makes an all-nighter at the library almost bearable.

Veritas.

What Price Freedom?

Harvard has experienced its own tempest-in-an-ideological-teacup of late. Because anything that happens at Harvard seems to have traction beyond our ivy-covered walls, it has made the news and various blogs, and has me thinking about how free we really are in this place that makes such lofty claims to academic liberty and freedom of inquiry.

A third-year law student sent an email to some dinner friends following up on a conversation they had had at dinner. In it, she suggests that she is open to the idea that African-Americans are genetically predisposed to be less intelligent than whites, at least in such quantifiable ways as standardized testing.

She also indicates that she could be persuaded that cultural and social factors account for the achievement gap, but that so far, she doesn't find the science on either side to be conclusive. That's her big statement: she is unpersuaded by the studies coming from either direction, and she wants to stay open to all the possibilities. (As it happens, she did undergraduate research at Princeton with sociologist Thomas Espanshade, whose research focuses on race and achievement, so I'd wager a guess that she's actually given more serious thought to this topic than her dinner guests.)

The predictable happened. One of her "friends" forwarded the email to the Black Law Students Association, which then forwarded it to what seems like every Black Law Students Association in the country. It made it onto widely-read blogs like Jezebel and Gawker, invariably with headings like "Harvard Law Student's Racist Diatribe." Now various groups are putting pressure on the federal judge she is slated to clerk with to rescind her clerkship, the dean has condemned her statements, and one can safely assume she is persona non grata at HLS these days.

My concern here is not for Stephanie, who I'm sure will come through this just fine. My concern is for the message sent when the dean condemns a dinner conversation amongst bright, inquisitive students who have the gall to question the accepted orthodoxy. It is for the right to question the things that we assume we know, the right to be wrong even, the right to say "I'm just not persuaded."

The truth is, there is nowhere where this kind of debate and discussion should be more welcome than in the academy. We should be the absolute safest place for this kind of boundary-pushing. There should be nothing, absolutely nothing, that is off-limits; there should be nothing sacred, nothing that cannot be reinvestigated and criticized and examined. And it is intellectual death when we stop being that place.

At least Stephanie had the courage to say it out loud. That allows other people to argue back: to rebuke, to criticize, to challenge, to lay out their own position and the evidence supporting it. Because I promise you: for every Stephanie who has the balls to actually verbalize her misgivings, there are a hundred white kids who silently wonder, "But why *is* it that Africa is so underdeveloped and can't seem to get their act together? Why is it that even when you control for income and parents' educational level, there is still a racial gap in SAT scores?" They don't say it out loud; saying it out loud gets you branded a racist and that's the end of any career aspirations you might have had (not to mention any social life you had), as Stephanie's case has so starkly reminded us. But the questions will sit there. And if we're not willing to have those conversations in academia, with the best minds and best resources, we should not be surprised when the questioners find other people with whom to have those conversations. And you won't like who they're talking to. Rumor has it that various white-supremacist groups have already contacted Stephanie to offer their support. "Come to a meeting"--that's not where you want the conversation to be happening.

The tamping down on any line of questioning that violates our social orthodoxies should be chilling to anyone who cares about intellectual rigor and freedom. For one thing, it calls into question any studies and conclusions drawn from them that may emerge down the road: after all, if you were an academic investigating racial inequity and knew that having an undesirable data set would jeopardize both your professional and social standing, wouldn't you at least be tempted to make sure your study comes down on the "right" side of the discussion? And even if you didn't, doesn't the fact that I'm even asking the question throw doubt on the integrity of your research? Because if we can't ask the questions honestly, we can't trust any of the conclusions that follow.

In Stephanie's email, she wrote, "I think it is bad science to disagree with a conclusion in your heart, and then try (unsuccessfully, so far at least) to find data that will confirm what you want to be true." In other words: it's intellectually dangerous to decide what you believe and then manipulate the data to confirm it. We should all be able to agree on that, whether or not we like the particular questions Stephanie is asking. At least by asking, she's giving people the chance to answer. The next bright, questioning kid with an eye on a federal clerkship or a plum job at a firm won't ask the question, after seeing what's happened to Stephanie. He'll just quietly wonder, and draw his own conclusions.

And that's not good for any of us.

Of Derby Hats and Delightful News

Last week I went to the annual HDS ball:

And yesterday I went to a Kentucky Derby party, where my horse finished in dead last place but my hat and dress were a blazing success (and you can't see it here, but I am wearing silver flats, which were A-DOR-A-BLE with the dress):

Sadly, I do not spend all my time gallivanting about like a debutante, since a) I don't come from an old-money family, and b) it's not 1882. In the midst of my social commitments, I also find time to write tedious final papers and secure summer employment and make plans for the next year.

