I am FINISHED with the grading for my course. I am FINISHED leaving my home at 6:20 a.m. three mornings a week and spending the majority of my work time trying to figure out how to fill 50-minute lectures with interesting and relevant information. I am wiping the dust of SS6104 from my feet and never looking back!
I am going to spend the next 3 or 4 days cooking and visiting. Then I will throw myself enthusiastically into the mountains of work that have been sitting on the back burner for far too long. I feel so FREE!
Thursday, December 23, 2004
Sunday, December 19, 2004
One final comment for the day - in part to make up for my extended silence
Q: Being the devoted Lemony Snicket fan that you profess to be, were you first in line to see "A Series of Unfortunate Events" when it opened this week?
A: Absolutely not! The books are tremendous - although a couple of the latest are a bit uneven. Mr. Snicket is a a little too aware of the readers in some of these books - trying to "bore you," for example, with endless repetition of the facts of the water cycle so that he can send secret messages to his sister. This makes you, as the reader, a little too conscious of yourself and detracts from the pleasure of reading.
At any rate, although I did learn that in the movie there is a voice over (Jude Law as Lemony Snicket) which may help convey the style of the books, I don't believe for a second that the movie won't become "The Count Olaf (a.k.a. Jim Carrey) Show." Yes, I know that Count Olaf, like Mr. Carrey, is a total ham who succeeds often in taking center stage. However, he does it within the context of the plot, not the book itself. Olaf, although the antagonist, is a secondary character. The threat of his existence receives much more attention in Mr. Snicket's work than his actual presence does. I do not suspect the same can be said for the film. Has Jim Carrey EVER played a supporting role? Can he?
So, I suspect that I will not see the movie - or movies, if they hope to further capitalize on the popularity of the books.
A: Absolutely not! The books are tremendous - although a couple of the latest are a bit uneven. Mr. Snicket is a a little too aware of the readers in some of these books - trying to "bore you," for example, with endless repetition of the facts of the water cycle so that he can send secret messages to his sister. This makes you, as the reader, a little too conscious of yourself and detracts from the pleasure of reading.
At any rate, although I did learn that in the movie there is a voice over (Jude Law as Lemony Snicket) which may help convey the style of the books, I don't believe for a second that the movie won't become "The Count Olaf (a.k.a. Jim Carrey) Show." Yes, I know that Count Olaf, like Mr. Carrey, is a total ham who succeeds often in taking center stage. However, he does it within the context of the plot, not the book itself. Olaf, although the antagonist, is a secondary character. The threat of his existence receives much more attention in Mr. Snicket's work than his actual presence does. I do not suspect the same can be said for the film. Has Jim Carrey EVER played a supporting role? Can he?
So, I suspect that I will not see the movie - or movies, if they hope to further capitalize on the popularity of the books.
New Orleans Instrumental No. 1
Just as life is pushing me along right now, so has it always been.
I had no college plans at all – honestly. I knew nothing about the whole process, had no idea how it might matter if I went, and, quite frankly, was so unable to picture myself after high school that I thought I would die before graduation. However, I was required to take the PSAT because of the way that I was tracked in high school – they even waived the fee. So I took it.
A few months later we got our scores. I had no idea what they meant – assuming that my percentile was no big deal since it was consistent with how I scored on the Maine Educational Assessment exams I had taken every couple of years up to that point – just some indication that you were learning what they wanted you to. That spring I went to a Russia on a sister-city exchange and returned to an entire trash bag full of college recruiting materials. Fortunately, my PSAT score also prompted Peterson’s academic publishing to send me a free copy of their Guide to American Colleges and Universities. So, I sat down and went through it all – looking up each school that had contacted me and checking to see how many little mortar boards they were indexed with (indication of overall rank), checking the male to female ratio (that’s right – as a probable math major I assumed that schools with more men than women would have better math programs – a bias that implicit association tests still detect), and whether or not they had any other possible majors: journalism; Russian language and literature; French literature; and photography. I requested applications from every single school that had 4 mortar boards (the highest)/or promised me a full-tuition scholarship, more men than women, and majors in mathematics and one of my other possibles.
So, spring of my junior year I learned that I would go to college and developed a list of possible schools. I received from the schools themselves information on the application deadlines and admission criteria.
Fall of my senior year: you’d expect me to be on top of the application process, right? Wrong. I only visited one school – a school that offered to bring me out for a visit. The applications were long and tedious. I had to use an old type-writer to fill them out. My parents refused to fill out the financial aid form, instead giving me their tax forms so I could fill it out on my own. On top of that, I was in love. My boyfriend, Andrew, graduated a year ahead of me and had just returned from a few months in Europe. He had deferred his admission to Stanford and was working a 9 to 5 job. I spent most of my time with him and used the remainder to complete schoolwork.
It was Andrew’s parents who sat down with me and made me fill out my applications. His mother kept better track of the deadlines than I did. They helped me with the financial aid form. They commented on my essays. They hounded me until I sent out each application.
In the end I attended the school that had brought me out to visit – also the school that offered me the most financial aid. I began with the intention of studying mathematics but, when the advanced calculus section I wanted was full, I registered for Russian instead. The rest, as they say, is history. It’s disconcerting to realize how passive I am in the face of life.
I had no college plans at all – honestly. I knew nothing about the whole process, had no idea how it might matter if I went, and, quite frankly, was so unable to picture myself after high school that I thought I would die before graduation. However, I was required to take the PSAT because of the way that I was tracked in high school – they even waived the fee. So I took it.
A few months later we got our scores. I had no idea what they meant – assuming that my percentile was no big deal since it was consistent with how I scored on the Maine Educational Assessment exams I had taken every couple of years up to that point – just some indication that you were learning what they wanted you to. That spring I went to a Russia on a sister-city exchange and returned to an entire trash bag full of college recruiting materials. Fortunately, my PSAT score also prompted Peterson’s academic publishing to send me a free copy of their Guide to American Colleges and Universities. So, I sat down and went through it all – looking up each school that had contacted me and checking to see how many little mortar boards they were indexed with (indication of overall rank), checking the male to female ratio (that’s right – as a probable math major I assumed that schools with more men than women would have better math programs – a bias that implicit association tests still detect), and whether or not they had any other possible majors: journalism; Russian language and literature; French literature; and photography. I requested applications from every single school that had 4 mortar boards (the highest)/or promised me a full-tuition scholarship, more men than women, and majors in mathematics and one of my other possibles.
So, spring of my junior year I learned that I would go to college and developed a list of possible schools. I received from the schools themselves information on the application deadlines and admission criteria.
Fall of my senior year: you’d expect me to be on top of the application process, right? Wrong. I only visited one school – a school that offered to bring me out for a visit. The applications were long and tedious. I had to use an old type-writer to fill them out. My parents refused to fill out the financial aid form, instead giving me their tax forms so I could fill it out on my own. On top of that, I was in love. My boyfriend, Andrew, graduated a year ahead of me and had just returned from a few months in Europe. He had deferred his admission to Stanford and was working a 9 to 5 job. I spent most of my time with him and used the remainder to complete schoolwork.
It was Andrew’s parents who sat down with me and made me fill out my applications. His mother kept better track of the deadlines than I did. They helped me with the financial aid form. They commented on my essays. They hounded me until I sent out each application.
In the end I attended the school that had brought me out to visit – also the school that offered me the most financial aid. I began with the intention of studying mathematics but, when the advanced calculus section I wanted was full, I registered for Russian instead. The rest, as they say, is history. It’s disconcerting to realize how passive I am in the face of life.
sorry. there really is very little to say...
except I just remembered that I wrote a post on my laptop. Hang on....
Saturday, December 11, 2004
How about Kwanzaa?
With the "winter holidays"* here, I have been looking around with a careful eye, taking it all in and looking for wriggle room. I enoy celebrating the winter solstice as much as the next person. I enjoy getting together with family and eating good food. I enjoy watching the snow come down and settle on evergreen boughs while sitting inside wearing wool socks and flannel and drinking hot chocolate. I enjoy time off from work.
I do not enjoy consumerism. I am opposed to people spending money on useless stuff to give to others just because they suspect the other person has purchased something equally useless for them. I object to hypothetical saints clothed in red that further feed the materialistic impulses of young people. I am opposed to celebrating the birth of a man who, even if he was a great spiritual guide, was not any more "divine" than the rest of us and, furthermore, wasn't even born at this time of year.
So, we got a tree this year but all along I've been thinking: what about when we have kids? I feel you have to give them something. The whole country is turned upside down during the holiday season and if you don't attach some meaning to all the hub-bub, the children will take what's being offered elsewhere. So, is there some more humanist, secular "holiday" out there for people like me?
Here's the thing. The humanists and the Unitarians don't have holidays. I've been looking into it and I really think what I am looking for is Kwanzaa, which is a celebration and an affirmation of African culture and African American community. The holiday is based upon wonderful and important principles: unity; self-determination; collective work; cooperative economics; purpose; creativity; and faith in one another. It is a cultural holiday - with no religious content whatsoever.
I know, I know. Am I going to be just another white person who steals African American culture, distorts it, and turns it to my own ends without any regard for who it belongs to and why it exists? Is it OK for a white person with a white partner and hypothetical white children to make Kwanzaa the central holiday of the season while living in a majority white neighborhood in the most segregated city in the country? If I had my way, would Kwanzaa end up being like jazz and swing dancing - elements of culture that have been denuded of their African American roots?
This is what the official website has to say but I am not sure how to interpret it:
Kwanzaa is clearly an African holiday created for African peoples. But other people can and do celebrate it, just like other people participate in Cinco de Mayo besides Mexicans; Chinese New Year besides Chinese; Native American pow wows besides Native Americans.
The question is, under what circumstances? There are both communal and public celebrations. One can properly hold a communal celebration dedicated essentially to community persons. But in a public context, say public school or college, we can properly have public celebrations which include others. How this is done depends on particular circumstances. But in any case, particular people should always be in control of and conduct their own celebrations. Audience attendance is one thing; conducting a ritual is another.
Not OK. I know, I know.
*this, apparently, is the diplomatic way of talking about the season of consumerism that has descended upon us.
I do not enjoy consumerism. I am opposed to people spending money on useless stuff to give to others just because they suspect the other person has purchased something equally useless for them. I object to hypothetical saints clothed in red that further feed the materialistic impulses of young people. I am opposed to celebrating the birth of a man who, even if he was a great spiritual guide, was not any more "divine" than the rest of us and, furthermore, wasn't even born at this time of year.
So, we got a tree this year but all along I've been thinking: what about when we have kids? I feel you have to give them something. The whole country is turned upside down during the holiday season and if you don't attach some meaning to all the hub-bub, the children will take what's being offered elsewhere. So, is there some more humanist, secular "holiday" out there for people like me?
Here's the thing. The humanists and the Unitarians don't have holidays. I've been looking into it and I really think what I am looking for is Kwanzaa, which is a celebration and an affirmation of African culture and African American community. The holiday is based upon wonderful and important principles: unity; self-determination; collective work; cooperative economics; purpose; creativity; and faith in one another. It is a cultural holiday - with no religious content whatsoever.
I know, I know. Am I going to be just another white person who steals African American culture, distorts it, and turns it to my own ends without any regard for who it belongs to and why it exists? Is it OK for a white person with a white partner and hypothetical white children to make Kwanzaa the central holiday of the season while living in a majority white neighborhood in the most segregated city in the country? If I had my way, would Kwanzaa end up being like jazz and swing dancing - elements of culture that have been denuded of their African American roots?
This is what the official website has to say but I am not sure how to interpret it:
Kwanzaa is clearly an African holiday created for African peoples. But other people can and do celebrate it, just like other people participate in Cinco de Mayo besides Mexicans; Chinese New Year besides Chinese; Native American pow wows besides Native Americans.
The question is, under what circumstances? There are both communal and public celebrations. One can properly hold a communal celebration dedicated essentially to community persons. But in a public context, say public school or college, we can properly have public celebrations which include others. How this is done depends on particular circumstances. But in any case, particular people should always be in control of and conduct their own celebrations. Audience attendance is one thing; conducting a ritual is another.
Not OK. I know, I know.
*this, apparently, is the diplomatic way of talking about the season of consumerism that has descended upon us.
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
For Sale by Owner
I told you Monday about my experience with BPD woman. I don't think I accurately depicted the extent to which the incident upset me - mostly due to my own failure in handling the whole thing but also because BPD woman is pretty scary.
This afternoon I was on the bus home from teaching/the gym. I usually sit in the back to read my book and that is what I was doing today. A few minutes away from my stop I finished a chapter so I packed up the book and looked around at the other riders to pass the time. Even though there were plenty of open seats, there was a woman standing right behind the driver. She was wearing a white ski parka with black accents, black yoga pants, pristine white sneakers, and had a black headband in her dirty-blonde hair (which was pulled up in a messy ponytail). I promise that I am not making this up.
My heart skipped a beat. Has she seen me? Is she stalking me? Is the city so small that I must bump into this person that I hoped never to see again? The bus approached my stop and I made my way toward the back door, all the while keeping an eye on BPD woman and, to my chagrin, she made her way to the front door.
Another regular was getting off behind me. I stepped onto the curb and walked toward the front of the bus in order to cross the street. Meanwhile BPD woman was walking from the front of the bus back toward me. That's it, I thought to myself, this is outrageous. I am the crazy one. BPD woman doesn't really exist, I created her and now I am going to see her everywhere. A moment after BPD woman passed me by (I held my breath and didn't make eye contact), the woman behind me said, "Did you see that woman? Is she crazy? Did you see how crazy her eyes looked?"
I turned and looked behind me but BPD woman had vanished. "Where did she go?" I asked with obvious anxiety. Just then the bus pulled away and we saw that BPD woman had crossed the street behind the bus. "I've seen her before," I said to the other regular, "She is crazy. Scary crazy." The whole time I was watching BPD woman. She got across the street and entered the apartment building on the corner.
"Oh no! I can't believe it!" I cried in horror.
"What's wrong?" queried the regular.
"She lives right across the street from me!"
Because, indeed, that door she entered was the front end of an apartment building, the back entrance is directly across the street from my house.
This afternoon I was on the bus home from teaching/the gym. I usually sit in the back to read my book and that is what I was doing today. A few minutes away from my stop I finished a chapter so I packed up the book and looked around at the other riders to pass the time. Even though there were plenty of open seats, there was a woman standing right behind the driver. She was wearing a white ski parka with black accents, black yoga pants, pristine white sneakers, and had a black headband in her dirty-blonde hair (which was pulled up in a messy ponytail). I promise that I am not making this up.
My heart skipped a beat. Has she seen me? Is she stalking me? Is the city so small that I must bump into this person that I hoped never to see again? The bus approached my stop and I made my way toward the back door, all the while keeping an eye on BPD woman and, to my chagrin, she made her way to the front door.
Another regular was getting off behind me. I stepped onto the curb and walked toward the front of the bus in order to cross the street. Meanwhile BPD woman was walking from the front of the bus back toward me. That's it, I thought to myself, this is outrageous. I am the crazy one. BPD woman doesn't really exist, I created her and now I am going to see her everywhere. A moment after BPD woman passed me by (I held my breath and didn't make eye contact), the woman behind me said, "Did you see that woman? Is she crazy? Did you see how crazy her eyes looked?"
I turned and looked behind me but BPD woman had vanished. "Where did she go?" I asked with obvious anxiety. Just then the bus pulled away and we saw that BPD woman had crossed the street behind the bus. "I've seen her before," I said to the other regular, "She is crazy. Scary crazy." The whole time I was watching BPD woman. She got across the street and entered the apartment building on the corner.
"Oh no! I can't believe it!" I cried in horror.
"What's wrong?" queried the regular.
"She lives right across the street from me!"
Because, indeed, that door she entered was the front end of an apartment building, the back entrance is directly across the street from my house.
It's never too early to start bickering about the children.
Jason and I have no children but that doesn't keep up from whiling away many hours disagreeing about how our children are to be raised. For example:
1. Inside/Outside: Jason, who was raised in an immaculate home, maintains that, once children are outside playing, they are not to come in until they come in for good (even if this means having to go to the bathroom in the shrubs). When entering the house, they are to remove all outer layers of clothing in the mudroom. If they are muddy, they will need to be hosed off outside or they will have to be wrapped in towels and carried up into the shower. My response: Huh? I don't bother fighting him too much on this one, however, because I recognize it as one of those ideas of his that will never come to pass - like when he said no dogs on the sofa and that we would take the car in and out of the garage every time we used it. The car has never been in the garage.
2. No Running in the house: My partner believes that children should not be allowed to run in the house. How is it possible to enforce this rule? Do children under the age of 10 WALK at all?
3. Sports Part I: Jason believes that we should require that our hypothetical children to play sports. He feels that his parents let him quit many sports too soon and he does not want to make the same mistake with his children. I ask: When do they get to decide if they want to continue? His answer: When they decide they want to continue. I don't have a problem with athletic activities so long as equal attention is paid to other activities (e.g. art, music). However, I do have a problem with what I perceive to be the overwhelming amount of time that playing sports takes once children get into middle and high school. Practices every day and on school/summer vacations, etc. How do you find time to be involved in other activities? I maintain that, if we plan a summer trip that precludes attending practices, so be it, no practice. Jason says that we would not plan trips that stand in the way of practices/games and that any other activities, e.g. music lessons, must be second to sports.
4. Neighborhood vs. Magnet school: I am all about neighborhood schools. If the neighborhood school isn't the best then you get in there and change it. Jason prefers to send children to public magnet schools. I am philosophically opposed to the skimming that goes on with a magnet system. I am also not happy with the idea of sending my children off the a school that is nowhere near where we live.
6. Church: I think church is am important element of community life and, also, where children learn a lot of their first lessons about morality and intergenerational civic involvement. So, I want to take my children to church (Unitarian). Jason thinks that I want to brain wash them. It's UNITARIANISM for pete's sake! Furthermore, how different is my church thing from his sports thing? Doesn't he want to teach them to like sports and see participating in them as an important part of their lives? When can they give up church? Either at about 16 or when they head off to college.
1. Inside/Outside: Jason, who was raised in an immaculate home, maintains that, once children are outside playing, they are not to come in until they come in for good (even if this means having to go to the bathroom in the shrubs). When entering the house, they are to remove all outer layers of clothing in the mudroom. If they are muddy, they will need to be hosed off outside or they will have to be wrapped in towels and carried up into the shower. My response: Huh? I don't bother fighting him too much on this one, however, because I recognize it as one of those ideas of his that will never come to pass - like when he said no dogs on the sofa and that we would take the car in and out of the garage every time we used it. The car has never been in the garage.
