Sitting in the scorching hot sun on Friday, watching one graduate after another cross the stage, it struck me that I’m starting to feel old. Now for all you sensitive 40 and ups out there, don’t get your panties in a wad. I’m not implying that I am old, thus making you older. I’m not that stupid. I’m merely making a suggestion that with each passing year, I’m reminded that I am beginning to make my entry into the serious-we’re-not-joking-it’s-really-real world of adulthood. I have friends with wrinkles. And back problems. And babies. And divorce lawyers. It’s weird.
I remember what it felt like that day and how amazing it felt to walk across that stage. The excitement, the drama, the sadness. Here I was in the cozy womb of my wooded college campus, among the people I considered my best of the best, and I was being asked to leave. Graduate. Pack up. Move on. I had spent four years laughing and discovering and growing and falling over stupid and accomplishing and throwing up from too much vodka from plastic containers and hiding in nooks of shadows of trees and gazing at stars and writing papers all night and pretending to tap dance down brick pathways and grieving and stumbling into new selves and former selves all while thinking “what is the self?”
For some people, college is this obligatory stamp on their path. Four years (or maybe five) of requirements and probably too many parties and maybe the place where you met the person you married. Or maybe you busted your ass to get through, working full-time just to get the degree. This piece of paper that is supposed to somehow transform us. Make us more hire-able. Better employees.
But for others, college is this space of discovery. A chance to pause the rest of the world and completely absorb yourself in your own years of 18-22. It’s like four years of padded walls and access to all the fingerpaint you could ever want. Oh and Cookie Crisp. And chicken fingers. And the goal is to still come our hire-able and a better employee. But maybe with some deeper, more philosophical thoughts on hand.
That’s how I remember college. A journey. A road. A space of discovery. A chance to figure out me. Who I was and why I cared. And why anyone else might ever want to, too.
I remember asking myself questions I’d never thought to ask before. I remember trying to catch it all—all the things that were happening in my brain and in my ears and in my knees and in my eyes. Trying to cram it all into my heart and my brain and my memory banks; horrified someone might steal this slice of life I’d stumbled across. That I’d lose access.
I remember all the tragically sad things that happened and how I thought there was no way my heart could ever find its pieces again. And then finding those pieces, and emerging a bit more hardened and perhaps more wise.
I remember laughing so hard I thought I’d die. And reciting movies from heart. And meeting women who changed my life—strong, courageous, hilarious women who taught me how to be a woman. How to fight for myself. How to love myself. My girls.
I look up at the windows that face the lawn of commencement. I think how many mornings I’ve woken up facing this lawn. How many mornings I’ve been here. With the sun on my face. And all the things that have happened between all those sunrises.
This is home. For nine years I’ve called this place home. After being out in the real world for a few years, I came back to work here. As a grown-up. As an adult. But I feel like one of the lucky ones, because I know what happens here. I know how it feels. I’ve felt it in my heart and in my hands and I’ve danced with it at night and I’ve rolled around with it in the rain. I’ve tasted it on my tongue and I’ve taken it out on walks. It’s not something anyone can ever put a thumb on and almost everyone tries to name it. Each year a new student commencement speaker has the enormous task of trying to find words that describe this thing that happens here. And I watch her catch her breath. And it is there in her voice. This thing we all know about. This thing we cannot name.
There are days when I question why I ever came back to work here—this charming alma mater of mine. Like anywhere, we have our own fair share of the dramas. And I hear the others whine and moan and talk quietly behind closed doors. Perhaps they don’t know. But I do. I know what happens here. And I remember. And those moments remind me why I’m here.
As I listen to the names, one after another, I look up to the window where I spent my freshman year. And my eyes wander over to the window where I spent my junior year. And I smirk because I know things about these walls. And I look out at the lawn. And I’m feeling old, but happy. Missing my girls. Knowing they'd be sitting right here next to me, in something terribly chic, clapping for people they don't know. Because we know how it feels. We know what happens here.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Lemonade
When life hands you lemons, don’t you sometimes want to shove those lemons down someone’s throat and walk away? With no guilt or conflict of morality or ethics getting in the way?
I get that I’m supposed to be all kinds of positive about when shit happens, because, shit happens. It just does. In the order of the world, there has to be a balance of good and bad, and I guess life was getting too good (although, I’d like to ask the universe: can life ever be too good? Really? Are we sure about that answer?) And as my uncle told me so kindly earlier this week, “you had a yang coming with that steady flow of yin…” Yeah, yeah. Whatever.
Earlier this week I was jolted out of my precious slumber by the sound of a horrendous crash outside of my window. Hazily leaping out of bed to the window, I looked down to find that another car had indeed crashed into MY car. Out of the 30 she had to choose from on our block, mine was her victim. Well, mine and two others. But mine not only got hit, it got CRUNCHED. And mine was the last one she hit, thus receiving the biggest blow. And I parked under the street lamp the night before, because I had come in late, and so the street lamp had also aided and abetted in the crunching of the OTHER side of my car. Epic crunching.
Due to the fact that it was 5:45 am, I was all kinds of confused and disoriented and didn’t quite understand the extent to which I had just been handed lemons. Smiling, and still trying to wake up my brain, I didn’t think to be outraged or hostile. I didn’t think to challenge the police when they failed to provide me with any of the driver’s information. I didn’t think to ask for her driver’s license number. This was all promised to be in the police report—the police report I would be able to claim in 5-10 days for a cost of $10. I didn’t think this was outrageous.
Now, almost four days later, my hostility is setting in. Especially now that the young girl, driving alone on a learner's permit at 5:45 am, is MIA, her insurance plan was cancelled months ago, and the police appear to have “lost” parts of the police report (the only document that contained her information that we need in order to seek justice), I’ve poured the lemonade down the drain.
The lemonade is gone. I’m looking at a preliminary (I repeat, preliminary) damage report that rounds in at about $6,500 worth of body work (thank god for comprehensive collision insurance). I’m trying hard not to get hustled by the “industry” that is car insurance and collision repair. And I find myself totally overwhelmed with it all. I’m wondering if my car will be totaled—something NO ONE seems to want to tell me—and I’m also wondering if it means I’m gonna have to buy a new car this week (and if so, what do I buy? Can I even afford a new car?) I’m driving a crappy rental car that drives like a sewing machine on wheels that smells like ass covered up with air freshener. And I’m preparing myself for this to go on for another couple of weeks until official decisions are made and repairs can be done (or not).
I’m wondering if this girl, now being hassled by my insurance company and my neighbor’s insurance agencies, is even going to face ANY penalties. It doesn’t appear that we have any kind of grip whatsoever on the situation, thank you very much Baltimore city police who wanted to rush cleaning up the scene/writing the report so that they could end their shift.
And everyone keeps saying: Look at the bright side, you weren’t in the vehicle. No one got hurt.
What the fuck is up with everyone’s love for lemonade? I know y’all aren’t this positive on a regular basis. This is why I live on the East Coast. I live for our perpetual cynicism and negativity. Live for it. Please, for the love of god someone say something snarky.
The only thing that has kept me together this week has been the overwhelming amount of anxiety I have about all the homework I have left to finish before my last two classes of grad school this semester. I fear that come Tuesday morning, I might just dissolve into a big mess in the carpet and poor Cara (patient plutonic wife and roommate that she is) is gonna need to scoop me up and put me in front of a marathon of Always Sunny in Philadelphia with some Red-Hot Cheetos. And possibly a Quaalude and a vodka tonic.