Yes, friends, I have plans for the next year, humdullallah. Harvard, in a fit of poor judgment, is funding my independent study proposal and I will be living in South Africa for at least a year. It was such an insanely long shot when I applied for it so it's the understatement of the decade to say I am pleasantly surprised. I'll leave in August or September, no final date yet as I am waiting for the ridiculous World Cup-inspired airfare prices to approach normalcy again. My project is on the role of religious institutions in facilitating dialogue around issues of racial justice and reconciliation and adding their voices to the conversations in political science, sociology and international relations that have appropriated these words but don't recognize that they are implicitly theological...hello? hello? I have totally lost you, haven't I? I know, it's of interest only to me and, apparently, the Harvard committee on graduate fellowships. But that is enough. It's a variation on the old "me plus God equals a majority" line we learned in Sunday School. Me plus the fellowship committee=exactly as many people as I need to be interested in this project.

Anyway, more plans as they emerge, but obviously the door is open to any of you who want to visit.

Lesson for the Young'Uns

I sat on a panel discussion this week of grad students who had spent time in Africa. We were talking to about 75 Harvard undergrads who will be spending their summers in internships and research all over Africa.

During the Q&A, I remembered a story that I haven't shared with you all, and it is still funny, so I'll share it now. It comes under the heading of "even when you are trying to be culturally sensitive, you will inevitably fail, and you have to be able to laugh about it."

On my last trip to SA, I was staying over at my friend Lynette's house. Lynette's housekeeper, Miriam, was making breakfast for me, and it just...kept...coming. Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, yogurt, fruit, more toast. I'd been told it was very rude to waste food, so I was gamely eating everything that was served although I was starting to feel slightly nauseous, but before I could tell Miriam I was finished, she brought 4 more pieces of toast.

I couldn't eat them. I knew, in my heart (and stomach), that if I ate the toast, all my breakfast was going to end up in a puddle on the floor. So I did the only reasonable thing.

I kicked it under the sofa and told myself I would get it that night after Miriam had left. I knew I didn't have time in the brief moment her back was turned to make it all the way to the trash can and back.

Later that night, I remembered the toast and dove under the sofa to get it. Turns out Miriam is a very thorough cleaner: the toast was not there. I told Lynette what had happened and moaned, "She's going to think I'm the crazy American who hoards toast under the furniture!" Lynette proceeded to chastise me about how we come from different food cultures and you absolutely cannot waste food in South Africa, it's offensive, and I'm saying "I KNOW this, Lynette, that's why I was TRYING not to seem wasteful, YOU HAVE TO HELP ME FIX IT."

So we went over to Miriam's and I apologized and Lynette proceeded to speak with her in Xhosa, giving an explanation that, I later found out, did in fact amount to "she's a crazy American, they have strange and mysterious ways." Miriam gazed at me stonily the whole time. I'm pretty sure I never redeemed myself in her eyes.

However, as I found out this week, the story is good for a laugh, and a cautionary tale: your best efforts at cultural sensitivity will still fail. Laugh about it and move on.

I'm off to a Kentucky Derby party shortly. Photos will be forthcoming.

Home Stretch

I have lots of blogs saved up from the last couple of months, and I might actually get to them soon since it's the last month of school, in which I traditionally seek out anything to do other than the work that will allow me to graduate (which currently involves writing at least 100 pages and about 10 times as much reading in order to write the aforementioned 100 pages).

However, for now, let's look ahead, beyond graduation, to the Summer of Frivolity and Slackness I am meticulously planning. Boston is currently being a bitch-goddess intent on reminding her minions that they exist only at her whim, having teased us all with temperatures in the 60s and 70s and lots of clear, bright days, only to drop down into the 40s and dump a lot of freezing rain on us the last couple of days. I shake your dust from my feet, Boston, I am so OVER IT.

So, summer. For those wondering what I will be doing post-grad (if any of them are still reading, since I haven't blogged in 4 months), the answer is "God knows," said with utmost reverence. Honestly, I have no idea. In my ideal world, I'll win a fellowship that will fund a year of study in South Africa; I should know my fate in that regard by the end of the month. Failing that, I don't know what I will do. I'm not too worried, though. I come through in the clutch. Meanwhile, I am more focused on my summer of awesomeness, which I am planning whether or not I go to Africa (if I go, it won't be till August/September).