2. No Running in the house: My partner believes that children should not be allowed to run in the house. How is it possible to enforce this rule? Do children under the age of 10 WALK at all?
3. Sports Part I: Jason believes that we should require that our hypothetical children to play sports. He feels that his parents let him quit many sports too soon and he does not want to make the same mistake with his children. I ask: When do they get to decide if they want to continue? His answer: When they decide they want to continue. I don't have a problem with athletic activities so long as equal attention is paid to other activities (e.g. art, music). However, I do have a problem with what I perceive to be the overwhelming amount of time that playing sports takes once children get into middle and high school. Practices every day and on school/summer vacations, etc. How do you find time to be involved in other activities? I maintain that, if we plan a summer trip that precludes attending practices, so be it, no practice. Jason says that we would not plan trips that stand in the way of practices/games and that any other activities, e.g. music lessons, must be second to sports.
4. Neighborhood vs. Magnet school: I am all about neighborhood schools. If the neighborhood school isn't the best then you get in there and change it. Jason prefers to send children to public magnet schools. I am philosophically opposed to the skimming that goes on with a magnet system. I am also not happy with the idea of sending my children off the a school that is nowhere near where we live.
6. Church: I think church is am important element of community life and, also, where children learn a lot of their first lessons about morality and intergenerational civic involvement. So, I want to take my children to church (Unitarian). Jason thinks that I want to brain wash them. It's UNITARIANISM for pete's sake! Furthermore, how different is my church thing from his sports thing? Doesn't he want to teach them to like sports and see participating in them as an important part of their lives? When can they give up church? Either at about 16 or when they head off to college.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
What do I do now?
I've been blogging fairly reliably for about 6 weeks. This is a miracle if you consider that my 2 previous blogs died within days. So, the question is: is this a worthwhile activity? Does The 3rd Attempt contribute anything to the larger social good? Should I continue revealing to my readers (if, indeed, I have any) how pathetic/boring/crazy I really am?
Well, dearest readers, if you do exist, please help me decide what to do.
Well, dearest readers, if you do exist, please help me decide what to do.
Monday, December 06, 2004
Stranger on the bus
My morning commute begins just after 6:30 when I board the #30 city bus when it stops one block away from my house. The ride to the commuter bus station is about 12 minutes and the trip is usually uneventful. So uneventful, in fact, that a couple of times I have dozed off and nearly missed my stop.
This morning my usual comrades were on the bus when I boarded: the woman who reads a science textbook; the sleeping man in the back. Most mornings, the cast slowly grows as regulars board at subsequent stops and a few newbies join the crowd. Mornings when I am lucid, I study the new folks and make-up stories about who they are and why they are riding the #30.
About 4 stops after my own, a new woman boarded. She presented herself immediately as my research subject for the morning. Unlike most people, she didn’t have her fare ready when she boarded and had to stand and dig around in her wallet. Then, she fed two $1 bills to the box even though the fare is only $1.60. As she stood pulling the money out of her wallet, I noticed her attire. She was wearing pristine white, but not new, tennis shoes, black yoga pants, a white ski parka with black accents, grey knit gloves, and a thick black elastic headband in her chin-length dirty blonde hair. In other words – she was wearing no color at all. As she paid her fare the driver held a bus transfer out to her. She grabbed it out of his hand roughly.
From this initial information I formed my first tentative conclusion about this mystery passenger: she was on her way to the gym and running late for her yoga class (explaining the annoyed demeanor, the lack of preparedness of fare, and attire). Generally she gets a ride, explaining why she would be wearing her gym shoes (worn but clean and, hence not “street” shoes) and why she is not usually on the bus.
She sat roughly in the first set of seats (those reserved for the elderly and handicapped) right behind the driver, tossing her gloves into the seat furthest from her own and glancing at her transfer. Hoping, I assumed based upon my tentative conclusion, that it will last long enough for her to get home from the gym on the same fare. Then some puzzling new information arose: she lifted her feet one at a time and untied and retied her very clean shoes twice each, without returning then to the floor afterwards. Then she turned sideways in the seat and put her feet on the seat next to her. “Ah,” I thought, “obsessive compulsive disorder.* But is she still going to the gym?”
Meanwhile the elderly woman who carries the tapestry grocery bag was sitting in front of me. She and the new woman who needed to get to the #14 and was directly across from yoga lady and both appeared disturbed by the feet on the seat. I heard the woman with the tapestry bag mutter something unintelligible under her breath as she shook her head. The #14 woman shook her head as well. It is then I realized that I have never seen feet on the seat on the city buses here. However, none of this presented information overly problematic for my working assessment of yoga lady.
Then I noticed that her white parka had a stain on the right arm – the side of her visible to me. Just as I was trying to figure out what that might mean in terms of the OCD assessment, the bus stopped at the hospital, the busiest stop, and 5 people boarded. One of the new passengers, who, based upon attire, I assume works as a doctor, nurse, CNA, or other medical technician sat on the end of yoga lady’s section. As the nurse was lowering herself into the seat, yoga lady snatched her gloves. So, this is how it was: the nurse was sitting in a set of three seats directly behind the partition which acts as the wall behind the driver. The yoga lady’s feet were in the seat next to her and the yoga lady herself was in the final seat, turned so that she was facing the driver and the nurse instead of the center of the bus.
The nurse turned to the yoga lady and said, “Could you please put your feet down.”
“What?!” the yoga lady replied loudly.
“Could you please put your feet down.”
“What?! What?!”
“Some people are going to be sitting in that seat later and you’ve got your feet up in it.”
“What?! What?!”
“Oh, you hear me alright.” she looks at the #14 woman across from her and says, “Some people… no respect for anyone.”
Silence descended for a moment. There was so much tension in the air and the yoga lady, who I now renamed borderline-personality-disorder (but secretly feared might be more appropriately called the-dangerous-and-unmedicated-schizophrenia) woman, said “what” with such hostility that I half expected her to use the feet, which were mere millimeters from the nurse, to kick the woman.
As the bus pulled into the next stop the nurse said, “Driver, can you please ask this lady to get her feet of the seat?” The driver did not respond as he took fares and distributed transfers to the new riders. As he pulled away from the stop, he said, “Ma’am, please take your feet off the seat.”
BPD woman complied immediately, twisting around so that her knees were on the seat and her feet still of the floor. Then, suddenly, she exploded, placing both feet on the floor and leaning toward the bus driver.
“I have been mugged and harassed and pinched and slapped and people have said rude things to me and no bus driver has ever said a word and now you are telling me to take my feet off the seat?!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.
“That’s enough,” I said without thinking, “how dare you speak to the bus driver and the woman next to you like that? The only one who has been rude on this trip is you.”
“She was mumbling!”
“I could hear her fine from way over here. Just behave.”
“Behave! I have been slapped and punched by drivers and passengers too.”
“Ma’am,” the bus driver said, “I am truly sorry for everything that has happened to you but I can’t do anything about it. You should call the Main Office and complain. Right now we’re doing OK. We’re just trying to get through the morning so help us out, alright?”
BPD woman continued on for a moment, arguing with the Nurse and #14 lady in the Chekhovian sense: the first talking about how she has been wronged and the others talking about common courtesy but then silence fell again as everyone realized that their words were falling on deaf ears. I was silent, angry with myself for my unnecessary moralizing. I doubt that it contributed anything to the resolution of the situation and generally I pride myself on not being easily baited.
But it wasn’t over. BDP woman turned back so that her knees were on the seat and feet on the floor but then she looked back over her shoulder at me and stared. I don’t know why she chose me, perhaps because I reprimanded her first, or because I was the only white person to speak up. Perhaps because, since I was behind her in a seat facing forward, she was most obviously in my sight line. At any rate, since I had already risen to her bait, I certainly wasn’t going to do it again, but what to do? I didn’t want to let her win by forcing me to shift in my seat in order to change MY sightline. I could just neutrally meet her eyes until one of us got off (incidentally, we had already passed the gym so there was no telling where she was going). I could pretend not to notice her stares – but that would be obviously forced. Without ideas, I turned directly toward her and stared right back trying to think of some other way out of the situation. We sat this way until she blinked. At this point I stood up, walked past her, and picked up a bus schedule. I returned to my seat, got out my phone and dialed the number for the central office. She was staring at me all the while. I turned toward her and shot her a smile as I left a message at the central office. I spoke loudly enough for her to hear me and looked her over as I gave a physical description of the customer who was causing trouble (acting in a hostile and threatening manner, I said) on route #30 bus #4139 at around 6:45 a.m. I spoke loudly about how the bus driver should be commended for the diplomatic manner in which he handled the situation. Then I hung up the phone, gave her one more smile, and got out my book.
She got out at Broadway. Everyone on the bus seemed to breathe a huge sigh of relief and the bus driver started to talk with the nurse about how that woman got on to the bus angry and must have problems at home. Then #14 lady said to me, “Did you see how she was looking at you? I thought she was going to go over there and choke you.”
“Yeah,” I said, “she was really trying to get my goat.” Trying to sound casual despite my shaking hands and the sweat on my forehead and wishing that I had done a better job dealing with such an obviously troubled person. “She’s not all there.”
*Please don't conclude that my casual use of psychological disorders implies that I think such things are trivial matters. I use them casually here because in my "make up a story" game they are value-neutral labels which have no meaning accept for the purpose they serve as possible explanations for what I observe.
This morning my usual comrades were on the bus when I boarded: the woman who reads a science textbook; the sleeping man in the back. Most mornings, the cast slowly grows as regulars board at subsequent stops and a few newbies join the crowd. Mornings when I am lucid, I study the new folks and make-up stories about who they are and why they are riding the #30.
About 4 stops after my own, a new woman boarded. She presented herself immediately as my research subject for the morning. Unlike most people, she didn’t have her fare ready when she boarded and had to stand and dig around in her wallet. Then, she fed two $1 bills to the box even though the fare is only $1.60. As she stood pulling the money out of her wallet, I noticed her attire. She was wearing pristine white, but not new, tennis shoes, black yoga pants, a white ski parka with black accents, grey knit gloves, and a thick black elastic headband in her chin-length dirty blonde hair. In other words – she was wearing no color at all. As she paid her fare the driver held a bus transfer out to her. She grabbed it out of his hand roughly.
From this initial information I formed my first tentative conclusion about this mystery passenger: she was on her way to the gym and running late for her yoga class (explaining the annoyed demeanor, the lack of preparedness of fare, and attire). Generally she gets a ride, explaining why she would be wearing her gym shoes (worn but clean and, hence not “street” shoes) and why she is not usually on the bus.
She sat roughly in the first set of seats (those reserved for the elderly and handicapped) right behind the driver, tossing her gloves into the seat furthest from her own and glancing at her transfer. Hoping, I assumed based upon my tentative conclusion, that it will last long enough for her to get home from the gym on the same fare. Then some puzzling new information arose: she lifted her feet one at a time and untied and retied her very clean shoes twice each, without returning then to the floor afterwards. Then she turned sideways in the seat and put her feet on the seat next to her. “Ah,” I thought, “obsessive compulsive disorder.* But is she still going to the gym?”
Meanwhile the elderly woman who carries the tapestry grocery bag was sitting in front of me. She and the new woman who needed to get to the #14 and was directly across from yoga lady and both appeared disturbed by the feet on the seat. I heard the woman with the tapestry bag mutter something unintelligible under her breath as she shook her head. The #14 woman shook her head as well. It is then I realized that I have never seen feet on the seat on the city buses here. However, none of this presented information overly problematic for my working assessment of yoga lady.
Then I noticed that her white parka had a stain on the right arm – the side of her visible to me. Just as I was trying to figure out what that might mean in terms of the OCD assessment, the bus stopped at the hospital, the busiest stop, and 5 people boarded. One of the new passengers, who, based upon attire, I assume works as a doctor, nurse, CNA, or other medical technician sat on the end of yoga lady’s section. As the nurse was lowering herself into the seat, yoga lady snatched her gloves. So, this is how it was: the nurse was sitting in a set of three seats directly behind the partition which acts as the wall behind the driver. The yoga lady’s feet were in the seat next to her and the yoga lady herself was in the final seat, turned so that she was facing the driver and the nurse instead of the center of the bus.
The nurse turned to the yoga lady and said, “Could you please put your feet down.”
“What?!” the yoga lady replied loudly.
“Could you please put your feet down.”
“What?! What?!”
“Some people are going to be sitting in that seat later and you’ve got your feet up in it.”
“What?! What?!”
“Oh, you hear me alright.” she looks at the #14 woman across from her and says, “Some people… no respect for anyone.”
Silence descended for a moment. There was so much tension in the air and the yoga lady, who I now renamed borderline-personality-disorder (but secretly feared might be more appropriately called the-dangerous-and-unmedicated-schizophrenia) woman, said “what” with such hostility that I half expected her to use the feet, which were mere millimeters from the nurse, to kick the woman.
As the bus pulled into the next stop the nurse said, “Driver, can you please ask this lady to get her feet of the seat?” The driver did not respond as he took fares and distributed transfers to the new riders. As he pulled away from the stop, he said, “Ma’am, please take your feet off the seat.”
BPD woman complied immediately, twisting around so that her knees were on the seat and her feet still of the floor. Then, suddenly, she exploded, placing both feet on the floor and leaning toward the bus driver.
“I have been mugged and harassed and pinched and slapped and people have said rude things to me and no bus driver has ever said a word and now you are telling me to take my feet off the seat?!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.
“That’s enough,” I said without thinking, “how dare you speak to the bus driver and the woman next to you like that? The only one who has been rude on this trip is you.”
“She was mumbling!”
“I could hear her fine from way over here. Just behave.”
“Behave! I have been slapped and punched by drivers and passengers too.”
“Ma’am,” the bus driver said, “I am truly sorry for everything that has happened to you but I can’t do anything about it. You should call the Main Office and complain. Right now we’re doing OK. We’re just trying to get through the morning so help us out, alright?”
BPD woman continued on for a moment, arguing with the Nurse and #14 lady in the Chekhovian sense: the first talking about how she has been wronged and the others talking about common courtesy but then silence fell again as everyone realized that their words were falling on deaf ears. I was silent, angry with myself for my unnecessary moralizing. I doubt that it contributed anything to the resolution of the situation and generally I pride myself on not being easily baited.
But it wasn’t over. BDP woman turned back so that her knees were on the seat and feet on the floor but then she looked back over her shoulder at me and stared. I don’t know why she chose me, perhaps because I reprimanded her first, or because I was the only white person to speak up. Perhaps because, since I was behind her in a seat facing forward, she was most obviously in my sight line. At any rate, since I had already risen to her bait, I certainly wasn’t going to do it again, but what to do? I didn’t want to let her win by forcing me to shift in my seat in order to change MY sightline. I could just neutrally meet her eyes until one of us got off (incidentally, we had already passed the gym so there was no telling where she was going). I could pretend not to notice her stares – but that would be obviously forced. Without ideas, I turned directly toward her and stared right back trying to think of some other way out of the situation. We sat this way until she blinked. At this point I stood up, walked past her, and picked up a bus schedule. I returned to my seat, got out my phone and dialed the number for the central office. She was staring at me all the while. I turned toward her and shot her a smile as I left a message at the central office. I spoke loudly enough for her to hear me and looked her over as I gave a physical description of the customer who was causing trouble (acting in a hostile and threatening manner, I said) on route #30 bus #4139 at around 6:45 a.m. I spoke loudly about how the bus driver should be commended for the diplomatic manner in which he handled the situation. Then I hung up the phone, gave her one more smile, and got out my book.
She got out at Broadway. Everyone on the bus seemed to breathe a huge sigh of relief and the bus driver started to talk with the nurse about how that woman got on to the bus angry and must have problems at home. Then #14 lady said to me, “Did you see how she was looking at you? I thought she was going to go over there and choke you.”
“Yeah,” I said, “she was really trying to get my goat.” Trying to sound casual despite my shaking hands and the sweat on my forehead and wishing that I had done a better job dealing with such an obviously troubled person. “She’s not all there.”
*Please don't conclude that my casual use of psychological disorders implies that I think such things are trivial matters. I use them casually here because in my "make up a story" game they are value-neutral labels which have no meaning accept for the purpose they serve as possible explanations for what I observe.
Sunday, December 05, 2004
Occupational homogamy
Is anyone familiar with research on occupational homogamy in the United States? Would you be so kind as to point me in the direction of this work? I suspect that there are gender-by-occupation differences which are not completely accounted for by gender differences in the distribution of occupations. Are women who are doctors more likely to be married to people who work as doctors/lawyers/etc than men who are doctors? Correspondingly, are men who are doctors more likely to be married to people employed as teachers/administrators/etc. than women who work as doctors? Someone MUST be doing this work but my cursory spin through proquest did not yield any answers. Although I would love to spend several hours locating relevant literature, I am too busy so help me out if you can.
Thursday, December 02, 2004
The public library
I finally got my library card for the city public library. What a wonderful resource! Wireless internet, any non-academic book you would ever want, public meeting space, a warm and comfortable place for homeless people to spend the afternoon reading the newspaper and napping, and for travelers from far off lands to check their email.
My wonderful afternoon at the library (working on my lecture and checking out the two final Lemony Snicket books) got me thinking about all of the wonderful public goods available to us. Which is your favorite?
My wonderful afternoon at the library (working on my lecture and checking out the two final Lemony Snicket books) got me thinking about all of the wonderful public goods available to us. Which is your favorite?
Catharsis
Often, like right now, I feel like I need a good cry but I need a little help opening the floodgate. In such instances, I tend to do one of 3 things:
1. Start a stupid argument with my partner. Such arguments generally provide me with an opportunity to get really worked up.
2. Ignore the feeling and walk around feeling on the verge of tears until it subsides.
3. Watch a cathartic film.
Some movies are tear-jerkers, bringing tears to the eye at particularly emotional moments. Incidentally, the television show "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" which Jason watches on Sunday evenings while I am frantically preparing my lectures, is a television show that invariably leads to tears. This is NOT what I'm talking about when I talk about cathartic films.
Cathartic films are films that hit you where you live. You aren't weepy, you're sobbing when you watch them. In my case, I tend to cry for an hour or so afterward. My all-time top 5 cathartic films are:
1. Big Fish - people were turning around to stare at me because I was sobbing uncontrollably. Afterwards, I stayed in my seat until the theater cleared so no one would see that I was still crying. I cried all the way home and most of the evening.