I got a feeling it won't be pretty, folks.
So thus far, my solution for today has been to bake a cake and to read some scholarly journals (that by noon I need to have synthesized into a well-thought out thesis). By 7:30 this morning, I was highlighting to the sexy hum of my stand-up mixer, faithfully beating the shit out of some cake batter. Using my beautiful, shiny, red KitchenAid mixer is like the equivalent of getting high. It’s totally my heroin. I also have plans to go buy some plants today and to get my little organic urban garden bloomin'—plans I had last weekend but ended up botching thanks to cold natty boh's and a really, really hot sunshine.
Today, I will blissfully ignore the fucking lemons. I will NOT look at new cars online (which gives me anxiety). I will NOT look at my 8 page preliminary estimate from the body shop (which gives me anxiety). I will NOT call my insurance company or check my online claim for any details (which gives me anxiety). Today I will do my homework. And maybe throw on a shirt-dress, some high heels, and some red lipstick. And maybe I’ll vacuum. Or make a soufflé from scratch.
Here’s hoping a healthy dose of domesticity (and intellectual discourse) will brighten up my weekend. But don’t expect lemonade if you drop in. We’ll be serving bourbon, only. And no more positivity, people. It's making me nauseous.
I get that I’m supposed to be all kinds of positive about when shit happens, because, shit happens. It just does. In the order of the world, there has to be a balance of good and bad, and I guess life was getting too good (although, I’d like to ask the universe: can life ever be too good? Really? Are we sure about that answer?) And as my uncle told me so kindly earlier this week, “you had a yang coming with that steady flow of yin…” Yeah, yeah. Whatever.
Earlier this week I was jolted out of my precious slumber by the sound of a horrendous crash outside of my window. Hazily leaping out of bed to the window, I looked down to find that another car had indeed crashed into MY car. Out of the 30 she had to choose from on our block, mine was her victim. Well, mine and two others. But mine not only got hit, it got CRUNCHED. And mine was the last one she hit, thus receiving the biggest blow. And I parked under the street lamp the night before, because I had come in late, and so the street lamp had also aided and abetted in the crunching of the OTHER side of my car. Epic crunching.
Due to the fact that it was 5:45 am, I was all kinds of confused and disoriented and didn’t quite understand the extent to which I had just been handed lemons. Smiling, and still trying to wake up my brain, I didn’t think to be outraged or hostile. I didn’t think to challenge the police when they failed to provide me with any of the driver’s information. I didn’t think to ask for her driver’s license number. This was all promised to be in the police report—the police report I would be able to claim in 5-10 days for a cost of $10. I didn’t think this was outrageous.
Now, almost four days later, my hostility is setting in. Especially now that the young girl, driving alone on a learner's permit at 5:45 am, is MIA, her insurance plan was cancelled months ago, and the police appear to have “lost” parts of the police report (the only document that contained her information that we need in order to seek justice), I’ve poured the lemonade down the drain.
The lemonade is gone. I’m looking at a preliminary (I repeat, preliminary) damage report that rounds in at about $6,500 worth of body work (thank god for comprehensive collision insurance). I’m trying hard not to get hustled by the “industry” that is car insurance and collision repair. And I find myself totally overwhelmed with it all. I’m wondering if my car will be totaled—something NO ONE seems to want to tell me—and I’m also wondering if it means I’m gonna have to buy a new car this week (and if so, what do I buy? Can I even afford a new car?) I’m driving a crappy rental car that drives like a sewing machine on wheels that smells like ass covered up with air freshener. And I’m preparing myself for this to go on for another couple of weeks until official decisions are made and repairs can be done (or not).
I’m wondering if this girl, now being hassled by my insurance company and my neighbor’s insurance agencies, is even going to face ANY penalties. It doesn’t appear that we have any kind of grip whatsoever on the situation, thank you very much Baltimore city police who wanted to rush cleaning up the scene/writing the report so that they could end their shift.
And everyone keeps saying: Look at the bright side, you weren’t in the vehicle. No one got hurt.
What the fuck is up with everyone’s love for lemonade? I know y’all aren’t this positive on a regular basis. This is why I live on the East Coast. I live for our perpetual cynicism and negativity. Live for it. Please, for the love of god someone say something snarky.
The only thing that has kept me together this week has been the overwhelming amount of anxiety I have about all the homework I have left to finish before my last two classes of grad school this semester. I fear that come Tuesday morning, I might just dissolve into a big mess in the carpet and poor Cara (patient plutonic wife and roommate that she is) is gonna need to scoop me up and put me in front of a marathon of Always Sunny in Philadelphia with some Red-Hot Cheetos. And possibly a Quaalude and a vodka tonic.
I got a feeling it won't be pretty, folks.
So thus far, my solution for today has been to bake a cake and to read some scholarly journals (that by noon I need to have synthesized into a well-thought out thesis). By 7:30 this morning, I was highlighting to the sexy hum of my stand-up mixer, faithfully beating the shit out of some cake batter. Using my beautiful, shiny, red KitchenAid mixer is like the equivalent of getting high. It’s totally my heroin. I also have plans to go buy some plants today and to get my little organic urban garden bloomin'—plans I had last weekend but ended up botching thanks to cold natty boh's and a really, really hot sunshine.
Today, I will blissfully ignore the fucking lemons. I will NOT look at new cars online (which gives me anxiety). I will NOT look at my 8 page preliminary estimate from the body shop (which gives me anxiety). I will NOT call my insurance company or check my online claim for any details (which gives me anxiety). Today I will do my homework. And maybe throw on a shirt-dress, some high heels, and some red lipstick. And maybe I’ll vacuum. Or make a soufflé from scratch.
Here’s hoping a healthy dose of domesticity (and intellectual discourse) will brighten up my weekend. But don’t expect lemonade if you drop in. We’ll be serving bourbon, only. And no more positivity, people. It's making me nauseous.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Me Big Chief
On Saturday night I took the opportunity to use my sunburn as an excuse to stay home on a Saturday night and do homework. (You know, the sunburn I got while I was making myself walk the dog, which turned into running into college buddies, which turned into watching ultimate frisbee for a few hours without sunscreen, which turned into drinking a couple beers in the middle of the day, which turned into an exhausted sun-burnt nap, which made me wake up cranky and incapable of social activities, which made me ignore any and all of my said social engagements in exchange for a quiet night at home).
And because I don’t nap (I’m like a freak of nature with the sleeping), this 45 minute slip into a REM cycle apparently made me incapable of rational, intellectual thought. Realizing my research paper on Erich Fromm, the tantalizing German Jew psychoanalyst who I’m sure has amazing things to say, was NOT going to happen, I caved and did what all grown folks who work full-time while in graduate school do: REPRESS FEELINGS OF GUILT ABOUT NOT DOING HOMEWORK ON THE ONE NIGHT YOU HAVE FREE AND PROCRASTINATE.
Instead, I ordered a pizza and decided to park my happy ass on the couch with the dog and catch up on the new HBO show Treme.
I’m an admitted David Simonstalker admirer. I pretty much watched the entire series of The Wire over a series of a few weeks and found myself so involved with the characters that I still refer to them on a first-name basis as if they’re real people in my life. You know, Stringer Bell? Lives down the block?
The invention of the television show on DVD really did wonders for my social life. At one point, I was so involved in watching the entire series of Six Feet Under that I began thinking I might actually be in an episode. Every episode of this show starts with someone dying in some kind of freak accident. I’d be walking down the block and envision a hammer being accidentally dropped from the top floor of the building and then in my head I’d cue the opening music and flash forward to a view of my own tombstone. Thank God I finished that series before I developed schizophrenia.
