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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)