2. The Royal Tennenbaums - yeah, that's right. Everyone else was laughing away but I was overwhelmed by all the hurt and isolation in the Tennenbaum family. I was an absolute wreck for hours.
3. The Mission - it's just so overwhelmingly tragic plus the music just grabs you.
4. Cinema Paradiso - lost love, lost home. This one hit me hardest when I left home for college and realized that I could "never go back."
5. Empire of the Sun - the brutality of war, lost youth, a great score. It kills me every time.
Others that come to mind: Thelma & Louise, My Life as a Dog, Eternal Sunshine...
1. Start a stupid argument with my partner. Such arguments generally provide me with an opportunity to get really worked up.
2. Ignore the feeling and walk around feeling on the verge of tears until it subsides.
3. Watch a cathartic film.
Some movies are tear-jerkers, bringing tears to the eye at particularly emotional moments. Incidentally, the television show "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" which Jason watches on Sunday evenings while I am frantically preparing my lectures, is a television show that invariably leads to tears. This is NOT what I'm talking about when I talk about cathartic films.
Cathartic films are films that hit you where you live. You aren't weepy, you're sobbing when you watch them. In my case, I tend to cry for an hour or so afterward. My all-time top 5 cathartic films are:
1. Big Fish - people were turning around to stare at me because I was sobbing uncontrollably. Afterwards, I stayed in my seat until the theater cleared so no one would see that I was still crying. I cried all the way home and most of the evening.
2. The Royal Tennenbaums - yeah, that's right. Everyone else was laughing away but I was overwhelmed by all the hurt and isolation in the Tennenbaum family. I was an absolute wreck for hours.
3. The Mission - it's just so overwhelmingly tragic plus the music just grabs you.
4. Cinema Paradiso - lost love, lost home. This one hit me hardest when I left home for college and realized that I could "never go back."
5. Empire of the Sun - the brutality of war, lost youth, a great score. It kills me every time.
Others that come to mind: Thelma & Louise, My Life as a Dog, Eternal Sunshine...
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
all true
1. Yes, folks, what you hear is true, I am obsessed with Lemony Snicket.
2. Yes, I am writing an expose concerning frozen pizza. I became interested in frozen pizza when I discovered that my local supermarket devotes just as much freezer space to pizza as it does to ALL OTHER FROZEN FOODS COMBINED. The questions I seek to answer: Why frozen pizza? How many varieties of frozen pizza do we need anyway? Who eats that sh*t, when, and with what? The much anticipated answers to these questions will be revealed in the tale I have to tell.
2. Yes, I am writing an expose concerning frozen pizza. I became interested in frozen pizza when I discovered that my local supermarket devotes just as much freezer space to pizza as it does to ALL OTHER FROZEN FOODS COMBINED. The questions I seek to answer: Why frozen pizza? How many varieties of frozen pizza do we need anyway? Who eats that sh*t, when, and with what? The much anticipated answers to these questions will be revealed in the tale I have to tell.
Thanksgiving recap, written in the style of my hero, escape-artist and author-on-the-run, Lemony Snicket
I imagine I piqued your curiosity when I spoke about Thanksgiving. You might be wondering, for instance, was the food as wonderful as the menu made it sound? Or, perhaps, whatever happened with all that drama around Jason’s family? Well, dear readers, I strongly advise you to forget all about these questions and stop reading this post. I have a solemn duty to tell the tale of Thanksgiving dinner at my house but you, as far as I can tell from my own research, are under no obligation to read it. I will be haunted forevermore by my memories of that fateful day but there is no reason you should be. In the paragraphs that follow I recount a story of woe that includes such horrifying subjects as pasty root vegetables, angry in-laws, a messy chocolate cream pie and other disasters. It would be best for you if you stopped reading this post right now and turned instead to the New York Times where you will read more heart-warming stories.
This is your last chance to stop reading before I begin my Thanksgiving recap. “Recap” can mean to put the cap back on something but it can also be a shortened version of the word “recapitulate.” People often use shortened versions of words to save time and that is what I am doing here. “Recapitulate” here means “to tell you, in the shortest version possible, all the important things that happened at my house on Thanksgiving.”
The mashed potatoes were a little dry. I was working on them at about the same time that the turkey was refusing to get finished so I think I forgot to taste them to make sure I had added enough butter and milk. I narrowly averted disaster with the chocolate cream pie because the filling just didn’t thicken for the longest time. “Narrowly averted disaster” is just a fancy way of saying “the chocolate cream pie turned out alright in the end even though it seemed like it might not.”
Apart from these small problems, the day came off without a hitch. The expression “without a hitch” doesn’t have anything to do with metal hook-like things that people attach to the back of their cars so they can pull trailers and other things behind them. Nor does it pertain to getting married or getting rides by sticking your thumb out at the side of the road. Here hitch is talking about how many problems I came up against when trying to have a nice Thanksgiving with my family and friends. My partner’s persnickety parents kept out of our hair. “Persnickety” here means “so concerned with petty details that they are always causing trouble of one sort or another.” All of our guests hit it off. The expression “hit it off” has nothing at all to do with hitting. Instead it is just a way of saying that, even though many of them had never met before, all the people at Thanksgiving dinner liked one another right away and had plenty of common interests they could talk about. After dessert we played games, one of which was called “Apples to Apples,” even though it is a game played with special cards and apples are not involved in it at all.
This is your last chance to stop reading before I begin my Thanksgiving recap. “Recap” can mean to put the cap back on something but it can also be a shortened version of the word “recapitulate.” People often use shortened versions of words to save time and that is what I am doing here. “Recapitulate” here means “to tell you, in the shortest version possible, all the important things that happened at my house on Thanksgiving.”
The mashed potatoes were a little dry. I was working on them at about the same time that the turkey was refusing to get finished so I think I forgot to taste them to make sure I had added enough butter and milk. I narrowly averted disaster with the chocolate cream pie because the filling just didn’t thicken for the longest time. “Narrowly averted disaster” is just a fancy way of saying “the chocolate cream pie turned out alright in the end even though it seemed like it might not.”
Apart from these small problems, the day came off without a hitch. The expression “without a hitch” doesn’t have anything to do with metal hook-like things that people attach to the back of their cars so they can pull trailers and other things behind them. Nor does it pertain to getting married or getting rides by sticking your thumb out at the side of the road. Here hitch is talking about how many problems I came up against when trying to have a nice Thanksgiving with my family and friends. My partner’s persnickety parents kept out of our hair. “Persnickety” here means “so concerned with petty details that they are always causing trouble of one sort or another.” All of our guests hit it off. The expression “hit it off” has nothing at all to do with hitting. Instead it is just a way of saying that, even though many of them had never met before, all the people at Thanksgiving dinner liked one another right away and had plenty of common interests they could talk about. After dessert we played games, one of which was called “Apples to Apples,” even though it is a game played with special cards and apples are not involved in it at all.
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
stick a fork in me
i hope this is just end of the semester burn-out and not some more enduring inertia and disinterest because i absolutely CANNOT get myself moving. i plan on delivering an incredibly tedious lecture tomorrow and it's not because i am spending a lot of time getting other things done. where have you gone, elusive productivity?
Sunday, November 28, 2004
A Series of Unfortunate Events
I spent the entire summer of 2001 catching up with what was going on the in the world of children's literature - focusing mainly on fantasy. Somehow I missed "A Series of Unfortunate Events" by Lemony Snicket - a series of utterly hilarious tales concerning the unfortunate adventures of three children known as the Baudelaire Orphans. These books are absolute brain candy - each taking only an hour or so to read (this, incidentally, makes them an uneconomical purchase. After I buying the first and second, I realized I was better off just sitting in the bookstore or library and reading them there) however, they are not pure fluff, as they have done wonders to increase my vocabulary. Part of the humor in the book comes from the way that Lemony Snicket inserts his didactic material into the story. Here is an example
It is now necessary for me to use the rather hackneyed phrase "Meanwhile, back at the ranch." The word "hackneyed" here means "used by so, so many writers that by the time Lemony Snicket uses it, it is a tiresome cliche." "Meanwhile, back at the ranch" is a phrase used to link what is going on in one part of the story to what is going on in another part of the story, and it has nothing to do with cows or with horses or with any people who work in rural areas where ranches are, or even with ranch dressing, which is creamy and put on salads. Here, the phrase "meanwhile back at the ranch" refers to what Violet was doing while Klaus and Sunny were in the Reptile Room.
The words/expressions/rules of grammar/historical and scientific facts Lemony Snicket explicitly introduces appear several times subsequent to their introduction. BRILLIANT!
It is now necessary for me to use the rather hackneyed phrase "Meanwhile, back at the ranch." The word "hackneyed" here means "used by so, so many writers that by the time Lemony Snicket uses it, it is a tiresome cliche." "Meanwhile, back at the ranch" is a phrase used to link what is going on in one part of the story to what is going on in another part of the story, and it has nothing to do with cows or with horses or with any people who work in rural areas where ranches are, or even with ranch dressing, which is creamy and put on salads. Here, the phrase "meanwhile back at the ranch" refers to what Violet was doing while Klaus and Sunny were in the Reptile Room.
The words/expressions/rules of grammar/historical and scientific facts Lemony Snicket explicitly introduces appear several times subsequent to their introduction. BRILLIANT!
Monday, November 22, 2004
Once I’ve completed the Ph.D. you’ll be able to call me DR. Evil
All families are different. I have been so lucky with my own. When you grow up crammed into a small house with 8 people, you learn to place a high premium on just getting along. Now there are 12 of us. We all get along and just enjoy spending time with one another. When we get together for the holidays, we pack into the family room and watch corny movies just to be in each other's company. We are completely informal and never hold grudges. We end our phone calls with, "I love you." When my mom died, we just became all the more like this - not counting about 6 months of absolute hell.
For the reasons I listed earlier and because this year I am not able to have Christmas with my family for the first time ever, I never doubted that I would be cooking a thanksgiving meal. I intended to invite whoever in my family wanted to come, Jason's parents, sister, and his grandparents. This also required that I invite Jason's single aunt. We are friends with one of Jason's uncles so we were going to invite him along too. That's when things got complicated. Jason and his uncle said the other aunts and uncles would be angry that they weren't invited. So, instead of doing what I normally do, inviting the folks I wanted to invite and letting everyone else get over it, I held off - talking to my family and a couple of friends who live far away from their families to figure out how many people we would be able to invite from Jason's family (over and above the parents & grandparents, etc).
We got together with his parents one evening in mid-October and his mother announced "We're holding Thanksgiving." Jason responded, "So are we." His mother was upset. We offered to combine but she wasn't interested in having dinner with my family and our friends. However, when she asked who was coming, Jason, doing what they do in his family, neglected to tell his mother that his one uncle was planning to dine with us. Why is this? He didn't want to let on that he had invited that uncle before his own mother because she would be upset.
Jason's mom called his uncle this morning to find out if he is coming to her place for Thanksgiving only to learn that he is coming to our place. She then called Jason in tears, telling him what an awful son he was for inviting his uncle after he knew that she had also invited him. She claims that she reported our heartless behavior to HER mother - so undoubtedly everyone now knows that we, of everyone in the family, invited only this one uncle. Jason called me all distraught and I told him he should stop playing their games and call her and explain exactly how it all went - that the uncle was invited before we even knew she was having dinner -that we had planned to invite her but had not gotten to it before she decided to hold dinner -and that the offer to combine (at our place) was still on the table.
Jason made the call but no dice. They hate us now - well, actually, him, they never liked me. His mother wouldn't even talk to him. Now he is upset and angry with me. Probably partially because I want to cook a Thanksgiving dinner and partially because I will still take his calls. And, of course, because I am evil.
It's like they operate on the premise that, whatever it is - love, company, holidays - there isn't enough of it to go around. Why?
For the reasons I listed earlier and because this year I am not able to have Christmas with my family for the first time ever, I never doubted that I would be cooking a thanksgiving meal. I intended to invite whoever in my family wanted to come, Jason's parents, sister, and his grandparents. This also required that I invite Jason's single aunt. We are friends with one of Jason's uncles so we were going to invite him along too. That's when things got complicated. Jason and his uncle said the other aunts and uncles would be angry that they weren't invited. So, instead of doing what I normally do, inviting the folks I wanted to invite and letting everyone else get over it, I held off - talking to my family and a couple of friends who live far away from their families to figure out how many people we would be able to invite from Jason's family (over and above the parents & grandparents, etc).
We got together with his parents one evening in mid-October and his mother announced "We're holding Thanksgiving." Jason responded, "So are we." His mother was upset. We offered to combine but she wasn't interested in having dinner with my family and our friends. However, when she asked who was coming, Jason, doing what they do in his family, neglected to tell his mother that his one uncle was planning to dine with us. Why is this? He didn't want to let on that he had invited that uncle before his own mother because she would be upset.
Jason's mom called his uncle this morning to find out if he is coming to her place for Thanksgiving only to learn that he is coming to our place. She then called Jason in tears, telling him what an awful son he was for inviting his uncle after he knew that she had also invited him. She claims that she reported our heartless behavior to HER mother - so undoubtedly everyone now knows that we, of everyone in the family, invited only this one uncle. Jason called me all distraught and I told him he should stop playing their games and call her and explain exactly how it all went - that the uncle was invited before we even knew she was having dinner -that we had planned to invite her but had not gotten to it before she decided to hold dinner -and that the offer to combine (at our place) was still on the table.
Jason made the call but no dice. They hate us now - well, actually, him, they never liked me. His mother wouldn't even talk to him. Now he is upset and angry with me. Probably partially because I want to cook a Thanksgiving dinner and partially because I will still take his calls. And, of course, because I am evil.
It's like they operate on the premise that, whatever it is - love, company, holidays - there isn't enough of it to go around. Why?
please pass the cranberry sauce
the first three of our thanksgiving guests arrive this evening: my youngest brother and his twin sister along with her dog. we are going to have a total of 5 house guests and at least 11 people for thanksgiving dinner (room for one more! first come first served!). i love making thanksgiving dinner. thanksgiving is my favorite holiday in general. i enjoy it so much that i caused some trouble with jason's family because i was unwilling to go to their place for dinner. we invited them to eat with us but they feel they have seniority.
the thing is, i've done thanksgiving with them twice. once at disneyworld (we ate dinner, just the 5 of us at some restaurant - no cranberry sauce or anything). the other time was at their house but they didn't squeeze all of us together. instead they put the food out on a buffet, half of it was canned (e.g. gravy from a jar and instant mashed potato) and had separate tables set up in various rooms. jason and i sat with his grandparents in the dining room. I insist on squeezing everyone around the table and having the food on the table. Or, i put two tables next to one another. in my mind, it really isn't thanksgiving if you aren't having lively dinner conversation punctuated by requests to "pass the squash" and queries as to "how much dark meat is left?"
The menu for our first thanksgiving in our new house:
turkey
tofurkey
mashed potates with butter&cream
non-dairy mashed potatoes
non-dairy squash puree with garlic
green beans
mushrooms in red wine reduction
apple ginger cranberry relish
gravy
stuffing in the bird
vegetarian stuffing
annadama bread
pumpkin pie
pecan pie
blueberry-apple pie
chocolate cream pie
the thing is, i've done thanksgiving with them twice. once at disneyworld (we ate dinner, just the 5 of us at some restaurant - no cranberry sauce or anything). the other time was at their house but they didn't squeeze all of us together. instead they put the food out on a buffet, half of it was canned (e.g. gravy from a jar and instant mashed potato) and had separate tables set up in various rooms. jason and i sat with his grandparents in the dining room. I insist on squeezing everyone around the table and having the food on the table. Or, i put two tables next to one another. in my mind, it really isn't thanksgiving if you aren't having lively dinner conversation punctuated by requests to "pass the squash" and queries as to "how much dark meat is left?"
The menu for our first thanksgiving in our new house:
turkey
tofurkey
mashed potates with butter&cream
non-dairy mashed potatoes
non-dairy squash puree with garlic
green beans
mushrooms in red wine reduction
apple ginger cranberry relish
gravy
stuffing in the bird
vegetarian stuffing
annadama bread
pumpkin pie
pecan pie
blueberry-apple pie
chocolate cream pie
Sunday, November 21, 2004
so, you are wondering...
whatever is she up to now?
I tell you, friends, I live life in the fast lane. I just drank a cup of tea while watching Saturday Night Live. I am now bundled up in my flannel pajamas and about to crawl into bed with my partner. We will read for about an hour. He is reading "The brethren" - about the Nixon (?)Supreme Court. I think I am in the mood for children's fantasy, but not Harry Potter, so it will be one of either the Oz series or the Chronicles of Narnia.
but you must just be taking it easy because you have such an exciting day tomorrow, right?
WRONG. Tomorrow Jason and I will get up at 7 a.m. to clean the house. I will then go to church (yes, I've started going to Unitarian Universalist church here - I LIKE going to church) and the gym. Then we're taking Jason's grandfather out to lunch - the Olive Garden or something like that. When we get home I'll walk the dogs for about an hour, come home and work on my lecture, taking a break for dinner - we're making vegetable potsticker salad. If I finish my lecture before 11, I'll do some work of my own.
You think this is mundane and boring, you should let me tell you about the weekend we spent SEEDING OUR BACKYARD just so we would have the right type of weeds growing back there.
I tell you, friends, I live life in the fast lane. I just drank a cup of tea while watching Saturday Night Live. I am now bundled up in my flannel pajamas and about to crawl into bed with my partner. We will read for about an hour. He is reading "The brethren" - about the Nixon (?)Supreme Court. I think I am in the mood for children's fantasy, but not Harry Potter, so it will be one of either the Oz series or the Chronicles of Narnia.
but you must just be taking it easy because you have such an exciting day tomorrow, right?
WRONG. Tomorrow Jason and I will get up at 7 a.m. to clean the house. I will then go to church (yes, I've started going to Unitarian Universalist church here - I LIKE going to church) and the gym. Then we're taking Jason's grandfather out to lunch - the Olive Garden or something like that. When we get home I'll walk the dogs for about an hour, come home and work on my lecture, taking a break for dinner - we're making vegetable potsticker salad. If I finish my lecture before 11, I'll do some work of my own.
You think this is mundane and boring, you should let me tell you about the weekend we spent SEEDING OUR BACKYARD just so we would have the right type of weeds growing back there.