And don’t get me started on the L-Word. I think I actually craved lesbian drama in my life just because I felt so entitled to it after watching all that melodrama betwixt the ladies. Which, for the record, is never drama ANYONE should crave.
Okay, back to Treme. (Sorry, I’m over-caffeinated).
I had the chance to meet David Simon through my job last year and almost urinated down my pretty little dress with excitement. And he, in person, is just exactly what I suspected him to be: slightly neurotic, totally depressing, and simultaneously one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met. You know how you meet people and you just know they’re smart? They got that pretty talk and yuns know they can ‘cipher good? Yeah, well. He did.
So when I heard David Simon would begin working on a show about post-Katrina New Orleans I started emotionally cumming all over myself. Because, you know, us geeky liberal arts college graduates LOVE television shows that blur the line between fiction and fact—especially when it involves things like sexuality, racism, and poverty. I’m getting chills just thinking about all the cultural and sociological implications I’ll inevitably try to sneak into a classroom discussion someday. Sidenote: We also love reading the Atlantic Monthly and pretending to be smarter than everyone else. And posting clever, biting, intellectually snarky comments on each other’s Facebook pages, ESPECIALLY when we get to reference our favorite NY Times op-ed columnist as if we know them personally (umm, duh, Gail). And of course wrapping it all up by finding a way to connect it all to some obscure Always Sunny in Philadelphia scene.
So here I am on a Saturday night watching this new show on HBO about New Orleans. And the storyline isn’t great—it’s fairly predictable. I see all the usual suspects—about half of the cast from The Wire (which is like running into old friends with guns) and I’m trying to get used to their new character names and disconnecting them from their darker, more addicted (and definitely better armed) Baltimore alter-egos.
But there is this music. And the second line gets warmed up on the screen. Without warrant, my feet start tapping. And I notice I can’t help but rock my hips. And my head starts moving. And I’m not even thinking about it but I’m shifting around to wiggle my little (okay big) white girl ass around like I got some rhythm. And before I know it my head is in a million places at once and I’m flashing through all these moments.
Then the character puts on his Mardi Gras Indian costume.
And I'm thinking about the first time I saw a real-live Mardi Gras Indian. And how hot it was. And the smell of those feathers. And the sounds that came from his mouth. Raw, guttural noises that were something in between song and prayer. And how it almost scared me.
Then he is playing his tambourine.
And my brain is thinking about three years ago in Winneba, Ghana when I stumbled across something that looked vaguely familiar: a parade in the middle of a village with a line of people marching down the middle of the street with horns and drums and dancing and singing and bright colors. Handkerchiefs were twirled in my face. I was so hot but so enthralled in the procession that I didn't care about the sweat dripping from my face.
And then I’m back in New Orleans, thinking about the taste of that po’boy and wondering if the shop we used to go to survived the storm and if it didn’t if they’ve reopened somewhere else. And thinking about how delicious those crawfish Zapp’s potato chips are and the time I saved all my money to buy myself a kitten watch (with a ball of yarn as the seconds hand) from a flimsy booth in the French Market. And how good those beignets tasted.
And what it felt like to see a real, live voodoo ceremony in Benin.
And to hear a goat be sacrificed.
And to run into Quint Davis, the freakin’ godfather of the Jazz Fest, in a random village in Benin because he was trying to find artists to bring from West Africa to New Orleans for the Jazz Fest. To bring the music full circle.
And I’m thinking about Katrina and how angry it made me. And how obvious it is to me that no matter what you try and tell me, if you're poor in this country, you've probably been fucked over by somebody. And I'm gonna go out on a limb here and blame a system (although I won't narrow it down to just one).
And then I'm thinking about how much I wouldn’t get this shit if I’d never moved to Baltimore. And never taken that first job in the Baltimore City Schools. And never felt all the things I’ve felt. And been in the places I've been. And felt, first-hand, what my skin color affords me.
And here is how I know David Simon is brilliant. Because all of this happened to me on a Saturday night on my couch. In yoga pants. And I only watched like three episodes.
This is also how I know I’m Presbyterian. I’ve found myself in this life of mine, where all these things make sense to me. And I find it strangely normal. Like it's the path I was always intended to be on. With all these experiences connecting and merging and overlapping.
And I do believe in magic. And I think sometimes we're given special knowledge from our ancestors that lets us in on some pretty big secrets about the universe. When I was a kid, my dad would tell me I was part gypsy. He told me all kinds of wacky things, but this was my favorite. Well, no, the Easter Monkey was (is) my favorite. But I've always liked to think about my totally-made-up fantasy gene pool (as if you couldn't tell from my sunburn that I'm totally Scotch-Irish-German-English and like 1/32 Cherokee).
Once upon a time, there was some rumor that up that magical family tree of ours was a Spanish bear trainer in the circus. Naturally, I've embellished and blown up this story in my extra-fancy tree and Great-Great-Great Granddaddy who tamed the bears and wooed the ladies is this central figure in my family's history. I'm assuming this is probably the way people feel when they are related to someone famous like a Kennedy or Abraham Lincoln. In this fantasy family tree I can't help but feel like I've got connections to these places that I love so much. And this gypsy grandfather of mine probably traveled around a lot. And maybe procreated in New Orleans. And I probably have cousins there.
And maybe in West Africa, too. Because it only makes sense.
And of course, I like to think I make him proud.
And because I don’t nap (I’m like a freak of nature with the sleeping), this 45 minute slip into a REM cycle apparently made me incapable of rational, intellectual thought. Realizing my research paper on Erich Fromm, the tantalizing German Jew psychoanalyst who I’m sure has amazing things to say, was NOT going to happen, I caved and did what all grown folks who work full-time while in graduate school do: REPRESS FEELINGS OF GUILT ABOUT NOT DOING HOMEWORK ON THE ONE NIGHT YOU HAVE FREE AND PROCRASTINATE.
Instead, I ordered a pizza and decided to park my happy ass on the couch with the dog and catch up on the new HBO show Treme.
I’m an admitted David Simon
The invention of the television show on DVD really did wonders for my social life. At one point, I was so involved in watching the entire series of Six Feet Under that I began thinking I might actually be in an episode. Every episode of this show starts with someone dying in some kind of freak accident. I’d be walking down the block and envision a hammer being accidentally dropped from the top floor of the building and then in my head I’d cue the opening music and flash forward to a view of my own tombstone. Thank God I finished that series before I developed schizophrenia.
And don’t get me started on the L-Word. I think I actually craved lesbian drama in my life just because I felt so entitled to it after watching all that melodrama betwixt the ladies. Which, for the record, is never drama ANYONE should crave.
Okay, back to Treme. (Sorry, I’m over-caffeinated).
I had the chance to meet David Simon through my job last year and almost urinated down my pretty little dress with excitement. And he, in person, is just exactly what I suspected him to be: slightly neurotic, totally depressing, and simultaneously one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met. You know how you meet people and you just know they’re smart? They got that pretty talk and yuns know they can ‘cipher good? Yeah, well. He did.