Summer delights:

1) Laid-back work that pays enough for gas and Starbucks and occasional forays to Sephora. I might teach swim lessons at the YMCA, might work with kids at church. Whatever it is, it will not be overly intellectual or isolated, it will be relational and physical. I'm trying to rebalance after three years in academia.

2) Beach trips. Lots of trips to Galveston, one to Padre, one to Mobile with Mijha which we are calling our White Trash Vacation as we intend to lay on the beach all day and gamble at the offshore casinos all night. PURELY AWESOME. Also, we have matching T-shirts for this vacation. They say "100% Pure American Infidel" with the word "kaffir" (which just means "unbeliever" in Arabic, not the racially pejorative term it became in South Africa) written in Arabic. I figure as long as we don't run into any Arabic-reading South Africans in Alabama, we're safe. Which means: we're safe. We will be rocking this look with bikinis and cowboy hats. We are insanely excited. Also, right after graduation I'm headed to the Jersey Shore with my little sister and brother-in-law.

3) Breakfast tacos. Maybe every day.

4) My parents have a new dog! A big one, which is the best kind. He is partly white and partly black and kind of a mutt and my dad wanted to name him Barack. Saner heads prevailed and his name is Harley. Harley will be my new running buddy.

5) Miller Outdoor Theatre, this great outdoor venue in Houston where they have concerts and plays and you can sit on the hill and bring food and drinks and enjoy the one time of day (nightfall) when Houston is not oppressively hot.

6) Reading things that are not assigned for class. My friend Jenny and I will be reviving our book club, which is really our margarita club. Also, I will be mixing in some old classics (Bleak House, Anna Karenina, maybe some Faulkner) with totally mindless chick lit. I may also try to tackle one author's ouevre, but I haven't decided whose; I'm leaning towards Elizabeth Gaskell or George Eliot. I'm accepting all reading suggestions now.

7) Did I mention margaritas? They're not confined to book club.

8) Movies, starting with Sex and the City 2 which I could NOT BE MORE EXCITED FOR. My sis and I are seeing it the weekend I graduate. We saw the first one together the weekend before I left for SA the first time, so I'm pretty pumped. I intend to see lots of fun mindless summer movies. Also, I have a summer movie project: epic films. I think I can drag my dad into this project with me. I figure we'll start with the Star Wars trilogy (only the original, natch) and Lord of the Rings and move on to both old-school epics (Lawrence of Arabia, Zulu--I considered adding Gandhi in here but I don't think you get to be an epic just because you're super long) and moving on to 300, Troy, Braveheart, etc. My friend Melissa, an epic connoisseur, will my advisor in this project.

9) First Fridays at Chacho's Mexican restaurant drinking margaritas and chilling with the girls in Third Ward.

10) Soccer at twilight. Perfection.

11) Apparently Houston has all these cool new parks, who knew? And most of them are great for playing with kids and have some sort of water component. I love Hermann Park's water park, I would go by myself except then I look like a pedophile scoping out the kids so I take my friend Roz's kid as a cover.

12) Sitting outside at Starbucks with Phenias and drinking frappucinos while we tease each other. He is a pretty good trash talker now and I take a lot of pride in that.

13) Church. I love my church so much it deserves its own post. I can't wait to be back with my church and my friends and summer evenings spent together at someone's house, cooking out and laughing and enjoying each other.

14) Sonic, which will go a long way towards helping me meet my summer goal: hitting 120 pounds and invoking my dad's promise to take me to Egypt when I got there.

15) Baseball games at MinuteMaid Field. Yeah, the Astros suck this year, which is unfortunate. But tickets are $5 and it's classic Americana, so you really can't beat it.

16) Road trip to Austin to see the cousins, go to the lake, eat more breakfast tacos in the city even the NY Times concedes is the breakfast taco capital of the world, and hit the outlet mall.

17) World Cup madness! I toyed with the idea of going to South Africa for the World Cup since I'd have a place to stay for free, but it was still going to be crazy expensive, and I hate crowds. I know, I'm 85 and you can call me Ma-Maw. However, I will be watching the World Cup the way the Beautiful Game was meant to be watched: in a bar with cheap booze and plentiful sunshine where one can watch one's favorite teams lose for free. (Or, alternately for the earlier games, on the sofa in my pajamas eating breakfast tacos.)

What are your ideas of summer fun? I'm compiling a list, so I'm open to all suggestions.