Saturday, November 20, 2004
book note
On the bus home from campus yesterday I read "Message in a Bottle," another book that I picked up at the monthly book swap I attend. I wouldn't normally bother with a popular romantic novel but it was slim pickings at the swap and, besides, this particular novel was made into a film which they shot in the great state of Maine - not that I will ever see the film. Incidentally, the book is set in Boston and North Carolina. Also, it should be noted that the the main characters are played by Kevin Costner (arguably the worst actor EVER*) and Robin Wright Penn who is no Ethel Barrymore. The casting puzzles me since the characters are supposed to be in their mid-30s.
Anyway, the novel was pathetic. The characters were too consistent (t00 seamless, if you know what I mean) to be believable and the relationships the author constructs are absolute fantasy. No wonder the author needs to kill someone off at the end of the book - the perfect little world he creates just cannot hold.
*When my friend Lena, first arrived in the states from Senegal, her favorite actor was Kevin Costner. I am sure I wrinkled my nose when she told me this. In Senegal, they see their movies in French, so Lena had only ever seen Costner movies dubbed. Once her English was far enough along for her to be able to enjoy films in English, Lena rented some Costner films and was HORRIFIED by Costner's monotone line delivery.
Anyway, the novel was pathetic. The characters were too consistent (t00 seamless, if you know what I mean) to be believable and the relationships the author constructs are absolute fantasy. No wonder the author needs to kill someone off at the end of the book - the perfect little world he creates just cannot hold.
*When my friend Lena, first arrived in the states from Senegal, her favorite actor was Kevin Costner. I am sure I wrinkled my nose when she told me this. In Senegal, they see their movies in French, so Lena had only ever seen Costner movies dubbed. Once her English was far enough along for her to be able to enjoy films in English, Lena rented some Costner films and was HORRIFIED by Costner's monotone line delivery.
all i see is grey where the sky was before
Where is the sun?
I would gladly take a 40 degree drop in temperature in exchange for a bright sunshine-y day.
I would gladly take a 40 degree drop in temperature in exchange for a bright sunshine-y day.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
notes from the field
I subscribe to the newspaper in the town where I am conducting my dissertation research. It is a great town and I would move there in a second if I had the chance.
Anyway, the local sports section has been running pictures of kids standing beside the deer and moose that they have bagged. I feel compelled to cut the pictures out.
There is something about them -- I can't figure out why I feel the need to keep these images:
Lost innocence maybe? Most of the kids look happy enough standing under the 650 bull moose that is strung up in their driveway to drain or kneeling beside and tilting up the antlers of the 3-point buck lying in the leaves with its eyes still open and its tongue hanging out.
I don't really have a problem with hunting (trapping and hunting with dogs, yes but otherwise, no). In fact, I think that we would probably be better off if people got more of their meat from the forest instead of the supermarket.
I think it might just be the pictures themselves - that they strike me as inadequate obituaries. There is no recognition of the finality and solemnity of death in them, no explicit thanks for the animal that is lost. It's not clear to me from the photos that Cody Morin (aged 13), Cassie True (aged 11), Eagan Nadeau (aged 12), Jennifer Rancourt (aged 13), Nathan Cortes (11), Rocky Cotton, the Lee brothers and all the rest recognize the true cost, and, corresponding worth, of their prize - that their gain is also a loss...
Oh, I don't know...
Anyway, the local sports section has been running pictures of kids standing beside the deer and moose that they have bagged. I feel compelled to cut the pictures out.
There is something about them -- I can't figure out why I feel the need to keep these images:
Lost innocence maybe? Most of the kids look happy enough standing under the 650 bull moose that is strung up in their driveway to drain or kneeling beside and tilting up the antlers of the 3-point buck lying in the leaves with its eyes still open and its tongue hanging out.
I don't really have a problem with hunting (trapping and hunting with dogs, yes but otherwise, no). In fact, I think that we would probably be better off if people got more of their meat from the forest instead of the supermarket.
I think it might just be the pictures themselves - that they strike me as inadequate obituaries. There is no recognition of the finality and solemnity of death in them, no explicit thanks for the animal that is lost. It's not clear to me from the photos that Cody Morin (aged 13), Cassie True (aged 11), Eagan Nadeau (aged 12), Jennifer Rancourt (aged 13), Nathan Cortes (11), Rocky Cotton, the Lee brothers and all the rest recognize the true cost, and, corresponding worth, of their prize - that their gain is also a loss...
Oh, I don't know...
book recommendation
Last night and this morning I read a great novel, Lost Names by Richard Kim. I really like his style. It's very spartan. He doesn't offer much in the way of set-up, description, or historical detail. Instead he uses emotions and thoughts to place you in the scene. I've always preferred this approach to story-telling - giving the reader mental state of the characters and then letting them construct their own image of the world in which this state makes sense. As a reader, it's easier to empathize when you don't have to wrestle with the foreign-ness of the novel's setting (in this case Japanese-occupied Korea).
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
where are you neal o'gane?
An example of my social incompetence:
I was dining at Seasons, the upscale restaurant in the Four Seasons hotel in Chicago, with my partner and some of the attorneys from the upscale law firm where he was working. I didn't know anyone. Furthermore, although I met many nice people who worked at the firm, the people we were dining with were, in my opinion, the worst sort of lawyers - exactly the type of arrogant S.O.B.s that give lawyers a bad name. Not a sympathetic or contemplative bone in their bodies if you ask me. Just out to exploit ambiguity and to win.
I sat mute for the most part, realizing that I would likely come to regret anything I said. My game plan in such situations is to do like the chameleon - become indistinguishable from the other spouses, all of whom, remarkably, were vapid grade school teachers (no, these 2 things do not always go together) and wore those matched "outfits" you buy - you know the kind with the capri pants with the embroidery that matches the embroidery on the little blouse and little sweater? Given the obstacles of my unmanaged hair, poorly applied make-up, and inappropriate attire, I knew that the cards were stacked against me. However, I carried on.
Disregarding basic pleasantness, I maintained my silence until we got to dessert. The conversation turned to kickball. Some of the lawyers had joined a club kickball league - playing indoors with the little red rubber balls that we played with back in grammar school. As kickball had been a very important element of my early education, I could not contain my curiosity:
"Do you play with the same team every time?" I asked.
"Yes."
"That's interesting. The thing I remember most about kickball, apart from the mean spin I could put on a pitch, is how your social standing depended upon how quickly you were picked for a team."
[extended silence]
"I got picked first once. Neal O'Gane picked me first when I was in fourth grade."
[extended silence]
"Of course, I was picked last a few times too, but I choose not to dwell on that."
[brief period of silence until someone has the wherewithal to change the topic of conversation completely].
This, dear readers, the surgical skill with which I kill a conversation, is why I choose to stay home.
I was dining at Seasons, the upscale restaurant in the Four Seasons hotel in Chicago, with my partner and some of the attorneys from the upscale law firm where he was working. I didn't know anyone. Furthermore, although I met many nice people who worked at the firm, the people we were dining with were, in my opinion, the worst sort of lawyers - exactly the type of arrogant S.O.B.s that give lawyers a bad name. Not a sympathetic or contemplative bone in their bodies if you ask me. Just out to exploit ambiguity and to win.
I sat mute for the most part, realizing that I would likely come to regret anything I said. My game plan in such situations is to do like the chameleon - become indistinguishable from the other spouses, all of whom, remarkably, were vapid grade school teachers (no, these 2 things do not always go together) and wore those matched "outfits" you buy - you know the kind with the capri pants with the embroidery that matches the embroidery on the little blouse and little sweater? Given the obstacles of my unmanaged hair, poorly applied make-up, and inappropriate attire, I knew that the cards were stacked against me. However, I carried on.
Disregarding basic pleasantness, I maintained my silence until we got to dessert. The conversation turned to kickball. Some of the lawyers had joined a club kickball league - playing indoors with the little red rubber balls that we played with back in grammar school. As kickball had been a very important element of my early education, I could not contain my curiosity:
"Do you play with the same team every time?" I asked.
"Yes."
"That's interesting. The thing I remember most about kickball, apart from the mean spin I could put on a pitch, is how your social standing depended upon how quickly you were picked for a team."
[extended silence]
"I got picked first once. Neal O'Gane picked me first when I was in fourth grade."
[extended silence]
"Of course, I was picked last a few times too, but I choose not to dwell on that."
[brief period of silence until someone has the wherewithal to change the topic of conversation completely].
This, dear readers, the surgical skill with which I kill a conversation, is why I choose to stay home.
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
"Life is more important than politics" - G.W.Bush
Ah, what respect for life! Too bad I am a devil-worshipping east-coast liberal who cares nothing for the gift of life. My only hope for being spared an internity in the fires of hell is that, perhaps, our god-fearing president, who did not grant reprieves to 152* people killed under unconstitutional Texas law, will show me the path to righteousness. Please, lord, let it be so!
November 16, 2004
Supreme Court Rebukes Texas Again Over a Death Sentence
By LINDA GREENHOUSE
WASHINGTON, Nov. 15 - The Supreme Court overturned a Texas death sentence on Monday while delivering its latest rebuke to the way the death penalty is being handled by judges in the state, which has executed far more people than any other in the modern era of capital punishment.
The errors committed by the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals in upholding the death sentence of LaRoyce L. Smith were so clear to a majority of the Supreme Court that the justices decided the case in the inmate's favor on the basis of the briefs, without hearing arguments.
Mr. Smith was convicted in 1991 of murdering a co-worker at a Taco Bell restaurant in Dallas where he had recently worked. He was 19. With an I.Q. of 78, he had reached the ninth grade in special education classes.
[...]
The justices said Monday that the Texas appeals court ignored problems the Supreme Court had already identified and that it should have known, when it affirmed the sentence last April, that the jury instructions made the death sentence unconstitutional.The state court "erroneously relied on a test we never countenanced and now have unequivocally rejected," the justices said.
[...]
Under the Texas law that the Supreme Court approved when it permitted capital punishment to resume in 1976, a death sentence was mandatory if jurors answered yes to two questions: Was the killing deliberate, and would the defendant present a continuing danger to society?
There was no room for consideration of mitigating circumstances that the court found in subsequent decisions had to be considered by the jury if the defendant offered them.
After the court ruled in 1989 that Texas had to give jurors the chance to consider mitigating factors, the state added new instructions. Jurors who wanted to take mitigating factors into account should do so by answering no to one of the two questions, even if they believed that the correct answer was yes.**
In a decision in 2001, the Supreme Court found this response constitutionally flawed. It then amplified that decision in the Tennard case in June.
Both in 2001 and in June, the justices said, telling jurors to answer the questions honestly and while at the same time instructing them to disregard their own answers placed the jurors in an untenable position, most likely preventing them from giving proper weight to the defendant's mitigating evidence.
[...]
Of the 943 executions in the country since 1976, Texas has carried out 335*, more than the next six states combined. It has 457 people on death row, second to the 635 in California, which has conducted 10 executions.
*Our righteous and illustrious president oversaw the execution of half of those performed in TX since 1976.
**Notice that a juror has to LIE to the court in order to mitigate the death sentence.
November 16, 2004
Supreme Court Rebukes Texas Again Over a Death Sentence
By LINDA GREENHOUSE
WASHINGTON, Nov. 15 - The Supreme Court overturned a Texas death sentence on Monday while delivering its latest rebuke to the way the death penalty is being handled by judges in the state, which has executed far more people than any other in the modern era of capital punishment.
The errors committed by the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals in upholding the death sentence of LaRoyce L. Smith were so clear to a majority of the Supreme Court that the justices decided the case in the inmate's favor on the basis of the briefs, without hearing arguments.
Mr. Smith was convicted in 1991 of murdering a co-worker at a Taco Bell restaurant in Dallas where he had recently worked. He was 19. With an I.Q. of 78, he had reached the ninth grade in special education classes.
[...]
The justices said Monday that the Texas appeals court ignored problems the Supreme Court had already identified and that it should have known, when it affirmed the sentence last April, that the jury instructions made the death sentence unconstitutional.The state court "erroneously relied on a test we never countenanced and now have unequivocally rejected," the justices said.
[...]
Under the Texas law that the Supreme Court approved when it permitted capital punishment to resume in 1976, a death sentence was mandatory if jurors answered yes to two questions: Was the killing deliberate, and would the defendant present a continuing danger to society?
There was no room for consideration of mitigating circumstances that the court found in subsequent decisions had to be considered by the jury if the defendant offered them.
After the court ruled in 1989 that Texas had to give jurors the chance to consider mitigating factors, the state added new instructions. Jurors who wanted to take mitigating factors into account should do so by answering no to one of the two questions, even if they believed that the correct answer was yes.**
In a decision in 2001, the Supreme Court found this response constitutionally flawed. It then amplified that decision in the Tennard case in June.
Both in 2001 and in June, the justices said, telling jurors to answer the questions honestly and while at the same time instructing them to disregard their own answers placed the jurors in an untenable position, most likely preventing them from giving proper weight to the defendant's mitigating evidence.
[...]
Of the 943 executions in the country since 1976, Texas has carried out 335*, more than the next six states combined. It has 457 people on death row, second to the 635 in California, which has conducted 10 executions.
*Our righteous and illustrious president oversaw the execution of half of those performed in TX since 1976.
**Notice that a juror has to LIE to the court in order to mitigate the death sentence.
Monday, November 15, 2004
Sunday, November 14, 2004
addendum
I wrote this in my journal in June. It seems pertinent to my issues with Life of Pi:
This afternoon I walked my dogs at this park along a pond. We go there frequently because it is one of the city parks where dogs are allowed off leash. One of my dogs killed a muskrat. It screamed - do most animals scream when they are killed? I tried to get my dog away but he was intent on doing it in. I ran over to grab his collar. I heard him break the muskrat's neck.The thing is, he is just killing it for sport - he doesn't want to eat it. Secondly, at home this is the kinder and gentler of my 2 dogs.
The whole incident got me thinking about "human nature." Can we really expect much more from humans than my dog? I guess we do expect more, but how much more do we really get? Humans kill other animals and even other humans all the time, thoughtlessly, just because they are there. Furthermore, many people who engage in such behaviors are not so thoughtless and destructive all the time. When I got home from the walk and my killer dog curled up with me on the couch I felt that the only real difference between myself and the mother of a murderer (apart from the obvious) is that I can't say honestly that I believe my dog doesn't have it in him to do such a terrible thing. We should expect the best and the worst in human behavior - and not just in general, in the behavior of each person. In my life, some of the people I have been closest to and cherished most turned out to also be "bad people" - e.g. child molesters, spouse abusers. Perhaps this is why I am very uncommitted to my assessments of people and why I am rarely surprised by anything people do.
This afternoon I walked my dogs at this park along a pond. We go there frequently because it is one of the city parks where dogs are allowed off leash. One of my dogs killed a muskrat. It screamed - do most animals scream when they are killed? I tried to get my dog away but he was intent on doing it in. I ran over to grab his collar. I heard him break the muskrat's neck.The thing is, he is just killing it for sport - he doesn't want to eat it. Secondly, at home this is the kinder and gentler of my 2 dogs.
The whole incident got me thinking about "human nature." Can we really expect much more from humans than my dog? I guess we do expect more, but how much more do we really get? Humans kill other animals and even other humans all the time, thoughtlessly, just because they are there. Furthermore, many people who engage in such behaviors are not so thoughtless and destructive all the time. When I got home from the walk and my killer dog curled up with me on the couch I felt that the only real difference between myself and the mother of a murderer (apart from the obvious) is that I can't say honestly that I believe my dog doesn't have it in him to do such a terrible thing. We should expect the best and the worst in human behavior - and not just in general, in the behavior of each person. In my life, some of the people I have been closest to and cherished most turned out to also be "bad people" - e.g. child molesters, spouse abusers. Perhaps this is why I am very uncommitted to my assessments of people and why I am rarely surprised by anything people do.
Life of Pi
My book group is reading “Life of Pi” this month. I suggested the book because my father was reading it this past summer. I found it interesting that he decided to pick up a novel that is unrelated to war or church history.
I was expecting a bit of spiritual enlightenment from the novel. On the cover of the paperback a quote from the LA Times book review claims “A story to make you believe in the soul sustaining power of fiction.” The author, Yann Martel, claims in his author’s note that the story he recounts, or at least the story within the story, “was, indeed, a story to make you believe in God.”
So, here’s the thing: I came away from this novel feeling that the only compelling reason Martel gives us to believe in god is that, if we do not, we will be forced to confront the “yeastless factuality” of life as he presents it– that humans are beasts and that our time on this planet is nasty, brutish, and short (to quote Hobbes). Even if we are in a space where our needs are met, we are being slowly swallowed by time and nature. God comes in when we construct our stories and understanding, not through the use of fact and reason, but instead by taking a leap of faith: believing love lies behind all that is and that ultimate morality and purpose are fundamental truths.
It’s not that I don’t buy what I’ve just written, it’s that the story Martel spins presents such a horrid “factuality.” Why is it that the spiritual can only have importance at the expense of the potential and beauty of life in this world? Is there nothing redeemable in humanity short of the ability to bracket life in the world from the life of the soul or the mind?
Maybe my intellect is hopelessly mundane and I’m just not getting it. Maybe I am too much of a materialist… I don’t know….
I was expecting a bit of spiritual enlightenment from the novel. On the cover of the paperback a quote from the LA Times book review claims “A story to make you believe in the soul sustaining power of fiction.” The author, Yann Martel, claims in his author’s note that the story he recounts, or at least the story within the story, “was, indeed, a story to make you believe in God.”
So, here’s the thing: I came away from this novel feeling that the only compelling reason Martel gives us to believe in god is that, if we do not, we will be forced to confront the “yeastless factuality” of life as he presents it– that humans are beasts and that our time on this planet is nasty, brutish, and short (to quote Hobbes). Even if we are in a space where our needs are met, we are being slowly swallowed by time and nature. God comes in when we construct our stories and understanding, not through the use of fact and reason, but instead by taking a leap of faith: believing love lies behind all that is and that ultimate morality and purpose are fundamental truths.
It’s not that I don’t buy what I’ve just written, it’s that the story Martel spins presents such a horrid “factuality.” Why is it that the spiritual can only have importance at the expense of the potential and beauty of life in this world? Is there nothing redeemable in humanity short of the ability to bracket life in the world from the life of the soul or the mind?
Maybe my intellect is hopelessly mundane and I’m just not getting it. Maybe I am too much of a materialist… I don’t know….
Saturday, November 13, 2004
untitled
I am blue.
One of those days when I wonder if I really exist at all. One of those days when I feel like the empty space in the atoms that comprise me is more significant than the energy holding them together.
I want to go home.