So when I heard David Simon would begin working on a show about post-Katrina New Orleans I started emotionally cumming all over myself. Because, you know, us geeky liberal arts college graduates LOVE television shows that blur the line between fiction and fact—especially when it involves things like sexuality, racism, and poverty. I’m getting chills just thinking about all the cultural and sociological implications I’ll inevitably try to sneak into a classroom discussion someday. Sidenote: We also love reading the Atlantic Monthly and pretending to be smarter than everyone else. And posting clever, biting, intellectually snarky comments on each other’s Facebook pages, ESPECIALLY when we get to reference our favorite NY Times op-ed columnist as if we know them personally (umm, duh, Gail). And of course wrapping it all up by finding a way to connect it all to some obscure Always Sunny in Philadelphia scene.
So here I am on a Saturday night watching this new show on HBO about New Orleans. And the storyline isn’t great—it’s fairly predictable. I see all the usual suspects—about half of the cast from The Wire (which is like running into old friends with guns) and I’m trying to get used to their new character names and disconnecting them from their darker, more addicted (and definitely better armed) Baltimore alter-egos.
But there is this music. And the second line gets warmed up on the screen. Without warrant, my feet start tapping. And I notice I can’t help but rock my hips. And my head starts moving. And I’m not even thinking about it but I’m shifting around to wiggle my little (okay big) white girl ass around like I got some rhythm. And before I know it my head is in a million places at once and I’m flashing through all these moments.
Then the character puts on his Mardi Gras Indian costume.
And I'm thinking about the first time I saw a real-live Mardi Gras Indian. And how hot it was. And the smell of those feathers. And the sounds that came from his mouth. Raw, guttural noises that were something in between song and prayer. And how it almost scared me.
Then he is playing his tambourine.
And my brain is thinking about three years ago in Winneba, Ghana when I stumbled across something that looked vaguely familiar: a parade in the middle of a village with a line of people marching down the middle of the street with horns and drums and dancing and singing and bright colors. Handkerchiefs were twirled in my face. I was so hot but so enthralled in the procession that I didn't care about the sweat dripping from my face.
And then I’m back in New Orleans, thinking about the taste of that po’boy and wondering if the shop we used to go to survived the storm and if it didn’t if they’ve reopened somewhere else. And thinking about how delicious those crawfish Zapp’s potato chips are and the time I saved all my money to buy myself a kitten watch (with a ball of yarn as the seconds hand) from a flimsy booth in the French Market. And how good those beignets tasted.
And what it felt like to see a real, live voodoo ceremony in Benin.
And to hear a goat be sacrificed.
And to run into Quint Davis, the freakin’ godfather of the Jazz Fest, in a random village in Benin because he was trying to find artists to bring from West Africa to New Orleans for the Jazz Fest. To bring the music full circle.
And I’m thinking about Katrina and how angry it made me. And how obvious it is to me that no matter what you try and tell me, if you're poor in this country, you've probably been fucked over by somebody. And I'm gonna go out on a limb here and blame a system (although I won't narrow it down to just one).
And then I'm thinking about how much I wouldn’t get this shit if I’d never moved to Baltimore. And never taken that first job in the Baltimore City Schools. And never felt all the things I’ve felt. And been in the places I've been. And felt, first-hand, what my skin color affords me.
And here is how I know David Simon is brilliant. Because all of this happened to me on a Saturday night on my couch. In yoga pants. And I only watched like three episodes.
This is also how I know I’m Presbyterian. I’ve found myself in this life of mine, where all these things make sense to me. And I find it strangely normal. Like it's the path I was always intended to be on. With all these experiences connecting and merging and overlapping.
And I do believe in magic. And I think sometimes we're given special knowledge from our ancestors that lets us in on some pretty big secrets about the universe. When I was a kid, my dad would tell me I was part gypsy. He told me all kinds of wacky things, but this was my favorite. Well, no, the Easter Monkey was (is) my favorite. But I've always liked to think about my totally-made-up fantasy gene pool (as if you couldn't tell from my sunburn that I'm totally Scotch-Irish-German-English and like 1/32 Cherokee).
Once upon a time, there was some rumor that up that magical family tree of ours was a Spanish bear trainer in the circus. Naturally, I've embellished and blown up this story in my extra-fancy tree and Great-Great-Great Granddaddy who tamed the bears and wooed the ladies is this central figure in my family's history. I'm assuming this is probably the way people feel when they are related to someone famous like a Kennedy or Abraham Lincoln. In this fantasy family tree I can't help but feel like I've got connections to these places that I love so much. And this gypsy grandfather of mine probably traveled around a lot. And maybe procreated in New Orleans. And I probably have cousins there.
And maybe in West Africa, too. Because it only makes sense.
And of course, I like to think I make him proud.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Damaged Goods
Every now and then I just have a hard week. My work gets under my skin. The infinite injustices around the world come over me and I find myself overwhelmed with questions and not enough answers. I have these days when my words don’t always come out correctly because I can’t seem to grasp what it is I’m actually trying to say or what I’m trying to process. And this steady stream of thoughts and moments and experiences flow through my brain in a schizophrenic furry. And I go back and forth on what I’m really feeling—because I can’t actually pinpoint what it is except some combination of anger and frustration and compassion and an honest attempt at understanding. So bear with me here.
For weeks now the babbling in my head has been about race and class and all the things in between. Between health care reform and the Tea Party and the economy, I hold my breath every morning as I read the New York Times, convinced I’ll stumble across something that will make me cuss. Before 8 am. And almost every morning it happens. (The cussing)
Today the question was posed to a group of 7th and 8th grade students by a mentor and colleague: “As a young African-American, what negative assumptions do you feel are made about you?”
The words starting stumbling from these young kids mouths—real, fresh, cutting words that didn’t come from some artificial canned place but from real experience. From real feelings.
My eyes were groggy with my last three nights worth of work-related events, restless sleep, and anxiety over too-much-to-do-and-not-enough-time. The coffee in my hand had just barely begun to create the chemical reaction I needed to be alert and then this:
“That I’m ignorant, untrained, impolite, and loud.”
“That I’ll never finish anything I start.”
“There are people who don’t think I deserve an education.”
“That what happens in the neighborhood happens in the school.”
Okay. Awake.
My guttural response was immediate. There was something powerful happening in this room. I let out air from my mouth, quick and fast, and made that sound old ladies make in church when they’ve heard something that moves them—something that cuts right to the heart.
The students continued, each adding to each other’s thoughts, creating this list that could have been in a textbook. All the worst-of-the-worst stereotypes of black, urban America.
Earlier this week, my alma mater hosted Ed Burns, co-creator of The Wire, The Corner, and a variety of other television shows. I’ll note that I wasn’t there, because I was at a benefit for Wide Angle Youth Media, but I’ve heard nothing but bubblings from my students and colleagues about his talk—mostly negative. It seems Burns is pretty much over being hopeful about the Baltimore City Schools (that is assuming that he ever really had hope in the system to begin with). And there is one resonating subject I cannot seem to shake from my system. From what must be a very bitter, burned place, Burns insinuated that most of these children are too damaged to be capable of learning after age 4 or 5. That a kid raised in the inner-city was too damaged to learn. Incapable of success. These weren’t his exact words, but they were easily inferred. And the message that was taken home by a lot of people from this event was dangerous.
For someone like me, who spends her days and nights and all my money trying to think of better ways to get these kids to succeed—supporting people and organizations and teachers who BELIEVE in these children, these words strike me as so painfully despairing. And infuriating.
And the subtlety flows like water—this infectious disease of assumption. When these words feed fuel to fires that need no help burning. When the news reports the latest rash of youth violence, of murders, of drug busts—these words feed the hungry people sitting on the sidelines: the hundreds of thousands of people sitting around waiting to say, “I told you so.” The people who haven’t given up—but the people who never had faith to begin with.