One of those days when I wonder if I really exist at all. One of those days when I feel like the empty space in the atoms that comprise me is more significant than the energy holding them together.
I want to go home.
Friday, November 12, 2004
GUILTY PLEASURES
I recognize that the whole red state/blue state dichotomy is a false distinction - that the real division in the 2004 election was urban vs. everyone else. However, as a native New Englander, I've grown tired of the way that "northeastern" and "east coast" are bandied about as slurs - as the newest adjective applied to those folks who are believed to be in league with satan himself.
Thus, I take a shameful pleasure in many of the internet invectives I've come across. Reading aloud one particular rant that I came across last night has proven especially therapeutic. I include an edited excerpt here:
We're the *ing Arrogant Northeast Liberal Elite? How about this for arrogant: the South is the Real America? The Authentic America. Really? Cause we *ing founded this country, *holes. Those Founding Fathers you keep going on and on about? All that bull* about what you think they meant by the Second Amendment giving you the right to keep your assault weapons in the glove compartment because you didn't bother to read the first half of the *ing sentence? Who do you think those wig-wearing lacy-shirt sporting revolutionaries were? They were *ing blue-staters, dickhead. Boston? Philadelphia? New York? Hello? [...] Who do you think those *ing stripes on the flag are for? Nine are for *ing blue states. [...] Get it? We started this shit, so don't get all uppity about how real you are you Johnny-come-lately "Oooooh I've been a state for almost a hundred years" dickheads. [...]
The next dickwad who says, "It’s your money, not the government's money" is gonna get their ass kicked. Nine of the ten states that get the most federal *ing dollars and pay the least... can you guess? Go on, guess. That’s right, mother*er, they're red states. And eight of the ten states that receive the least and pay the most? It’s too easy, *hole, they’re blue states. It’s not your money, *holes, it’s *ing our money. [...]
You and your Southern values can bite my * because the blue states got the values over you *ing Real Americans every day of the goddamn week. Which state do you think has the lowest divorce rate you marriage-hyping dickwads? Well? Can you guess? It’s *ing Massachusetts, the *ing center of the gay marriage universe. Yes, that’s right, the state you love to tie around the neck of anyone to the left of Strom Thurmond has the lowest divorce rate in the *ing nation. Think that’s just some aberration? How about this: 9 of the 10 lowest divorce rates are *ing blue states, *hole, and most are in the Northeast, where our values suck so bad. And where are the highest divorce rates? Care to *ing guess? 10 of the top 10 are *ing red-ass we're-so-*ing-moral states.
So, yeah, I know it's awful and wrong. I really don't mean it deep down inside.
Thus, I take a shameful pleasure in many of the internet invectives I've come across. Reading aloud one particular rant that I came across last night has proven especially therapeutic. I include an edited excerpt here:
We're the *ing Arrogant Northeast Liberal Elite? How about this for arrogant: the South is the Real America? The Authentic America. Really? Cause we *ing founded this country, *holes. Those Founding Fathers you keep going on and on about? All that bull* about what you think they meant by the Second Amendment giving you the right to keep your assault weapons in the glove compartment because you didn't bother to read the first half of the *ing sentence? Who do you think those wig-wearing lacy-shirt sporting revolutionaries were? They were *ing blue-staters, dickhead. Boston? Philadelphia? New York? Hello? [...] Who do you think those *ing stripes on the flag are for? Nine are for *ing blue states. [...] Get it? We started this shit, so don't get all uppity about how real you are you Johnny-come-lately "Oooooh I've been a state for almost a hundred years" dickheads. [...]
The next dickwad who says, "It’s your money, not the government's money" is gonna get their ass kicked. Nine of the ten states that get the most federal *ing dollars and pay the least... can you guess? Go on, guess. That’s right, mother*er, they're red states. And eight of the ten states that receive the least and pay the most? It’s too easy, *hole, they’re blue states. It’s not your money, *holes, it’s *ing our money. [...]
You and your Southern values can bite my * because the blue states got the values over you *ing Real Americans every day of the goddamn week. Which state do you think has the lowest divorce rate you marriage-hyping dickwads? Well? Can you guess? It’s *ing Massachusetts, the *ing center of the gay marriage universe. Yes, that’s right, the state you love to tie around the neck of anyone to the left of Strom Thurmond has the lowest divorce rate in the *ing nation. Think that’s just some aberration? How about this: 9 of the 10 lowest divorce rates are *ing blue states, *hole, and most are in the Northeast, where our values suck so bad. And where are the highest divorce rates? Care to *ing guess? 10 of the top 10 are *ing red-ass we're-so-*ing-moral states.
So, yeah, I know it's awful and wrong. I really don't mean it deep down inside.
Thursday, November 11, 2004
Chapter II Part 1a
Beth and her father arrived on the pier just as the ferry was pulling up, its flags snapping briskly as the boat itself tossed on the white-capped waves kicked up by the blustery weather. They joined half a dozen other islanders who stood huddled behind the wind-break, conversing over the high-pitched whine of the engine. The blues and greens and red flannels of their coats looked washed out in the early morning light. Most of them held thermoses, insulated mugs, or Styrofoam cups full of coffee which, if the sleep in most eyes was any indication, few of them had managed to digest.
“Ayuh!” called the deckhand loudly as the rope he threw from the moving ferry caught on the pier’s starboard cleat. The captain threw the boat quickly into reverse and turned the wheel hard to port. Aided by the wind and the current, in addition to the engine, the boat quickly aligned itself with the pier, prow to the wind, and struck against the pilings, causing the dock to tremble slightly. A second deckhand slid the gangplank over the 5 foot gap between the dock and the top deck of the ferry and tied it securely to the boat. The tide was high enough so that the ramp rested at a substantial incline, the angle of which increased and decreased as the boat rocked over the whitecaps. Eight people, the early morning passengers to the island, came up on deck from below. Three of the elementary school teachers - those who like to get an early start, the postmaster and single mail carrier, two police officers who were just starting their shift, and an islander, Joe Rico, who looked just back from a fishing trip, all made their way down the gangway. Although some stepped more gingerly than others, they all placed a hand on the plank’s rail as they made their way onto the pier.
Any islander knows that, as certain as your sea legs may be, the ocean is an unpredictable and formidable foe, likely to catch you and hold you in her icy grip if you fail to take her seriously. In the summer months, when islanders share their home with folks from away who come to enjoy the quiet and comfort that their very presence obliterates, Beth is frequently horrified by the lack of respect many tourists on the ferry show for the sea. Children run around the boat attended. They climb on the benches and play games of tag that span the upper and lower decks. They stick their heads and shoulders out of the window. They reach out to touch the pilings that the ferry passes when it is coming in to dock. Beth and the other islanders purse their lips and shake their heads at the carelessness of it all.
However, even though she is just 17, Beth has known for a long time that the summer onslaught is an expected and necessary part of island life, providing seasonal employment to those who scrape by the rest of the year on what they make during the short tourist season. Frank’s modest income from the phone company is supplemented in summer months with what his wife earns as a waitress. They all work hard during tourist season. Last summer Beth held two jobs and had a regular babysitting gig. What she makes carries her through the school year – her parents do not give her any money.
This is why the she and the other islanders do not give rise to those summer intruders making merry on the commute. Nor do they complain too loudly about the trash they leave on the beaches or the fact that the ferry’s fares increase from June to September. Long ago Beth came to see, even if she could not put the disquietude to words, that, in the eyes of the tourists, the trip on the ferry and the quaint island to which it carries you are a carnival ride. For them Beth is just a part of the show, like the person walking around in the Mickey Mouse suit or maybe even the little mechanical children in “It’s a Small World” she remembers from their trip to Disney World.
Beth is roused from her thoughts by the din of the bundles of newpapers hitting the pier. Bundled together and labeled clearly with the name of each paper boy or girl, the papers were tossed from the ferry to the pier by the deckhands. Young boys and girls, still too young to be commuting in to the mainland for school, appeared, coming out of the gray morning like ghosts, to pick up their papers and begin making their deliveries. The mail bags follow the papers, three large sacks that are handled easily by the postmaster and carrier. The cargo taken care of, the deckhands, move back toward the gangplank and Beth moves with the other islanders to board the vessel. Not a word is spoken, unlike the tourist season when commands must be issued “Stay back folks, until we are finished unloading.” “All aboard for Portland, please watch your step and keep moving,” the early trip in winters comes off silently and seamlessly. Islanders know how far to stand and when it is time for them to board. They know it the same way they know how to walk from the front door of their houses to the light switch without hitting anything when they arrive home in the dark.
Below deck, Beth and Frank sit side by side but Beth turns sideways on the bench, crosses her legs indian-style, and leans her forehead on the frosty window in her traditional position on the morning ferry. As they pull away from the island, she watches the sun rising over the houses “down front,” those facing the city. She treasures this view, it being her only glimpse of the place during daylight hours, Monday through Friday, October through April. Frank sits just behind her back, talking with Norm Gregor about the work he will do on his boat before May but their words mingle with the hum of the engines and the murmur of other conversations. All that her senses take in, including the rough seas outside the window, are merely background for her thoughts.
“Ayuh!” called the deckhand loudly as the rope he threw from the moving ferry caught on the pier’s starboard cleat. The captain threw the boat quickly into reverse and turned the wheel hard to port. Aided by the wind and the current, in addition to the engine, the boat quickly aligned itself with the pier, prow to the wind, and struck against the pilings, causing the dock to tremble slightly. A second deckhand slid the gangplank over the 5 foot gap between the dock and the top deck of the ferry and tied it securely to the boat. The tide was high enough so that the ramp rested at a substantial incline, the angle of which increased and decreased as the boat rocked over the whitecaps. Eight people, the early morning passengers to the island, came up on deck from below. Three of the elementary school teachers - those who like to get an early start, the postmaster and single mail carrier, two police officers who were just starting their shift, and an islander, Joe Rico, who looked just back from a fishing trip, all made their way down the gangway. Although some stepped more gingerly than others, they all placed a hand on the plank’s rail as they made their way onto the pier.
Any islander knows that, as certain as your sea legs may be, the ocean is an unpredictable and formidable foe, likely to catch you and hold you in her icy grip if you fail to take her seriously. In the summer months, when islanders share their home with folks from away who come to enjoy the quiet and comfort that their very presence obliterates, Beth is frequently horrified by the lack of respect many tourists on the ferry show for the sea. Children run around the boat attended. They climb on the benches and play games of tag that span the upper and lower decks. They stick their heads and shoulders out of the window. They reach out to touch the pilings that the ferry passes when it is coming in to dock. Beth and the other islanders purse their lips and shake their heads at the carelessness of it all.
However, even though she is just 17, Beth has known for a long time that the summer onslaught is an expected and necessary part of island life, providing seasonal employment to those who scrape by the rest of the year on what they make during the short tourist season. Frank’s modest income from the phone company is supplemented in summer months with what his wife earns as a waitress. They all work hard during tourist season. Last summer Beth held two jobs and had a regular babysitting gig. What she makes carries her through the school year – her parents do not give her any money.
This is why the she and the other islanders do not give rise to those summer intruders making merry on the commute. Nor do they complain too loudly about the trash they leave on the beaches or the fact that the ferry’s fares increase from June to September. Long ago Beth came to see, even if she could not put the disquietude to words, that, in the eyes of the tourists, the trip on the ferry and the quaint island to which it carries you are a carnival ride. For them Beth is just a part of the show, like the person walking around in the Mickey Mouse suit or maybe even the little mechanical children in “It’s a Small World” she remembers from their trip to Disney World.
Beth is roused from her thoughts by the din of the bundles of newpapers hitting the pier. Bundled together and labeled clearly with the name of each paper boy or girl, the papers were tossed from the ferry to the pier by the deckhands. Young boys and girls, still too young to be commuting in to the mainland for school, appeared, coming out of the gray morning like ghosts, to pick up their papers and begin making their deliveries. The mail bags follow the papers, three large sacks that are handled easily by the postmaster and carrier. The cargo taken care of, the deckhands, move back toward the gangplank and Beth moves with the other islanders to board the vessel. Not a word is spoken, unlike the tourist season when commands must be issued “Stay back folks, until we are finished unloading.” “All aboard for Portland, please watch your step and keep moving,” the early trip in winters comes off silently and seamlessly. Islanders know how far to stand and when it is time for them to board. They know it the same way they know how to walk from the front door of their houses to the light switch without hitting anything when they arrive home in the dark.
Below deck, Beth and Frank sit side by side but Beth turns sideways on the bench, crosses her legs indian-style, and leans her forehead on the frosty window in her traditional position on the morning ferry. As they pull away from the island, she watches the sun rising over the houses “down front,” those facing the city. She treasures this view, it being her only glimpse of the place during daylight hours, Monday through Friday, October through April. Frank sits just behind her back, talking with Norm Gregor about the work he will do on his boat before May but their words mingle with the hum of the engines and the murmur of other conversations. All that her senses take in, including the rough seas outside the window, are merely background for her thoughts.
Fear Sells
This morning we received a call from ADT security. They called to offer us their security system (including installation) absolutely free of charge if we agreed to have an ADT security sign placed in our front yard. They explained that no one in our neighborhood seems to have an interest in ADT products so they are making their service available free of charge to 3 or 4 households in hopes of increasing demand in the community.
I know that this is how it works all the time - you create a demand for a product by getting it out there - having people see that others are purchasing it. But isn't this just a little disturbing when it comes to safety and security. Doesn't putting up a bunch of ADT security signs sell security, not because it makes people want what other people have, but because it creates a sense of INSECURITY by leading people to feel vulnerable (comparatively speaking) and to wonder if, perhaps, the neighborhood is more dangerous than they imagine?
Isn't this all just a little bit WRONG?
I know that this is how it works all the time - you create a demand for a product by getting it out there - having people see that others are purchasing it. But isn't this just a little disturbing when it comes to safety and security. Doesn't putting up a bunch of ADT security signs sell security, not because it makes people want what other people have, but because it creates a sense of INSECURITY by leading people to feel vulnerable (comparatively speaking) and to wonder if, perhaps, the neighborhood is more dangerous than they imagine?
Isn't this all just a little bit WRONG?
Saturday, November 06, 2004
Saturday Morning Optimism
O.K., Folks: Back to Work
By BOB HERBERT
Published: November 5, 2004
THe New York Times
A quintessential American value is tolerance for ideas other than one's own. Tuesday's election was a dismaying sprint toward intolerance, sparked by a smiling president who is a master at appealing to the baser aspects of our natures.
Which brings me to the Democrats - the ordinary voters, not the politicians - and where they go from here. I have been struck by the extraordinary demoralization, even dark despair, among a lot of voters who desperately wanted John Kerry to defeat Mr. Bush. "We did all we could," one woman told me, "and we still lost."
Here's my advice: You had a couple of days to indulge your depression - now, get over it. The election's been lost but there's still a country to save, and with the current leadership that won't be easy. Crucial matters that have been taken for granted too long - like the Supreme Court and Social Security - are at risk. Caving in to depression and a sense of helplessness should not be an option when the country is speeding toward an abyss.
Roll up your sleeves and do what you can. Talk to your neighbors. Call or write your elected officials. Volunteer to help in political campaigns. Circulate petitions. Attend meetings. Protest. Run for office. Support good candidates who are running for office. Register people to vote. Reach out to the young and the apathetic. Raise money. Stay informed. And vote, vote, vote - every chance you get.
Democracy is a breeze during good times. It's when the storms are raging that citizenship is put to the test. And there's a hell of a wind blowing right now.
By BOB HERBERT
Published: November 5, 2004
THe New York Times
A quintessential American value is tolerance for ideas other than one's own. Tuesday's election was a dismaying sprint toward intolerance, sparked by a smiling president who is a master at appealing to the baser aspects of our natures.
Which brings me to the Democrats - the ordinary voters, not the politicians - and where they go from here. I have been struck by the extraordinary demoralization, even dark despair, among a lot of voters who desperately wanted John Kerry to defeat Mr. Bush. "We did all we could," one woman told me, "and we still lost."
Here's my advice: You had a couple of days to indulge your depression - now, get over it. The election's been lost but there's still a country to save, and with the current leadership that won't be easy. Crucial matters that have been taken for granted too long - like the Supreme Court and Social Security - are at risk. Caving in to depression and a sense of helplessness should not be an option when the country is speeding toward an abyss.
Roll up your sleeves and do what you can. Talk to your neighbors. Call or write your elected officials. Volunteer to help in political campaigns. Circulate petitions. Attend meetings. Protest. Run for office. Support good candidates who are running for office. Register people to vote. Reach out to the young and the apathetic. Raise money. Stay informed. And vote, vote, vote - every chance you get.
Democracy is a breeze during good times. It's when the storms are raging that citizenship is put to the test. And there's a hell of a wind blowing right now.
Friday, November 05, 2004
Gender failures
My brother Matt and his new wife, Heather, have decided to join us for Thanksgiving. I love all of my family by the two of them can be trying. I think that my struggles with Heather make me a little more sympathetic to my partner's mother's difficulty accepting me into the family. Last summer they stayed with us out in Maine for awhile. One night at our weekly family dinner, my dad, Matt, my partner, and I got into a good discussion about religion. What you need to understand about my family is that this is what we do. We get into debates concerning intellectual topics. My youngest brother, Robert, was an annoying pipsqueek when I left for college. The first indication I had that he might amount to more than a boring Playstation-addicted suburbanite jock as an adult came on the drive home after college graduation. We were in a huge van (13 passenger) full of the 8 of us and all of my things. Robert kept saying, "Let's have a debate!" We ended up comparing Freud and Jung (not my choice) and moving on to a debate about the merits of Kirkegaard. So, that is what we do: politics, religion, philosophy - pretty much anything that etiquette requires one not discuss - these are the stuff of our discussions at the dinner table.
Well, the night in question Heather left the table fairly quickly. She was followed shortly by Carrie, my other brother's fiancee. They had some kind of girly heart-to-heart in the other room while the four of us in the dining room continued our discussion. I found the discussion very enlightening and successful although my dad had a poor showing.
The next day Heather referred to our "argument" several times with obvious disdain. The first time I responded, "We're Smiths, this is what we do. I thought it was a great discussion." The second time I replied a bit tersely, "It wasn't an argument. It was a discussion." My brother rejoined, "A loud discussion. Perhaps a little too loud." I nearly knocked his block off for being whipped. Would they prefer that we replace our interesting and educational discussions of world religions with a run-down of the merits of the latest American Idol or our predictions for the Country Music Awards which Mark and Judy intended to watch later that evening? PUH-LEASE!!!
And then there is the whole gender thing. Heather and Carrie left the men-folk and myself in the dining room. When we finally left the dinner table we found them on the couch, holding hands. Carrie was crying, having obviously been sharing some deep hurt with Judy. That's fine. Carrie has tried to share her hurts with me in the past but I shut her down. I was just not feeling like I could be that person for her.
This is not the first time I have been on the wrong side of the gender divide when it comes to my experieences with Heather. There was the Mary Kay party that she dragged me to. We were each given a little thing with make-up samples. We were supposed to do our nails, apply eyeliner and lipliner, and engage in a host of discussions about our color palate, our failed relationships, etc. Well the thing is, I cannot stay within the lines when it comes to nail polish let alone applying eyeliner or lipliner, I don't talk about my relationships with strangers, and I do not have the slightest idea what my palate is although people tell me that I look good in purple. The whole afternoon was a disaster confirming me irrevocably as a failure as a woman. Then there was the "girls night" which was scheduled opposite a board game night hosted by my brother. Needless to say I would have preferred the board games but instead I found myself watching "Hope Floats" with a bunch of women who made baby and marriage jokes every time the plot would allow. The icing on the cake was just this past Christmas. Judy was talking about her impending wedding. She announced, looking in my direction, "I don't know how you can be a woman and not giggle planning a wedding." Fine then, I'm not a real woman. I am a broad-shouldered, opinionated, non-giggling non-woman.
Well, the night in question Heather left the table fairly quickly. She was followed shortly by Carrie, my other brother's fiancee. They had some kind of girly heart-to-heart in the other room while the four of us in the dining room continued our discussion. I found the discussion very enlightening and successful although my dad had a poor showing.
The next day Heather referred to our "argument" several times with obvious disdain. The first time I responded, "We're Smiths, this is what we do. I thought it was a great discussion." The second time I replied a bit tersely, "It wasn't an argument. It was a discussion." My brother rejoined, "A loud discussion. Perhaps a little too loud." I nearly knocked his block off for being whipped. Would they prefer that we replace our interesting and educational discussions of world religions with a run-down of the merits of the latest American Idol or our predictions for the Country Music Awards which Mark and Judy intended to watch later that evening? PUH-LEASE!!!
And then there is the whole gender thing. Heather and Carrie left the men-folk and myself in the dining room. When we finally left the dinner table we found them on the couch, holding hands. Carrie was crying, having obviously been sharing some deep hurt with Judy. That's fine. Carrie has tried to share her hurts with me in the past but I shut her down. I was just not feeling like I could be that person for her.
This is not the first time I have been on the wrong side of the gender divide when it comes to my experieences with Heather. There was the Mary Kay party that she dragged me to. We were each given a little thing with make-up samples. We were supposed to do our nails, apply eyeliner and lipliner, and engage in a host of discussions about our color palate, our failed relationships, etc. Well the thing is, I cannot stay within the lines when it comes to nail polish let alone applying eyeliner or lipliner, I don't talk about my relationships with strangers, and I do not have the slightest idea what my palate is although people tell me that I look good in purple. The whole afternoon was a disaster confirming me irrevocably as a failure as a woman. Then there was the "girls night" which was scheduled opposite a board game night hosted by my brother. Needless to say I would have preferred the board games but instead I found myself watching "Hope Floats" with a bunch of women who made baby and marriage jokes every time the plot would allow. The icing on the cake was just this past Christmas. Judy was talking about her impending wedding. She announced, looking in my direction, "I don't know how you can be a woman and not giggle planning a wedding." Fine then, I'm not a real woman. I am a broad-shouldered, opinionated, non-giggling non-woman.
Thursday, November 04, 2004
cohabitation
One of my favorite things about living with my partner is when we are in separate corners of our home, doing our own separate things, but all the same the his music or the sound of the computer keyboard just gives me this feeling of comfort and security. Those are the moments when I feel most connected. Conversely, I think I feel most alone and isolated when I am walking around an overcrowded mall.
Bound on all sides
I grew up in a small community close to a cosmopolitan one. I left as fast as I could after high school, vowing never to return. I was convinced that I was a big-city girl, ill-suited to my community of origin, which lacked even the anonymity and privacy available in many exurban areas due to the fact that it was an island requiring one commute 4 miles each way to and from the mainland on a communal ferry.
Intent on becoming a writer who lives always in high-rise apartment buildings and keeps cats, I fled to Chicago. However, I quickly learned that my southside neighborhood, with a population as large as that of the cosmopolitan area near my island home, was an island too. Home to a well-known university, Hyde Park was a speck of racial and economic integration bordered on three sides by African American communities at varying levels of economic well-being and on the fourth by Lake Michigan. We students were instructed as to the boundaries of the community, less visible than the rocky coast that bordered my world as a child. "Never EVER go south of 60th street or north of 47th. Stay out of Washington Park," we were instructed in security training our second day on campus. The five minute walk to the pier and 20 minute ferry-ride I made to school from 6th grade on was replaced with a 20 minute walk to the bus stop and 20 minute bus ride to downtown Chicago. "Do not take the EL on the sout side," warned the police officer giving security instructions. "The EL is not safe, and what's worse, you will have to wait for the bus to Hyde Park on the doorsteps of the Robert Taylor Homes [now defunct notorious Chicago housing project]."
It is amazing how wrong one can be about oneself. In the eternity since I left home, I learned that I am a dog person. Although I love the city, I am smothered if I am far from some imposing bit of the natural world. The year I spent in Chicago without easy access to the lakefront and South Side's beautiful parks where I routinely saw rabbits, fox, beavers, and all manner of birds, was about the worst of my life thus far. More importantly, I am hopelessly tied to the island community I was so anxious to leave.I was living back home last year - although on the mainland instead of the island. There is a peculiar and unexpected "fit" that I experience there. The way people dress, the sound of the gulls overhead, the constant wind, the ships signaling their departure for foreign lands or maybe just the next port, the reserved distance with which people approach one another - all of these things leave me feeling that I am in a place where I make sense. Combine this with the fact that my daily life when I was there evoked such continuity with the past, the streets I walked, indeed the uneven bricks in the sidewalk, are the very same as those that I tripped over 20 years ago, hurrying to catch the 2:15 ferry home after my Saturday dance classes. How did I withstand the slightly off-kiler and lost feeling I had all those years in the Midwest, revering home but experiencing it only in my memories. How is that I have once again packed my things and returned to Wisconsin - the dead-still air and humidity, the discordant fast smiles on the faces of those whose snide comments come just as quickly when you turn your back, everything fried and cheese and pre-fab.
Being home was not all wonderful. Although I KNOW that place, it has largely forgotten me. On my trips to the island to rake leaves and mow the lawn, walk the dogs, stroll on the beach, and spend time at the family home, there were some faces I recognize but many that I didn't. Many that I recognized did not recognize me. Although it is more than a decade since I left for college, the lack of recognition is fairly recent. I chalk it up to my mother's absence. My mother was a cornerstone of the community. A waitress at the only sit-down diner on the island, she solicited donations for the church fair and community Christmas party, ran Wednesday night Beano, worked seasonally at the greenhouse, cared for several elderly women, and provided baked goods for all community coffees and bakesales. They ran an extra ferry to the mainland so people could attend my mother's funeral. The chapel at Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception was so full of islanders that many stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the back. With my mother's passing, the collective community memory of my siblings and I withered just as our tie to the day-to-day life of the place was cut. There is no one to talk about what we are up to, when we will next be home. It was my mother who kept us alive in that place.
At the democratic caucus, I was introduced to a long-time islander, Obie. I said, "Oh, we know each other." And Obie looked at me in surprise. He did not know who I was. I said, already swallowing tears, "I'm from the island, Clem and Loretta's daughter." I could have gone on but I didn't: "I babysat for your children Patrick and Suyun many times. You live on Winding Way. Your house is untidy and you have cats. I performed with you and your wife Annie 3 times in the summer talent show. You and Annie met at college - waiting for the bus. One time, probably in about 1992, you brought your children downfront for ice cream. The new employee I was training made one cone much larger than the other. You were angry that I did not allow her to add more ice cream to the smaller cone." Obie conceded the connection but there was never recognition in his eyes. I began to wonder that my attachment to my island home borders on fanaticism. Why do I have such memories while the people that are so alive in my mind fail to remember that I am?
Intent on becoming a writer who lives always in high-rise apartment buildings and keeps cats, I fled to Chicago. However, I quickly learned that my southside neighborhood, with a population as large as that of the cosmopolitan area near my island home, was an island too. Home to a well-known university, Hyde Park was a speck of racial and economic integration bordered on three sides by African American communities at varying levels of economic well-being and on the fourth by Lake Michigan. We students were instructed as to the boundaries of the community, less visible than the rocky coast that bordered my world as a child. "Never EVER go south of 60th street or north of 47th. Stay out of Washington Park," we were instructed in security training our second day on campus. The five minute walk to the pier and 20 minute ferry-ride I made to school from 6th grade on was replaced with a 20 minute walk to the bus stop and 20 minute bus ride to downtown Chicago. "Do not take the EL on the sout side," warned the police officer giving security instructions. "The EL is not safe, and what's worse, you will have to wait for the bus to Hyde Park on the doorsteps of the Robert Taylor Homes [now defunct notorious Chicago housing project]."
It is amazing how wrong one can be about oneself. In the eternity since I left home, I learned that I am a dog person. Although I love the city, I am smothered if I am far from some imposing bit of the natural world. The year I spent in Chicago without easy access to the lakefront and South Side's beautiful parks where I routinely saw rabbits, fox, beavers, and all manner of birds, was about the worst of my life thus far. More importantly, I am hopelessly tied to the island community I was so anxious to leave.I was living back home last year - although on the mainland instead of the island. There is a peculiar and unexpected "fit" that I experience there. The way people dress, the sound of the gulls overhead, the constant wind, the ships signaling their departure for foreign lands or maybe just the next port, the reserved distance with which people approach one another - all of these things leave me feeling that I am in a place where I make sense. Combine this with the fact that my daily life when I was there evoked such continuity with the past, the streets I walked, indeed the uneven bricks in the sidewalk, are the very same as those that I tripped over 20 years ago, hurrying to catch the 2:15 ferry home after my Saturday dance classes. How did I withstand the slightly off-kiler and lost feeling I had all those years in the Midwest, revering home but experiencing it only in my memories. How is that I have once again packed my things and returned to Wisconsin - the dead-still air and humidity, the discordant fast smiles on the faces of those whose snide comments come just as quickly when you turn your back, everything fried and cheese and pre-fab.
Being home was not all wonderful. Although I KNOW that place, it has largely forgotten me. On my trips to the island to rake leaves and mow the lawn, walk the dogs, stroll on the beach, and spend time at the family home, there were some faces I recognize but many that I didn't. Many that I recognized did not recognize me. Although it is more than a decade since I left for college, the lack of recognition is fairly recent. I chalk it up to my mother's absence. My mother was a cornerstone of the community. A waitress at the only sit-down diner on the island, she solicited donations for the church fair and community Christmas party, ran Wednesday night Beano, worked seasonally at the greenhouse, cared for several elderly women, and provided baked goods for all community coffees and bakesales. They ran an extra ferry to the mainland so people could attend my mother's funeral. The chapel at Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception was so full of islanders that many stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the back. With my mother's passing, the collective community memory of my siblings and I withered just as our tie to the day-to-day life of the place was cut. There is no one to talk about what we are up to, when we will next be home. It was my mother who kept us alive in that place.
At the democratic caucus, I was introduced to a long-time islander, Obie. I said, "Oh, we know each other." And Obie looked at me in surprise. He did not know who I was. I said, already swallowing tears, "I'm from the island, Clem and Loretta's daughter." I could have gone on but I didn't: "I babysat for your children Patrick and Suyun many times. You live on Winding Way. Your house is untidy and you have cats. I performed with you and your wife Annie 3 times in the summer talent show. You and Annie met at college - waiting for the bus. One time, probably in about 1992, you brought your children downfront for ice cream. The new employee I was training made one cone much larger than the other. You were angry that I did not allow her to add more ice cream to the smaller cone." Obie conceded the connection but there was never recognition in his eyes. I began to wonder that my attachment to my island home borders on fanaticism. Why do I have such memories while the people that are so alive in my mind fail to remember that I am?
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
I WAS WRONG
Remember when I said that I just hope above all else that there was a clear winner because I felt like the fabric of our nation would not hold through another contentious election? Remember when I said that I hoped beyond all else that the electoral and popular votes named the same candidate?
RANT
It looks like the reign of our illegitimate president is not only to be extended, it will be legitimated. I am hurt, angry and embarrassed. I am angry at fellow Americans who voted for Bush even though they think he is doing a bad job, even though they think Iraq is a mess which puts us at risk in the long term, even though they know that their choice to vote for him is contrary to their own interests. I am equally upset with liberals of all ilk in this country for our failure to legitimate and address the concerns and desires of those who would pick a president based upon his accent, his headstrong refusal to admit that Americans must doubt their actions even when they are based on morals (which, incidentally, frees him and those who support him from feelings of guilt or remorse), and his obvious displays of the (dubious) fact that he takes his orders from one person only, Jesus Christ. I am angry with true conservatives out there who voted for Bush even though he is fiscally irresponsible. I am angry with Bill Clinton for not keeping it in his pants and then lying about it, giving many Americans the idea that being a political “liberal” makes one morally loose. I am angry with all of those people who let themselves be dissuaded from voting by reports of long lines and voter intimidation.
Who escapes my wrath this morning?
Betty, a 94 year-old woman that I drove to the polls yesterday morning. She requested an absentee ballot but when the city sent it to her, it had the wrong name on it. Although she has terrible difficulty getting around, she believes that this election is the most important of her lifetime (and, she assured me, the last she would vote in) – too important to miss. We brought her to the polls where she put in her vote for John Kerry.
Mr. Wilson, a homeless man in his 40s whom I also took to the polls yesterday. Mr. Wilson was so convinced of the importance of his election and his vote that he asked one of the shelters where he stays for a letter to use as proof of residence. Mr. Wilson not only stood in line for an hour at the polls, he made his homelessness public so that he could cast a ballot for Kerry and stood firm in the face of the GOP lawyer at the polling place who challenged his right to vote.
Miss Hays, a 34 year-old woman who had never voted before and expressed a great deal of nervousness when I picked her up at the polls in the conservative and primarily white ward in which she, an unemployed African American lives. She conquered her fears to register and vote and she told me that now that she knows it is so easy, she will continue to vote.
The other committed people who made it to the voting booth yesterday to stand up for change despite their own obstacles: including the 300 or so people at Park Ridge school who stood out in the cold in line for hours, even after 8 o’clock, to cast their ballots even though they were being told that they would not be given a chance to vote.
What good is anger if not for coming up with next steps? Here they are, in no particular order when it comes to being feasible, sane or likely.
BOYCOTT: Until George Bush is out of the white house, I will do my utmost to boycott red states and the products of companies that make their homes in red states. I won’t do business in places where a majority of people believe that everyone’s lives should be governed by their disdain for “liberals” and other sinners and that the rights of the unborn are all important while the desperation of the living is not their concern. Pepsi, Frito-Lay, Cetaphil, and likely all Proctor& Gambel (thank god for Tom’s of Maine) products are just a few of the names on my red list. I will avoid spending any money in red states (that spring trip to New Orleans has just been cancelled although I will still head to Alaska this summer but that is only because that trip has been in the works since 2000 and we won’t really be able to pull it off much longer). If I need to attend a conference or other event in a red state, I will spend as little money as possible (e.g. I will bring a package of Nature Valley Granola Bars (MN), Stonyfield Farm Yogurt (VT), and a bag of Washington apples to avoid eating out).
EXPATRIATION: Jason and I are already looking into moving to Canada. At the very least, if they call our state in the Bush column, we need to look into moving to Chicago or back east.
“YOU ASKED FOR IT, YOU GOT IT”: I will do my best to exploit the advantages of the fucked-up economic system that the American people have chosen. What does this mean? (a) I endeavor to find every tax loophole that pertains to upper-middle-class home-owning married people like myself. I will spend hours with the tax code and will write off every conceivable expenditure. When I am done filing taxes, the U.S. government is going to owe me big. (b) I will restrict all of my volunteering and giving to my blue community so as not to provide a system of private relief buffering people from the lack of public relief available in this country. This (GULP) includes NOT helping out two of my own brothers who work for little more than minimum wage and aren’t really getting by on their own. The most precariously afloat of these brothers voted for Bush despite the fact that he lost all of his over-time income during this administration. Why did he do this? Because his girlfriend is from Texas! It is one of my constant concerns that this brother will end up homeless. (c)Whenever anyone I suspect of voting for Bush complains about lack of access to health care, the rising cost of prescription drugs, gun crimes, unemployment – I will blow a gasket, telling them with real hostility that the American people selected this system so they should shut up and put up.
VOTER EDUCATION: I will work with (found if I have to) organizations concerned with figuring out how to validate the concerns of social conservatives while showing them how they can be economically and politically liberal without jeopardizing their moral stance.
DEMOCRACY: I will work with organizations that push for state level reform of the election process – eliminating the winner-take-all electoral system at the state level. My own home state awards electoral votes to the state winner and by congressional district. I will push to amend the U.S. constitution to eliminate the states’ rights to decide how their residents vote in federal elections. The idea that states, who are held to uniform standards in education, environmental protection, and, to some extent, welfare and social security, are free to decide who can cast a ballot, how that ballot is cast, and what is required for that ballot to count is ludicrous. The procedures for and eligibility criteria for federal elections should be set at the federal level.
VALUES: I will work with (found if I have to) organizations that work at the state level to get states out of the marriage business and instead have all domestic partnerships be recognized as such. Marriage licenses should be replaced with a domestic partnership agreement or something like that, which folks are free to “sanctify” if they so choose within the spiritual community of their choice. I will also work to identify lightning rod values issues that can be put on state ballots to counter conservative’s use of social issues (e.g. defining marriage) to get out the social conservatives.
Yeah, I think that’s it for now.