And I'm the first to admit the flaws. The system is large and unorganized and completely mangled. My friends who are teachers and principals and administrators come home exhausted and burned and seething with bitter contention for the machine that is the public school system. It's hugely damaged. But to think that these children are somehow unreachable. Unteachable. It seems so archaic.
And furthermore, to think these kids don’t know where they fall in the pecking order. That somehow they’ve managed to ignore it and not fall fatal to the painfully well-thought-out role they’ve been given: the black, inner-city teenager. To think that doesn't play out in real life, with real-life consequences like babies and addictions and death.
In a matter of moments, these young people generated a powerful list of all the things the world thinks of them. A list that contained dark truth and painful subtext. It hits you like a ton of bricks. This “thing” we’re fighting. This enormous beast of ignorance and racism and classism rolled into one big nasty –ism.
And it struck me as so powerful that here are these children—these supposedly damaged children. Who were talking with such confidence and such authority. Who raised their hands when they spoke. Who spoke clearly and used articulate vocabulary. And who seemed to exercise a subtle defiance towards those who assume they’re damaged. They’re broken.
The moderator also asked them about codes—rules they live by in the neighborhood and rules they live by in school. Maybe two or three rules overlapped while the others remained staunchly planted in direct opposition to each other. These children know more rules about more places and how to navigate between them than most adults.
As I lay in bed last night awake for the third night in a row, I heard something in the background that sounded like a gunshot. It occurred to me that it very well could be—it’s never outside of the realm of possibility. And it occurred to me how rare this moment is for me—the moment where I have to decide if I’m in danger or not. And how little my roles change from home to work to school. And listening to these kids today it confirmed all the things I’ve been thinking lately. How infinitely lucky I am. And how hard it really can all be. And how complicated. And messy.
I’m reminded of my favorite Thomas Hobbes quote: Life is nasty, brutish, and short.
But shouldn’t we all have a chance at being successful while we’re in it?
For weeks now the babbling in my head has been about race and class and all the things in between. Between health care reform and the Tea Party and the economy, I hold my breath every morning as I read the New York Times, convinced I’ll stumble across something that will make me cuss. Before 8 am. And almost every morning it happens. (The cussing)
Today the question was posed to a group of 7th and 8th grade students by a mentor and colleague: “As a young African-American, what negative assumptions do you feel are made about you?”
The words starting stumbling from these young kids mouths—real, fresh, cutting words that didn’t come from some artificial canned place but from real experience. From real feelings.
My eyes were groggy with my last three nights worth of work-related events, restless sleep, and anxiety over too-much-to-do-and-not-enough-time. The coffee in my hand had just barely begun to create the chemical reaction I needed to be alert and then this:
“That I’m ignorant, untrained, impolite, and loud.”
“That I’ll never finish anything I start.”
“There are people who don’t think I deserve an education.”
“That what happens in the neighborhood happens in the school.”
Okay. Awake.
My guttural response was immediate. There was something powerful happening in this room. I let out air from my mouth, quick and fast, and made that sound old ladies make in church when they’ve heard something that moves them—something that cuts right to the heart.
The students continued, each adding to each other’s thoughts, creating this list that could have been in a textbook. All the worst-of-the-worst stereotypes of black, urban America.
Earlier this week, my alma mater hosted Ed Burns, co-creator of The Wire, The Corner, and a variety of other television shows. I’ll note that I wasn’t there, because I was at a benefit for Wide Angle Youth Media, but I’ve heard nothing but bubblings from my students and colleagues about his talk—mostly negative. It seems Burns is pretty much over being hopeful about the Baltimore City Schools (that is assuming that he ever really had hope in the system to begin with). And there is one resonating subject I cannot seem to shake from my system. From what must be a very bitter, burned place, Burns insinuated that most of these children are too damaged to be capable of learning after age 4 or 5. That a kid raised in the inner-city was too damaged to learn. Incapable of success. These weren’t his exact words, but they were easily inferred. And the message that was taken home by a lot of people from this event was dangerous.
For someone like me, who spends her days and nights and all my money trying to think of better ways to get these kids to succeed—supporting people and organizations and teachers who BELIEVE in these children, these words strike me as so painfully despairing. And infuriating.
And the subtlety flows like water—this infectious disease of assumption. When these words feed fuel to fires that need no help burning. When the news reports the latest rash of youth violence, of murders, of drug busts—these words feed the hungry people sitting on the sidelines: the hundreds of thousands of people sitting around waiting to say, “I told you so.” The people who haven’t given up—but the people who never had faith to begin with.
And I'm the first to admit the flaws. The system is large and unorganized and completely mangled. My friends who are teachers and principals and administrators come home exhausted and burned and seething with bitter contention for the machine that is the public school system. It's hugely damaged. But to think that these children are somehow unreachable. Unteachable. It seems so archaic.
And furthermore, to think these kids don’t know where they fall in the pecking order. That somehow they’ve managed to ignore it and not fall fatal to the painfully well-thought-out role they’ve been given: the black, inner-city teenager. To think that doesn't play out in real life, with real-life consequences like babies and addictions and death.
In a matter of moments, these young people generated a powerful list of all the things the world thinks of them. A list that contained dark truth and painful subtext. It hits you like a ton of bricks. This “thing” we’re fighting. This enormous beast of ignorance and racism and classism rolled into one big nasty –ism.
And it struck me as so powerful that here are these children—these supposedly damaged children. Who were talking with such confidence and such authority. Who raised their hands when they spoke. Who spoke clearly and used articulate vocabulary. And who seemed to exercise a subtle defiance towards those who assume they’re damaged. They’re broken.
The moderator also asked them about codes—rules they live by in the neighborhood and rules they live by in school. Maybe two or three rules overlapped while the others remained staunchly planted in direct opposition to each other. These children know more rules about more places and how to navigate between them than most adults.
As I lay in bed last night awake for the third night in a row, I heard something in the background that sounded like a gunshot. It occurred to me that it very well could be—it’s never outside of the realm of possibility. And it occurred to me how rare this moment is for me—the moment where I have to decide if I’m in danger or not. And how little my roles change from home to work to school. And listening to these kids today it confirmed all the things I’ve been thinking lately. How infinitely lucky I am. And how hard it really can all be. And how complicated. And messy.
I’m reminded of my favorite Thomas Hobbes quote: Life is nasty, brutish, and short.
But shouldn’t we all have a chance at being successful while we’re in it?
Friday, April 9, 2010
If we don’t get Spring, I want my hour back.
Umm, if I’m not mistaken, April Fools Day was last week. Right? Because when I got in my vehicle in the middle of the day yesterday to transfer offices, surely the temperature gauge that read 93 degrees could have only been a joke. And today, the fact that it’s back to 47 degrees is only slightly reassuring. We had spring for like five days...five amazing days and BAM! It's all summertime up in here.
For those of you who don’t know, Baltimore summers are brutal. The humidity is so thick that you can actually feel the movement of the air around you as you walk down the block. Your clothes feel heavy on your skin and it can be difficult to breath without feeling like you might have just run a marathon.