Monday, November 01, 2004
back in 3rd grade
I hardly ever thought about race growing up. I remember learning about the civil rights movement in school - probably in 5th grade or so. I came home to ask my mom about it. "Mom, are there any black people uptown [this means on the mainland, in the city]?""I think there are a couple of black families.""Where do they live?""I don't know, probably wherever they want.""When you were a kid, and you were riding the bus, and black people got on it, did they have to sit in the back?""I don't think I ever rode the bus with a black person."Moving to Chicago and seeing how race was so strongly related to every aspect of life: where you live, how you talk, what type of job you have, whether or not you know you are on the right bus, etc, was a shock to me. However, now that I am aware of race and what it does, I am able to go back over my life before and find it - much as I was able to reconstruct from my memories some puzzles in the story of my 3rd grade teacher, Ms. Speere.I absolutely LOVED Ms. Speere. She lived on the mainland and had 2 dogs that she brought to school most days. The class was a combined 2nd and 3rd grade of about 12 students. We got to do a lot of independent work. I always liked that. We had a big checklist for each subject on the bulletin board. Every time you memorized a multiplication table (e.g. your 2s), completed a spelling/reading unit, etc. you got to check off the corresponding box by your name. Anyway, I thought Ms. Speere was the best - she had several of the kids over to her house in Portland to make cookies once. Going uptown was something I rarely did before starting middle school.Although I was a fan of my teacher, my mother was not. When Ms. Speere did not return to teach the following year, I learned that my mom was a part of the movement to hire someone else. At the time she told me that she didn't think that we learned too much with Ms. Speere, who seemed more interested in having us play with her dogs than learning cursive writing. I disagreed then and still do, although my cursive never was up to par. Several other parents, notably Mrs. B., the lunch-lady as well as mother of Rachelle and Ronda, my age and my senior by one year, respectively, did not concur with my mother's assessment. Mrs. B. gave my mother the cold shoulder for some time as a result of the whole thing.At any rate, in high school I realized that Ms. Speere was probably gay. How did I know this? I am not sure. My best friend in high school, Juniper, had a lesbian separatist mother so I had quite a bit of exposure, for the first time, to homosexuality. I ran into Ms. Speere at an Ann Murray concert in 7th grade and perhaps accumulated some observational data then although I do not remember it. What I do know is that I felt so sure that Ms. Speere was gay. Every now and then I would think of her and wonder so finally, in college, I decided to find out. I asked Ronda, a lesbian herself, whose family was still in touch with Ms. Speere. Ronda and I are quite close so I figured she wouldn't mind the question and would be willing to answer. Ronda confirmed for me that my beloved 3rd grade teacher was indeed gay.So what? Well, I realized that the reason the whole issue made periodic appearances in my mind, was that I had never really found my mother's objection to Ms. Speere equal to the extreme action my mother took by asking for her removal. I approached my mom."Do you remember my teacher, Ms. Speere and that you didn't like her and as a result Suzy (Mrs. B) did not talk to you for a long time?""Sure.""Why didn't you like her?""She always had her dogs in class, she didn't seem to have a lot of discipline...""So you didn't want her replaced because she is a lesbian?""Was she a lesbian? Don't tell your father."Of course, my mother was a very straightforward person but a great deal happened in her life and in mainstream views of homosexuality in the 12 years between my 3rd grade year and when I asked her about it. And, like I said, the whole dog thing just doesn't sit right. I would love to ask her one more time about Ms. Speere and about race too, because I have learned that there was forced segregation in Portland although it is possible my mother never rode the bus with a black person.
Chapter 1 Part III
It’s too cold to run this morning, Michelle concluded merely by listening to the creaking of the trees and the whistling of the pines. She buried her face into her pillow, anticipating the cold about to touch her, to make her outsides as cold as her insides had been since August. She eyed the glowing red numbers on her alarm clock. 6:05. Ten minutes and she would get up and fix her hair.
She heard Mark, her older brother, leave the house on his way to the ferry. He was working as a mail carrier now, making good money at a reliable job, just like her father. He and his girlfriend would be moving in together soon on account of the baby they were expecting. Michelle’s stomach twisted at the thought of a baby. She felt ill and closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing. Relax, she thought, just relax.
But Michelle couldn’t relax. The weakness and the emptiness inside her felt worse today, like she might never find the strength to get out of bed - like she was caught in an undertow that would surely carry here right out White Head Pass into the open Atlantic. It had been this way since it happened - since the cold and rainy day at the end of the season when she had been left alone to mind the shop. There was not enough work for two people so Beth went home even though it was really Michelle’s turn.
Her ten minutes were up. Beth rose slowly, feeling weak, and stood uncertainly beside her bed. Indoor Track after class, she thought wearily as she walked to the dresser. I need my running shoes. Beth dressed slowly, her hands cold and distant, almost as if they were not her own. As she pulled on her jeans she glared at her thighs. They are so big - too big for a runner, she thought for the millionth time. She cinched the belt around her waist, aware of the sloppy look that all the extra fabric of the jeans had bunched up under the belt. No help for it. I’ll just wear a longer shirt.
As she got into her baggy pink blouse she made note of the fat hanging from her triceps, the bulge of her stomach. Her eyes lingered on that bulge and she placed her hands there. “You’re shrinking, hear me? Shrinking.” She addressed her stomach, willing with all her might that it be so, squeezing her skin tight in two clenched fists, treasuring the pain. Someday, she thought, it will be just like it was before it happened. I won’t even remember that it ever was.
It’s almost like that now, Michelle mused, it’s just the two of us that know about it and he won’t say a thing. He broke the law after all. She felt the anxiety rising in her, pushing on her chest so that she couldn’t breathe and collecting in her stomach. Her eyes felt unfocused and her head began spinning. She put her hands over her eyes, shielding her view of the bedroom instead of the image she wanted to erase.
She was closing up. It was late in the season and the remains of a tropical storm were passing through. The few tourists that remained were holed up in their cabins, packing up their things or playing cards while they waited for the weather to clear. It was so dead at the shop that Tom told one of them to leave early when he stopped by to do the inventory that afternoon. Although it was her turn, Michelle knew that Tom believed she was the most responsible worker. The one he most trusted to close up alone.
“I suppose I could stay.” Beth said, “It is my turn.”
“No. Why don’t you get going.”
“You want to come over after you’re through?”
“Yeah. I’ll see you in a bit.”
Beth grabbed her raincoat and headed out. Michelle started closing up, she covered the few ice cream containers that they had opened that day. She wiped down the steamer and took the hot fudge of the heat. She worked her away through the sandwich station, cleaning and covering. The only thing she left was the coffee. The only thing people are going to be looking for tonight is a cup of coffee, she reasoned.
She leaned her elbows on the counter, listening to Casey Kasem and the American Top 40 as she watched the clock. Forty-five minutes to close. Maybe she should just eat dinner now instead of at Beth’s house. Michelle walked back over to the sandwich station and made herself a ham and cheese sandwich. She cleaned up again. Twenty five minutes to close.
Michelle reached behind the cash register for a notepad and pen. She began to compile the list of things she needed to buy before school starts. “Class of 1992” she wrote at the top of the sheet, “Senior Year!”
1. New track clothes
2. New running shoes
3. dress socks
4. new bra
5. jeans
6. discman
She looked up again. Only 10 minutes to go. It was unseasonably dark outside - the end of summer and stormy weather combined to make it as dark as night. No one else will be in tonight, she concluded. What’s the harm in closing a few minutes early? She ripped the list from the top of the notepad, folded it in even eighths and placed it in her pocket. She walked out from behind the counter and stepped outside of the door. The warm and humid air swirled round her as she took down the “Open” sign. She turned and walked back into the shop, closing and locking the door behind her. Now the only thing to do is to take care of that pot of coffee, she mused.
She was not even back behind the counter before she heard a tapping on the window. She turned to see Billy Smith smiling through the glass.
Michelle walked to the bathroom and started brushing her teeth while she waited for the curling iron to heat. She put just a dab of toothpaste on the brush but started gagging all the same once she felt the thick gel in her mouth. She sped up her brushing, willing herself to keep her composure for just another moment. She spit into the sink, still choking back her gag reflex and filled her mouth with a handful of cold water from the tap. Rinse it clean and don’t swallow a drop. That’s all it takes, she reminded herself.
The curling iron was hot. Michelle started in on her hair, working from the top down each side. She curled her feathered hair up and back, working tirelessly to insure that each hair was in its place and applying a generous amount of hair spray. Her task completed, she glanced at her face in the mirror – her freckles standing out against her peaked skin, her crooked teeth and, she pinched her neck disgustedly, double chin.
“Michelle, I’m on my way to school. Do you want a ride to the boat?”
“Yes please. I’ll be down in a minute.”
“I’m going to warm the car. Come out when your ready.”
Unplugging the iron, she took one last look at herself, full of loathing – an ugly package for an even uglier interior. Not quite thinking about what she was doing but aware that it was exactly what she wanted to do, Michelle pushed the hot curling iron against her wrist. Holding it there as she felt her flesh burn. “You’re nothing special to look at,” he had said as he walked back toward the door of the shop with his coffee. “You were never going to get it any other way.” The sob that escaped Michelle’s lips as she removed the hot metal from her blistered skin echoed against the cold tiles which were just as hard and smooth as the marble countertop she felt on her cheek while his hand had her pinned by the throat. She turned from her reflection and left the room, picking up her track clothes and descending the stairs. She removed her wool coat from the sofa and shook off some of the cat hair. She pulled it on and struggled to lift the pink canvas bag in which her books were stacked neatly. Her arm shook violently as she hoisted the weight of it onto her shoulder. Michelle stepped outside to join her mother in the car, the cold winter wind passing through her as if she wasn’t there at all.
She heard Mark, her older brother, leave the house on his way to the ferry. He was working as a mail carrier now, making good money at a reliable job, just like her father. He and his girlfriend would be moving in together soon on account of the baby they were expecting. Michelle’s stomach twisted at the thought of a baby. She felt ill and closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing. Relax, she thought, just relax.
But Michelle couldn’t relax. The weakness and the emptiness inside her felt worse today, like she might never find the strength to get out of bed - like she was caught in an undertow that would surely carry here right out White Head Pass into the open Atlantic. It had been this way since it happened - since the cold and rainy day at the end of the season when she had been left alone to mind the shop. There was not enough work for two people so Beth went home even though it was really Michelle’s turn.
Her ten minutes were up. Beth rose slowly, feeling weak, and stood uncertainly beside her bed. Indoor Track after class, she thought wearily as she walked to the dresser. I need my running shoes. Beth dressed slowly, her hands cold and distant, almost as if they were not her own. As she pulled on her jeans she glared at her thighs. They are so big - too big for a runner, she thought for the millionth time. She cinched the belt around her waist, aware of the sloppy look that all the extra fabric of the jeans had bunched up under the belt. No help for it. I’ll just wear a longer shirt.
As she got into her baggy pink blouse she made note of the fat hanging from her triceps, the bulge of her stomach. Her eyes lingered on that bulge and she placed her hands there. “You’re shrinking, hear me? Shrinking.” She addressed her stomach, willing with all her might that it be so, squeezing her skin tight in two clenched fists, treasuring the pain. Someday, she thought, it will be just like it was before it happened. I won’t even remember that it ever was.
It’s almost like that now, Michelle mused, it’s just the two of us that know about it and he won’t say a thing. He broke the law after all. She felt the anxiety rising in her, pushing on her chest so that she couldn’t breathe and collecting in her stomach. Her eyes felt unfocused and her head began spinning. She put her hands over her eyes, shielding her view of the bedroom instead of the image she wanted to erase.
She was closing up. It was late in the season and the remains of a tropical storm were passing through. The few tourists that remained were holed up in their cabins, packing up their things or playing cards while they waited for the weather to clear. It was so dead at the shop that Tom told one of them to leave early when he stopped by to do the inventory that afternoon. Although it was her turn, Michelle knew that Tom believed she was the most responsible worker. The one he most trusted to close up alone.
“I suppose I could stay.” Beth said, “It is my turn.”
“No. Why don’t you get going.”
“You want to come over after you’re through?”
“Yeah. I’ll see you in a bit.”
Beth grabbed her raincoat and headed out. Michelle started closing up, she covered the few ice cream containers that they had opened that day. She wiped down the steamer and took the hot fudge of the heat. She worked her away through the sandwich station, cleaning and covering. The only thing she left was the coffee. The only thing people are going to be looking for tonight is a cup of coffee, she reasoned.
She leaned her elbows on the counter, listening to Casey Kasem and the American Top 40 as she watched the clock. Forty-five minutes to close. Maybe she should just eat dinner now instead of at Beth’s house. Michelle walked back over to the sandwich station and made herself a ham and cheese sandwich. She cleaned up again. Twenty five minutes to close.
Michelle reached behind the cash register for a notepad and pen. She began to compile the list of things she needed to buy before school starts. “Class of 1992” she wrote at the top of the sheet, “Senior Year!”
1. New track clothes
2. New running shoes
3. dress socks
4. new bra
5. jeans
6. discman
She looked up again. Only 10 minutes to go. It was unseasonably dark outside - the end of summer and stormy weather combined to make it as dark as night. No one else will be in tonight, she concluded. What’s the harm in closing a few minutes early? She ripped the list from the top of the notepad, folded it in even eighths and placed it in her pocket. She walked out from behind the counter and stepped outside of the door. The warm and humid air swirled round her as she took down the “Open” sign. She turned and walked back into the shop, closing and locking the door behind her. Now the only thing to do is to take care of that pot of coffee, she mused.
She was not even back behind the counter before she heard a tapping on the window. She turned to see Billy Smith smiling through the glass.
Michelle walked to the bathroom and started brushing her teeth while she waited for the curling iron to heat. She put just a dab of toothpaste on the brush but started gagging all the same once she felt the thick gel in her mouth. She sped up her brushing, willing herself to keep her composure for just another moment. She spit into the sink, still choking back her gag reflex and filled her mouth with a handful of cold water from the tap. Rinse it clean and don’t swallow a drop. That’s all it takes, she reminded herself.
The curling iron was hot. Michelle started in on her hair, working from the top down each side. She curled her feathered hair up and back, working tirelessly to insure that each hair was in its place and applying a generous amount of hair spray. Her task completed, she glanced at her face in the mirror – her freckles standing out against her peaked skin, her crooked teeth and, she pinched her neck disgustedly, double chin.
“Michelle, I’m on my way to school. Do you want a ride to the boat?”
“Yes please. I’ll be down in a minute.”
“I’m going to warm the car. Come out when your ready.”
Unplugging the iron, she took one last look at herself, full of loathing – an ugly package for an even uglier interior. Not quite thinking about what she was doing but aware that it was exactly what she wanted to do, Michelle pushed the hot curling iron against her wrist. Holding it there as she felt her flesh burn. “You’re nothing special to look at,” he had said as he walked back toward the door of the shop with his coffee. “You were never going to get it any other way.” The sob that escaped Michelle’s lips as she removed the hot metal from her blistered skin echoed against the cold tiles which were just as hard and smooth as the marble countertop she felt on her cheek while his hand had her pinned by the throat. She turned from her reflection and left the room, picking up her track clothes and descending the stairs. She removed her wool coat from the sofa and shook off some of the cat hair. She pulled it on and struggled to lift the pink canvas bag in which her books were stacked neatly. Her arm shook violently as she hoisted the weight of it onto her shoulder. Michelle stepped outside to join her mother in the car, the cold winter wind passing through her as if she wasn’t there at all.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Chapter 1 Part II
“No, Dickie, no! Jesus Christ!” she woke to the screams that pierced the dark Maine morning, penetrating her bedroom door as if it was paper. The howling wind did nothing to cover the dog’s yelp. Shit. He’s done it again, she thought as she rolled off her bed and her feet touched the cold floorboards. Missy switched on the lamp and glanced at her alarm clock. Fucking 6:15 a.m. and she has to get up because Dickie can’t hold his goddamn water.
“That mutt has been stinking up our house since he turned ten,” she muttered to herself as she pulled on a sweatshirt and sweatpants. “Three fucking years I’ve been living with the smell of dog piss.” It was worse than the beer smell that overwhelmed the house when her dad wasn’t out fishing. “Missy, you spoiled bitch!” he would holler, “You fucking loser! You good for nothing, useless piece of shit, get out of my house!” But those days are done, she thought. His drinking and fighting caught up with him and now he’s gone.
“Missy, come down here and take care of this goddamn dog!” Missy heard Dickie yelp again.
“Alright, Joe. I’m coming!” Missy stormed in reply. “Stop kicking my dog!” That dumb animal. Missy wondered why she didn’t just put him to sleep. Since the day her dad brought him home he’s been a problem – pissing, chewing on furniture and tearing apart her school books. They got old Dickie from the Benders. They decided to sell during the last tax reevaluation - sold their house to a rich tourist from Massachusetts and sold their boat to a fishing fleet and moved down to Florida to try to run a deep-sea charter company – year round of course. They decided to leave Dickie behind, thinking that the move to Florida would be too much for a dog had only ever lived on the island.
Missy’s dad had been a member of the crew on their ship for years, heading out into the open ocean early in the morning and return days later, only to spend hundreds of dollars at the bars spinning tales about swordfish and tuna, porpoises, white-sided Atlantic dolphin, whales and the occasional encounter with Jaws’ real life counterpart– all before he even made it home with money for the bills. When the Benders left, her dad took a used dog as a consolation prize and he never found steady crewing work again. Instead he would go out every now and then when one of the rigs was short a man.
“You stupid mutt” Joe flicked his cigarette ashes at the beagle-mix sitting on the faded and dirty linoleum next to a puddle of urine. “You won’t ever learn.”
Missy walked into the kitchen and observed her uncle. Just off the ferry from the mainland, he had removed his dirty shirt and thrown it into the pile of laundry outside the cellar door. He stood before her in his filthy jeans reeking of fish, his cigarette in one hand and a cup of instant coffee in the other. Her dog sat forlornly at his side. Dickie noticed her first. He jumped up, his tail wagging enthusiastically. He voiced the usual morning greeting that was a combination of a yawn a whine and a bay, “HEEYAOOOOW!” Missy smiled in response.
“I’ve about had it with this dog of yours, Missy.” Joe growled. “Why don’t you just keep him outdoors at night?”
“Jesus Christ, Joe.” Missy retorted. “He’s old. It’s the middle of winter. That would be fucking inhumane.” She grabbed her parka from the back of a kitchen chair, walked to the door and slid her feet into the imitation leather boots that stood there while Dickie started trotting expectantly around the kitchen table, careful to avoid the puddle on the floor.
“Come on you ignorant shit.” Missy turned playfully to her dog. “When will you learn that you don’t need to piss on the floor? I can take you out. You just need to say the word”
“It’s too late now.” Joe smirked. “You’ll never teach that animal a thing. That dog just doesn’t want to change his disgusting life.” He turned to leave the kitchen.
“Shut up, asshole.” Missy raised her voice dangerously. “What the fuck do you know?” Joe didn’t turn back. He was going to bed, preparing to rest after several days out on the water. That’s how it was – either away or a sleep – out on the boat or in bed. Missy saw him so infrequently it was hard to know when he was home.
She threw a collar and leash on her dog and they stepped outside into the cold and windy morning light. She saw the 6:15 ferry working its way back across the harbor its lights twinkiling but the sound of its engine lost in the whistling wind. The wind whipped her hair and the hand holding the leash began to ache with cold. She turned her back to the icy gusts, hunched her shoulders and pulled her hands up into her sleeves. Dickie pulled exuberantly face to the ground, his nose hovering over crisp brown leaves and patches of snow learning all that he could from the smells that lingered there. Missy allowed him to pull her down the road.
Once they passed the house the bright sunlight flooded Missy’s left eye. She turned toward the sun, feeling the north wind on her check. Taking slow and deep breaths she imagined replacing all of the old stale smoky air in her lungs with cold clean new air, air as new as the day. She closed her eyes and saw the red of the sunlight penetrating her lids and felt it warming, ever so slightly, her skin. She imagined the light filtering through her, melting away anything that didn’t belong inside her, anything that wasn’t exactly right. She imagined selling her dad’s house. Someday, once she turned 18 and finished school, she should sell it all and move far away with Dickie and the money. She would go where no one knows her, where she could walk around reading a book without anyone laughing at her. She would have a little apartment and keep plants. She would have a little kitchen table with four matching chairs and a tablecloth. She would get her college degree and have a boyfriend like Aaron, someone smart and clean. Someone who wanted to talk. Someone who took her out to eat and brought her flowers and wanted to travel to far away places.
Dickie tugged on the leash and Missy opened her eyes to see Tony walking down the hill toward her, his ears and nose red with cold. He wore a black leather jacket, tight fitting jeans, and black motorcycle boots. “Got to pick up my paycheck before the 7:15,” he smiled at her and stepped close. “What are you doing.”
Missy jerked her head towards Dickie. “Got to take him out before I get ready for school.”
“Your uncle home?”
“In bed.”
“How about I come by after I get my check?”
“Alright. But I can’t miss the boat.”
Missy turned and walked back into the wind, the warmth of the sun torn away by the first cold gust of wind off the water. She stopped while Dickie took a shit and then walked into the house, kicking off her boots and throwing her coat back on the chair.
Being with Tony sober is just the same as being with him drunk, and pretty much the same as the rest of them, she thought to herself as she began to mop up the cold urine with a wad of paper towels. It’s almost like you’re not there at all, just seeing it from outside yourself like you are watching some movie – the kind where people are having an encounter – not a romance or an affair. The kind when a man and a woman meet and he knows right then that she’s got something he wants and she gives it to him straight away without making him jump through any hoops– feeling, as the need in him mounts and then suddenly releases, that she is powerful and necessary, that, if it were not for her cunt or her mouth, none of it would have happened. That is what she likes about it, the very thought of it made her insides clench, she wanted to feel it in her, to feel her doing it to him.
Missy threw away the paper towels and sprinkled cider vinegar on the floor where the puddle had been. She read once that would keep the dog from going there again but it had never worked with Dickie. Still, she thought as the acrid smell of the vinegar filled her sinuses, you never know. She filled Dickie’s bowl with dog chow and added water to the plastic tub next to the radiator which served as a humidifier and Dickie’s water bowl.
She glanced out the window, 6:35 and still no Tony. She had better get everything ready to go so she would be able to make the boat. She stepped back into her boots and ran down the cellar stairs to pull wrinkled but clean bra, panties, jeans, and Harvard sweatshirt from the dryer. She heard Dickie’s claws scratching across the floor above her as he ran toward the door. Tony let himself in.
Missy jogged back up the stairs to find him standing in the kitchen, hanging his leather jacket hanging neatly on the hook inside the door. Dickie stood behind him, his tail wagging so fiercely that it was tapping out a fast beat on a chairleg. She tossed her clothes onto the counter and stepped forward out of her shoes, closing the cellar door behind her. As she approached him, Tony unzipped his jeans and lowered his pants just enough to free his swollen penis, which curved up toward the black t-shirt covering his navel while reaching out toward her. She answered, walking over to him and putting her hands on it. He caught her wrists quickly and placed his other hand heavily on her shoulder, forcing her down toward the floor.
Missy quickly dropped to her knees and took him in, feeling his hands on the back of her head pushing her face toward him and pulling it away. She could smell nothing but the vinegar which was soaking through the knees of her sweatpants. She heard the clicking of Dickie’s claws as he walked into her bedroom. She heard him lay down on the pile of dirty laundry beside her bed. Harder and harder Tony forced her head into his navel, jabbing his penis again and again into the back of her throat. She worked carefully to time her breath so that she could inhale when her nose not pressed against him.
The wave of tension, need, she felt it in him – in his hands, in his breath, in the pulses she felt in her mouth. And then, the warm salty sour combined with cider vinegar, it was over. Tony released her and she stood, her sweatpants stuck to her knees with vinegar. 6:50.
Missy walked over to the tea kettle and shook it to see that had enough water for two. “You want a cup of coffee?” Jeans zipped, sitting down at the table, Tony replied “Sure.”
They waited in silence while the kettle heated. Missy gathered her school books from the kitchen table and stacked them in her backpack. She grabbed her clothes and ducked in the bedroom to change, leaving the dirty stuff in a pile at her feet as she shook the wrinkles out of the new ones. Best to start a new pile instead of bothering the dog who was lying on his back, feet in midair, on the rest of her dirty laundry. Her bedroom light was still on and she turned it off, allowing the bright white daylight to replace the dim yellow glow of her lamp.
Returning to the kitchen, Missy saw that Tony was smoking, looking down at the table with his feet up on the chair next to him. The kettle was still not ready.
“Why are you going in on the 7:15?”
"I’ve been missing a lot of days and they might not let me graduate if I don’t start going. Besides, I’m getting my trucker’s license and the program starts today.”
Missy ducked into the bathroom, splashed warm water on her face and rolled on some deodorant. She quickly applied purple eye shadow, black eyeliner, and mascara. The kettle began to whine. She stepped back into the kitchen and turned of the burner, Grabbing two clean mugs out of the dishrack, she threw a tablespoon of instant coffee into each one, filled them with water, and gave them each a quick stir.
She turned back to the table, one mug in each hand to see Tony looking at her, standing once again. As she approached him, he took her by the shoulders and turned her away from him. She placed the cups on the table, away from her books, as he fumbled with his pants and then her own. He entered quickly, his penis had the softer feel of second sex. Forcing himself into her, with his left hand he reached around and down, flattening her bush and pushing her to him. The other hand was in her sweatshirt, pushing up her bra, grabbing and pulling at her breasts, as his warm damp breath penetrated her clothes and moistened her back. Her right hip collided painfully with the table each time he pushed into her.
She felt it, the tremor, a shiver and a shake as she satisfied him again. The warm and sour wetness was between her legs this time, messy. 7:00.
He stepped away again, fixing his jeans. “See you on the boat.”
Hoping to clean up a bit, she left her pants where they were, if that got in her underwear she would smell his sex all day. “What about your coffee? If you wait a minute I’ll walk down with you.”
“Nah. I’m all set.” He picked up his leather jacket carefully and placed his right arm in it.
“Alright. I need to get ready for the boat.” Missy walked into the bathroom, “See you later.”
He was gone, the door closed behind him while Missy used toilet paper to wipe herself clean. She brushed her teeth and ran a comb through her hair. Suddenly a pierce whistle sounded – audible even over the cry of the wind. The ferry’s five-minute warning.
“FUCK!” Missy threw on her coat and grabbed her school bag. “See you later, Dickie!” Running into her boots and out the door, Missy barely noticed the icy blast of winter air enveloping her..
“That mutt has been stinking up our house since he turned ten,” she muttered to herself as she pulled on a sweatshirt and sweatpants. “Three fucking years I’ve been living with the smell of dog piss.” It was worse than the beer smell that overwhelmed the house when her dad wasn’t out fishing. “Missy, you spoiled bitch!” he would holler, “You fucking loser! You good for nothing, useless piece of shit, get out of my house!” But those days are done, she thought. His drinking and fighting caught up with him and now he’s gone.
“Missy, come down here and take care of this goddamn dog!” Missy heard Dickie yelp again.
“Alright, Joe. I’m coming!” Missy stormed in reply. “Stop kicking my dog!” That dumb animal. Missy wondered why she didn’t just put him to sleep. Since the day her dad brought him home he’s been a problem – pissing, chewing on furniture and tearing apart her school books. They got old Dickie from the Benders. They decided to sell during the last tax reevaluation - sold their house to a rich tourist from Massachusetts and sold their boat to a fishing fleet and moved down to Florida to try to run a deep-sea charter company – year round of course. They decided to leave Dickie behind, thinking that the move to Florida would be too much for a dog had only ever lived on the island.
Missy’s dad had been a member of the crew on their ship for years, heading out into the open ocean early in the morning and return days later, only to spend hundreds of dollars at the bars spinning tales about swordfish and tuna, porpoises, white-sided Atlantic dolphin, whales and the occasional encounter with Jaws’ real life counterpart– all before he even made it home with money for the bills. When the Benders left, her dad took a used dog as a consolation prize and he never found steady crewing work again. Instead he would go out every now and then when one of the rigs was short a man.
“You stupid mutt” Joe flicked his cigarette ashes at the beagle-mix sitting on the faded and dirty linoleum next to a puddle of urine. “You won’t ever learn.”
Missy walked into the kitchen and observed her uncle. Just off the ferry from the mainland, he had removed his dirty shirt and thrown it into the pile of laundry outside the cellar door. He stood before her in his filthy jeans reeking of fish, his cigarette in one hand and a cup of instant coffee in the other. Her dog sat forlornly at his side. Dickie noticed her first. He jumped up, his tail wagging enthusiastically. He voiced the usual morning greeting that was a combination of a yawn a whine and a bay, “HEEYAOOOOW!” Missy smiled in response.
“I’ve about had it with this dog of yours, Missy.” Joe growled. “Why don’t you just keep him outdoors at night?”
“Jesus Christ, Joe.” Missy retorted. “He’s old. It’s the middle of winter. That would be fucking inhumane.” She grabbed her parka from the back of a kitchen chair, walked to the door and slid her feet into the imitation leather boots that stood there while Dickie started trotting expectantly around the kitchen table, careful to avoid the puddle on the floor.
“Come on you ignorant shit.” Missy turned playfully to her dog. “When will you learn that you don’t need to piss on the floor? I can take you out. You just need to say the word”
“It’s too late now.” Joe smirked. “You’ll never teach that animal a thing. That dog just doesn’t want to change his disgusting life.” He turned to leave the kitchen.
“Shut up, asshole.” Missy raised her voice dangerously. “What the fuck do you know?” Joe didn’t turn back. He was going to bed, preparing to rest after several days out on the water. That’s how it was – either away or a sleep – out on the boat or in bed. Missy saw him so infrequently it was hard to know when he was home.
She threw a collar and leash on her dog and they stepped outside into the cold and windy morning light. She saw the 6:15 ferry working its way back across the harbor its lights twinkiling but the sound of its engine lost in the whistling wind. The wind whipped her hair and the hand holding the leash began to ache with cold. She turned her back to the icy gusts, hunched her shoulders and pulled her hands up into her sleeves. Dickie pulled exuberantly face to the ground, his nose hovering over crisp brown leaves and patches of snow learning all that he could from the smells that lingered there. Missy allowed him to pull her down the road.
Once they passed the house the bright sunlight flooded Missy’s left eye. She turned toward the sun, feeling the north wind on her check. Taking slow and deep breaths she imagined replacing all of the old stale smoky air in her lungs with cold clean new air, air as new as the day. She closed her eyes and saw the red of the sunlight penetrating her lids and felt it warming, ever so slightly, her skin. She imagined the light filtering through her, melting away anything that didn’t belong inside her, anything that wasn’t exactly right. She imagined selling her dad’s house. Someday, once she turned 18 and finished school, she should sell it all and move far away with Dickie and the money. She would go where no one knows her, where she could walk around reading a book without anyone laughing at her. She would have a little apartment and keep plants. She would have a little kitchen table with four matching chairs and a tablecloth. She would get her college degree and have a boyfriend like Aaron, someone smart and clean. Someone who wanted to talk. Someone who took her out to eat and brought her flowers and wanted to travel to far away places.
Dickie tugged on the leash and Missy opened her eyes to see Tony walking down the hill toward her, his ears and nose red with cold. He wore a black leather jacket, tight fitting jeans, and black motorcycle boots. “Got to pick up my paycheck before the 7:15,” he smiled at her and stepped close. “What are you doing.”
Missy jerked her head towards Dickie. “Got to take him out before I get ready for school.”
“Your uncle home?”
“In bed.”
“How about I come by after I get my check?”
“Alright. But I can’t miss the boat.”
Missy turned and walked back into the wind, the warmth of the sun torn away by the first cold gust of wind off the water. She stopped while Dickie took a shit and then walked into the house, kicking off her boots and throwing her coat back on the chair.
Being with Tony sober is just the same as being with him drunk, and pretty much the same as the rest of them, she thought to herself as she began to mop up the cold urine with a wad of paper towels. It’s almost like you’re not there at all, just seeing it from outside yourself like you are watching some movie – the kind where people are having an encounter – not a romance or an affair. The kind when a man and a woman meet and he knows right then that she’s got something he wants and she gives it to him straight away without making him jump through any hoops– feeling, as the need in him mounts and then suddenly releases, that she is powerful and necessary, that, if it were not for her cunt or her mouth, none of it would have happened. That is what she likes about it, the very thought of it made her insides clench, she wanted to feel it in her, to feel her doing it to him.
Missy threw away the paper towels and sprinkled cider vinegar on the floor where the puddle had been. She read once that would keep the dog from going there again but it had never worked with Dickie. Still, she thought as the acrid smell of the vinegar filled her sinuses, you never know. She filled Dickie’s bowl with dog chow and added water to the plastic tub next to the radiator which served as a humidifier and Dickie’s water bowl.
She glanced out the window, 6:35 and still no Tony. She had better get everything ready to go so she would be able to make the boat. She stepped back into her boots and ran down the cellar stairs to pull wrinkled but clean bra, panties, jeans, and Harvard sweatshirt from the dryer. She heard Dickie’s claws scratching across the floor above her as he ran toward the door. Tony let himself in.
Missy jogged back up the stairs to find him standing in the kitchen, hanging his leather jacket hanging neatly on the hook inside the door. Dickie stood behind him, his tail wagging so fiercely that it was tapping out a fast beat on a chairleg. She tossed her clothes onto the counter and stepped forward out of her shoes, closing the cellar door behind her. As she approached him, Tony unzipped his jeans and lowered his pants just enough to free his swollen penis, which curved up toward the black t-shirt covering his navel while reaching out toward her. She answered, walking over to him and putting her hands on it. He caught her wrists quickly and placed his other hand heavily on her shoulder, forcing her down toward the floor.
Missy quickly dropped to her knees and took him in, feeling his hands on the back of her head pushing her face toward him and pulling it away. She could smell nothing but the vinegar which was soaking through the knees of her sweatpants. She heard the clicking of Dickie’s claws as he walked into her bedroom. She heard him lay down on the pile of dirty laundry beside her bed. Harder and harder Tony forced her head into his navel, jabbing his penis again and again into the back of her throat. She worked carefully to time her breath so that she could inhale when her nose not pressed against him.
The wave of tension, need, she felt it in him – in his hands, in his breath, in the pulses she felt in her mouth. And then, the warm salty sour combined with cider vinegar, it was over. Tony released her and she stood, her sweatpants stuck to her knees with vinegar. 6:50.
Missy walked over to the tea kettle and shook it to see that had enough water for two. “You want a cup of coffee?” Jeans zipped, sitting down at the table, Tony replied “Sure.”
They waited in silence while the kettle heated. Missy gathered her school books from the kitchen table and stacked them in her backpack. She grabbed her clothes and ducked in the bedroom to change, leaving the dirty stuff in a pile at her feet as she shook the wrinkles out of the new ones. Best to start a new pile instead of bothering the dog who was lying on his back, feet in midair, on the rest of her dirty laundry. Her bedroom light was still on and she turned it off, allowing the bright white daylight to replace the dim yellow glow of her lamp.
Returning to the kitchen, Missy saw that Tony was smoking, looking down at the table with his feet up on the chair next to him. The kettle was still not ready.
“Why are you going in on the 7:15?”
"I’ve been missing a lot of days and they might not let me graduate if I don’t start going. Besides, I’m getting my trucker’s license and the program starts today.”
Missy ducked into the bathroom, splashed warm water on her face and rolled on some deodorant. She quickly applied purple eye shadow, black eyeliner, and mascara. The kettle began to whine. She stepped back into the kitchen and turned of the burner, Grabbing two clean mugs out of the dishrack, she threw a tablespoon of instant coffee into each one, filled them with water, and gave them each a quick stir.
She turned back to the table, one mug in each hand to see Tony looking at her, standing once again. As she approached him, he took her by the shoulders and turned her away from him. She placed the cups on the table, away from her books, as he fumbled with his pants and then her own. He entered quickly, his penis had the softer feel of second sex. Forcing himself into her, with his left hand he reached around and down, flattening her bush and pushing her to him. The other hand was in her sweatshirt, pushing up her bra, grabbing and pulling at her breasts, as his warm damp breath penetrated her clothes and moistened her back. Her right hip collided painfully with the table each time he pushed into her.
She felt it, the tremor, a shiver and a shake as she satisfied him again. The warm and sour wetness was between her legs this time, messy. 7:00.
He stepped away again, fixing his jeans. “See you on the boat.”
Hoping to clean up a bit, she left her pants where they were, if that got in her underwear she would smell his sex all day. “What about your coffee? If you wait a minute I’ll walk down with you.”
“Nah. I’m all set.” He picked up his leather jacket carefully and placed his right arm in it.
“Alright. I need to get ready for the boat.” Missy walked into the bathroom, “See you later.”
He was gone, the door closed behind him while Missy used toilet paper to wipe herself clean. She brushed her teeth and ran a comb through her hair. Suddenly a pierce whistle sounded – audible even over the cry of the wind. The ferry’s five-minute warning.
“FUCK!” Missy threw on her coat and grabbed her school bag. “See you later, Dickie!” Running into her boots and out the door, Missy barely noticed the icy blast of winter air enveloping her..
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