And air-conditioning helps, but rowhomes collect heat in unique ways. Exactly one half of the house is always hotter than the other. The front bedroom (the one that usually has the big bay window) is impossible to keep cool because the sun just beats in those giant windows (you know, the ones that were the huge selling point when you were house hunting?). And there are always rooms that just can’t be air-conditioned. They either lack windows all together or the windows are so small that a window unit couldn’t possible fit. The kitchen becomes an almost useless tool, as everything gets cooked outside to avoid making anything any hotter than it has to be. And if you live in an apartment building, and are anywhere above the first floor—my heart goes out to you.
I never knew summers could actually be so miserable, temperature-wise. I was raised in a haze of idyllic North Carolina mountain summers—hot in the day and cool at night with a daily thunderstorm to cool it all down just in time for porch sitting. Not to mention four actual seasons (not just winter and summer with 2 weeks of spring and fall).
It's not all bad. Baltimore summers totally have perks. For one, Baltimore seems to wake up in the summertime. There are more people out and about. There is a festival every weekend (literally). The farmers markets are in full bloom and they become the who's-who of Charm City. You stop making coffee at home because you need iced coffee from the local coffee shop every day to survive. In the evenings, front porches come alive. Once the sun goes down, people start to trickle outdoors with a drink in their hand (or a juice box for our 21 and under crowd) and this is when the real culture of Baltimore comes alive. When the locals and the college students and the crackheads all mingle on the front sidewalk to talk about rats, urban gardening, and why the police helicopters appear to be hovering awkwardly over your block.
Summertime is when I almost always get to know my neighbors better (although this year our double-header blizzard helped). We share beer and booze and tonic and try to remember what winter felt like. We stand outside in as few clothes as possible (without getting arrested) and remorse over how hot our bedrooms are, how difficult it will be to sleep tonight, and how high our BG&E bills are going to be this month. At that point in the summer—usually late July—we don’t care anymore. We’ll eat ramen to leave the AC on all day in hopes of coming home to a cool house (grilled, because we can't use the stove). And the dog just pants. All day, every day and gives me the look of, “how could you do this to me?” And I promptly respond: “Wanna go to Africa, little girl?”
So when the temperature read 93 in the first week of April, I had a heart-stopping sense of panic that we might have summer for at least five months. That I might have to give up sleeping all together to take on another part-time job to pay the damn BG&E bill.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a summertime hater. I enjoy the warm weather. I love being outside. I like not wearing a coat (in fact, I really hate all the layers winter requires). I like wearing sundresses and flip flops and throwing my hair up on top of my head. Warm weather always makes me happy. It makes me think about music festivals and swimming in rivers and cook outs. In fact, I could eat a grilled hot dog right now.
I think back to my many summers spent at camp and how everyday involved sunshine on my face, making a craft, getting in the lake, and reading. I was allowed to wear tie-dye and Birkenstocks (and is there much more to life than that?). Nighttimes were spent around a campfire telling absurd stories and jokes and roasting marshmallows on hand-widdled sticks. Truthfully, camp was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. Those summers taught me so much about who I am and what’s really important in life—having good friends, at least one AWESOME tie-dyed t-shirt, and the fine art of telling really great stories. You don’t need a lot of stuff to keep yourself busy. It’s really very simple. You can just sit and talk. Or not talk (Parker Posey reference, anyone?). And it’s probably why I love Baltimore’s summertime stoop time so much. It’s the same. Simple time spent with fun people. Minus the campfire. And the crafts.
But back to the point. And the fact that we're totally getting screwed out of a season right now. This week's heatwave has left me less than thrilled. As much as I can't wait for summer--I also would like to fully appreciate the season we're technically in, thank you very much. And since we got tosuffer through enjoy winter so thoroughly, I'd particularly appreciate any seasonal weather that could be best described as "mild".
This is the time of year when babies are born (and I actually saw that happen last week and am still recovering) and flowers bloom. And cars change color because of pollen. I want that. I haven't even had a chance to get my seasonal allergies yet! Don't cheat me out of that! I'm gonna go ahead and assume that because of the drastically cooler temperature this morning, that it appears to have been a well thought out April Fools hoax. Also, there is hopeful news on the horizon: the 10-day weather forecast predicts "mild" April weather for the next few days. Those 80-90 degree days are on hold, for now. Sorry college students—you’ll have to put your clothes back on. We can continue to celebrate spring, the pollen count, and eat lunch outside before it’s too hot to want to be outside during the day. We appear to have at least ten more days of it (which is good because I was getting ready to write Daylight Savings a nasty letter and ask for my hour back).
For those of you who don’t know, Baltimore summers are brutal. The humidity is so thick that you can actually feel the movement of the air around you as you walk down the block. Your clothes feel heavy on your skin and it can be difficult to breath without feeling like you might have just run a marathon.
And air-conditioning helps, but rowhomes collect heat in unique ways. Exactly one half of the house is always hotter than the other. The front bedroom (the one that usually has the big bay window) is impossible to keep cool because the sun just beats in those giant windows (you know, the ones that were the huge selling point when you were house hunting?). And there are always rooms that just can’t be air-conditioned. They either lack windows all together or the windows are so small that a window unit couldn’t possible fit. The kitchen becomes an almost useless tool, as everything gets cooked outside to avoid making anything any hotter than it has to be. And if you live in an apartment building, and are anywhere above the first floor—my heart goes out to you.
I never knew summers could actually be so miserable, temperature-wise. I was raised in a haze of idyllic North Carolina mountain summers—hot in the day and cool at night with a daily thunderstorm to cool it all down just in time for porch sitting. Not to mention four actual seasons (not just winter and summer with 2 weeks of spring and fall).
It's not all bad. Baltimore summers totally have perks. For one, Baltimore seems to wake up in the summertime. There are more people out and about. There is a festival every weekend (literally). The farmers markets are in full bloom and they become the who's-who of Charm City. You stop making coffee at home because you need iced coffee from the local coffee shop every day to survive. In the evenings, front porches come alive. Once the sun goes down, people start to trickle outdoors with a drink in their hand (or a juice box for our 21 and under crowd) and this is when the real culture of Baltimore comes alive. When the locals and the college students and the crackheads all mingle on the front sidewalk to talk about rats, urban gardening, and why the police helicopters appear to be hovering awkwardly over your block.
Summertime is when I almost always get to know my neighbors better (although this year our double-header blizzard helped). We share beer and booze and tonic and try to remember what winter felt like. We stand outside in as few clothes as possible (without getting arrested) and remorse over how hot our bedrooms are, how difficult it will be to sleep tonight, and how high our BG&E bills are going to be this month. At that point in the summer—usually late July—we don’t care anymore. We’ll eat ramen to leave the AC on all day in hopes of coming home to a cool house (grilled, because we can't use the stove). And the dog just pants. All day, every day and gives me the look of, “how could you do this to me?” And I promptly respond: “Wanna go to Africa, little girl?”
So when the temperature read 93 in the first week of April, I had a heart-stopping sense of panic that we might have summer for at least five months. That I might have to give up sleeping all together to take on another part-time job to pay the damn BG&E bill.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a summertime hater. I enjoy the warm weather. I love being outside. I like not wearing a coat (in fact, I really hate all the layers winter requires). I like wearing sundresses and flip flops and throwing my hair up on top of my head. Warm weather always makes me happy. It makes me think about music festivals and swimming in rivers and cook outs. In fact, I could eat a grilled hot dog right now.
I think back to my many summers spent at camp and how everyday involved sunshine on my face, making a craft, getting in the lake, and reading. I was allowed to wear tie-dye and Birkenstocks (and is there much more to life than that?). Nighttimes were spent around a campfire telling absurd stories and jokes and roasting marshmallows on hand-widdled sticks. Truthfully, camp was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. Those summers taught me so much about who I am and what’s really important in life—having good friends, at least one AWESOME tie-dyed t-shirt, and the fine art of telling really great stories. You don’t need a lot of stuff to keep yourself busy. It’s really very simple. You can just sit and talk. Or not talk (Parker Posey reference, anyone?). And it’s probably why I love Baltimore’s summertime stoop time so much. It’s the same. Simple time spent with fun people. Minus the campfire. And the crafts.
But back to the point. And the fact that we're totally getting screwed out of a season right now. This week's heatwave has left me less than thrilled. As much as I can't wait for summer--I also would like to fully appreciate the season we're technically in, thank you very much. And since we got to
This is the time of year when babies are born (and I actually saw that happen last week and am still recovering) and flowers bloom. And cars change color because of pollen. I want that. I haven't even had a chance to get my seasonal allergies yet! Don't cheat me out of that! I'm gonna go ahead and assume that because of the drastically cooler temperature this morning, that it appears to have been a well thought out April Fools hoax. Also, there is hopeful news on the horizon: the 10-day weather forecast predicts "mild" April weather for the next few days. Those 80-90 degree days are on hold, for now. Sorry college students—you’ll have to put your clothes back on. We can continue to celebrate spring, the pollen count, and eat lunch outside before it’s too hot to want to be outside during the day. We appear to have at least ten more days of it (which is good because I was getting ready to write Daylight Savings a nasty letter and ask for my hour back).
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Working Class Chic
It’s 9 o’clock at night, I’m eating a grilled cheese sandwich off of a paper towel and drinking lukewarm San Pellegrino straight from the bottle. As an appetizer, I housed a stale glazed donut and washed it down with a swig of V8 Splash, you know, so that I can get an 1/8 of a serving of vegetables without even chewing. I’m the epitome of class. I’m what they call: “working class” chic.
Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. I need the word “chic” to be used when describing my current state of life. Because otherwise I’d call it “hot mess with dark circles.” Or "painfully pale and breaking out, despite departure from adolescence."
And I have no one but myself to blame for this madness—I’m the one who says yes to everything. I’m the one who brilliantly decided NOW was the time to go back to school. And work a full time job (that’s really like two full time jobs glued together and pretending to be one). I’m the one who joins committees for a living. And volunteers constantly. You know, in my head it seems so logical. And before all the meetings and events start, I always think I'll have so much free time. Then bam! I find myself sneaking cheese danishes out of morning meetings to ensure that I have something to eat for lunch, readjusting my spanx in the middle of parking lots (because I don't care who sees me anymore), and running perpetually 20 minutes late to life (okay, maybe 30). I live on coffee, which translates to 24-7 coffee breath (and asking everyone, even strangers, for gum). I have tote bags that could hold toddlers. Like seriously. And a hell of a tough right shoulder (from hauling my entire office around in said tote bag).
It's G-L-A-M-O-R-OUS.
I have these memories of tagging along with my dad to all of his committees and meetings and boards (I come by this lifestyle naturally, you know), thinking to myself how much fun it all was. Everyone seemed so pleasant and it seemed like such a fun way to spend time—hanging out around a big table (like a dinner party!) with all your best friends. I thought meetings were awesome. And that everyone around these tables actually liked each other (I guess I couldn't smell bullshit when I was a kid). And some of these meetings even had snacks. Which was an ultimate plus for someone like me who lives for snack food (mmm, cheese & crackers). Oh how important meetings made me feel when I was eighteen and got to—say something! Or better yet, provide a HANDOUT!
And, oh, how my feelings have changed. I mean, the meetings aren't so bad, but I'm starting to wonder how anything ever gets done. These meetings pretty much require that we take work home so that we can do the work we should have done at our desk (but got stuck in meetings). It's a tough life in the big city.
Yesterday was my 27th birthday. It seems that not so long ago I was navigating how to diplomatically accept the Barbie I didn’t really want from the person I really, really didn’t want to come to my birthday party while my dad played happy birthday on the accordion. Back then, it was okay to ask everyone to make you the center of attention—it was expected, even. But once you hit –oh, say twenty or twenty-five?—it suddenly becomes a bit unsavory to expect everything and everyone to bend to your every whim on your birthday.
Plus, I can’t ever find the option on my time card that gives me paid leave on my birthday…without getting what the French call “le let go”. So, alas, I’ve accepted my role as an adult (bitterly) and feel that I did the right thing yesterday: I worked a full eight-hour day. And then I went to class for five hours. And wrote a paper. And studied for an exam. And have been feeling mighty sorry for myself ever since.
I spent the morning with some of my favorite kids under ten. Even though we were busy doing important things like taking the MSA (the wretched Maryland state exams that these poor kids spend the whole year preparing for and only a few miserable hours taking), I still had a nice chance to chat with them while we waited for it all to start. We talked about football, Monique and the Oscars, chocolate chip cookies and cats—just the kind of conversation everyone should have before 9 am with kids who still think an opportunity to play "7-Up" is the bomb-diggity (and who would roll their eyes to hear me say "bomb-diggity").
In the middle of our talk about cats and dogs I had one of those Billy Madison moments where I wanted to shake their faces and warn them about the perils of adulthood; to hold fast to the joy and lightness of childhood. And to enjoy the shit out of their next birthday party. But, people get arrested for shaking kids faces these days, so I guess they’ll just have to figure it out for themselves.
Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. I need the word “chic” to be used when describing my current state of life. Because otherwise I’d call it “hot mess with dark circles.” Or "painfully pale and breaking out, despite departure from adolescence."
And I have no one but myself to blame for this madness—I’m the one who says yes to everything. I’m the one who brilliantly decided NOW was the time to go back to school. And work a full time job (that’s really like two full time jobs glued together and pretending to be one). I’m the one who joins committees for a living. And volunteers constantly. You know, in my head it seems so logical. And before all the meetings and events start, I always think I'll have so much free time. Then bam! I find myself sneaking cheese danishes out of morning meetings to ensure that I have something to eat for lunch, readjusting my spanx in the middle of parking lots (because I don't care who sees me anymore), and running perpetually 20 minutes late to life (okay, maybe 30). I live on coffee, which translates to 24-7 coffee breath (and asking everyone, even strangers, for gum). I have tote bags that could hold toddlers. Like seriously. And a hell of a tough right shoulder (from hauling my entire office around in said tote bag).
It's G-L-A-M-O-R-OUS.
I have these memories of tagging along with my dad to all of his committees and meetings and boards (I come by this lifestyle naturally, you know), thinking to myself how much fun it all was. Everyone seemed so pleasant and it seemed like such a fun way to spend time—hanging out around a big table (like a dinner party!) with all your best friends. I thought meetings were awesome. And that everyone around these tables actually liked each other (I guess I couldn't smell bullshit when I was a kid). And some of these meetings even had snacks. Which was an ultimate plus for someone like me who lives for snack food (mmm, cheese & crackers). Oh how important meetings made me feel when I was eighteen and got to—say something! Or better yet, provide a HANDOUT!
And, oh, how my feelings have changed. I mean, the meetings aren't so bad, but I'm starting to wonder how anything ever gets done. These meetings pretty much require that we take work home so that we can do the work we should have done at our desk (but got stuck in meetings). It's a tough life in the big city.
Yesterday was my 27th birthday. It seems that not so long ago I was navigating how to diplomatically accept the Barbie I didn’t really want from the person I really, really didn’t want to come to my birthday party while my dad played happy birthday on the accordion. Back then, it was okay to ask everyone to make you the center of attention—it was expected, even. But once you hit –oh, say twenty or twenty-five?—it suddenly becomes a bit unsavory to expect everything and everyone to bend to your every whim on your birthday.
Plus, I can’t ever find the option on my time card that gives me paid leave on my birthday…without getting what the French call “le let go”. So, alas, I’ve accepted my role as an adult (bitterly) and feel that I did the right thing yesterday: I worked a full eight-hour day. And then I went to class for five hours. And wrote a paper. And studied for an exam. And have been feeling mighty sorry for myself ever since.
I spent the morning with some of my favorite kids under ten. Even though we were busy doing important things like taking the MSA (the wretched Maryland state exams that these poor kids spend the whole year preparing for and only a few miserable hours taking), I still had a nice chance to chat with them while we waited for it all to start. We talked about football, Monique and the Oscars, chocolate chip cookies and cats—just the kind of conversation everyone should have before 9 am with kids who still think an opportunity to play "7-Up" is the bomb-diggity (and who would roll their eyes to hear me say "bomb-diggity").
In the middle of our talk about cats and dogs I had one of those Billy Madison moments where I wanted to shake their faces and warn them about the perils of adulthood; to hold fast to the joy and lightness of childhood. And to enjoy the shit out of their next birthday party. But, people get arrested for shaking kids faces these days, so I guess they’ll just have to figure it out for themselves.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Giving up rationality for Lent
Today it has snowed all day in Georgia, South Carolina, and North Carolina. I swear on all things holy if that wind even thinks about moving North, I’ll pitch a real, live, honest Johnson hissy-fit. Is the world ending? Like, seriously. A show called Jersey Shore was the most popular thing on television this year and it’s snowed a record amount in the American South and Mid-Atlantic. Two catastrophic earthquakes have literally devastated entire chunks of the world, the United States Supreme Court said it was a-okay for lobbyists, i.e. corporations, to support presidential campaigns (so the makers of Viagra could be electing our next president), and Britney Spears is blond again. I’m just not quite sure what to do with myself in this big, bad world of ours.
And yes, I also acknowledge that it is probably really, really uncouth to reference Haiti, Chile, the U.S. Supreme Court, and Britney Spears in the same sentence. But, need I remind you, friends, the world appears to be headed to hell in a bobsled (perhaps driven by a German or a Canadian?).
And I’ve decided to perhaps try really, really hard to stop being surprised by these things—regardless of how insanely difficult this will be. I jokingly gave up punctuality for Lent (because I seriously run on Africa time these days…and before you go and get your panties in a wad about this statement, spend a few weeks anywhere in Africa and you’ll get it), but perhaps I should have given up logic. Or rationality. Or my usual Lenten sacrifice: NASCAR. (Unrelated, but funny). Sorry, Mike.
Maybe I should work on not being shocked anymore when I get my mid-afternoon New York Times email updates (which, thank you, NYTimes, provides me with endless anxiety and nausea every afternoon) that inform me of some unbelievable decision that has been made by a politician or a state legislature somewhere in the great U.S. of A. I guess I should stop being surprised when I wake up to horrible news on my BBC newsfeed. I mean pardon my bleeding liberal heart, but maybe I should stop losing sleep over bad social policy and failed reform efforts. Because where does my rage get me? What use does it do me to chew the inside of my cheek till it’s raw and neurotically flick my foot up and down like it’s a broken wind-up monkey?
Maybe I see some “unsubscribes” in my future. But what if everyone cared? What if we all voted. And informed ourselves before we voted. What if we parented our children like responsible human beings. What if we taught our daughters about self-respect and our sons about dignity? What if everyone read the newspaper everyday and allowed themselves the mental capacity to get excited, or better yet, outraged—like full out, red-in-the-face, mad about things. Maybe we could be a better generation of people. Maybe we could stop blaming everyone but ourselves for our bad economy, our sinking school systems, and our serious “communication” errors.
I took a “how millennial are you” quiz the other day and was proud to see I wasn’t one. I mean I was like 10 points short of one, but 10 critical points they were. For starters, I still read the newspaper. Two of them, actually. I read them online, but they get read nonetheless. And yes, I mix my Washington Post and New York Times up with a little splash of USWeekly (for flavor), and I think it’s the perfect balance. I can’t really try and understand health care reform without first understanding why Kate Gosselin got hair extensions, now can I? And I make no money, but I still believe in philanthropy. And the importance of giving back. Which is why I spend 80% of my free time doing things I don’t have to do.
It’s not that I’m ashamed to be a child of the 1980’s, and that I don’t fully appreciate where we are as an iphone, on demand, fiber optic society. I wouldn’t work in higher education if I had something against the charm and flavor of the millennial. I just want, for myself, to be better than what society has claimed as “acceptable” from us. The whole world has given our generation credit for getting Obama elected and from where I sit, I think we’ve sat on thumbs during his first year, hemming and hawing over the things he isn’t doing right and the things he hasn’t gotten to work on yet. Maybe we should think a little bit about what we can also do when we aren’t in an election year. Maybe we should revisit what “civic responsibility” looks like. The Sarah Silverman get-off-your-ass-and-vote video worked, but now I need her to do a new one. Get off your ass and doing something useful.
While I write this little rant of mine, Atticus Finch is in the background talking to Scout about racism, tolerance and letting people be themselves. It couldn’t be a better backdrop to my current state of mind. At least I know some things will never change. To Kill a Mockingbird will always be the same beautiful story (even though I really did think it was called Tequila Mockingbird for at least a month before I actually was handed the book and read the title for myself, thank you middle school English teacher with a borderline-absurd southern accent). Atticus Finch will always be the unfailing southern gentleman, a steadfast reminder of morality, democracy, and civic responsibility (I mean, he shoots the rabid dog. C’mon!?). At least I know when Bravo has really pushed its limits of the newest Real Housewives series (that I will inevitably watch in a marathon, avoiding my homework), AMC will be there for me, keeping it real. It’s like knowing cake will always be good and bourbon will always be better.
And yes, I also acknowledge that it is probably really, really uncouth to reference Haiti, Chile, the U.S. Supreme Court, and Britney Spears in the same sentence. But, need I remind you, friends, the world appears to be headed to hell in a bobsled (perhaps driven by a German or a Canadian?).
And I’ve decided to perhaps try really, really hard to stop being surprised by these things—regardless of how insanely difficult this will be. I jokingly gave up punctuality for Lent (because I seriously run on Africa time these days…and before you go and get your panties in a wad about this statement, spend a few weeks anywhere in Africa and you’ll get it), but perhaps I should have given up logic. Or rationality. Or my usual Lenten sacrifice: NASCAR. (Unrelated, but funny). Sorry, Mike.
Maybe I should work on not being shocked anymore when I get my mid-afternoon New York Times email updates (which, thank you, NYTimes, provides me with endless anxiety and nausea every afternoon) that inform me of some unbelievable decision that has been made by a politician or a state legislature somewhere in the great U.S. of A. I guess I should stop being surprised when I wake up to horrible news on my BBC newsfeed. I mean pardon my bleeding liberal heart, but maybe I should stop losing sleep over bad social policy and failed reform efforts. Because where does my rage get me? What use does it do me to chew the inside of my cheek till it’s raw and neurotically flick my foot up and down like it’s a broken wind-up monkey?
Maybe I see some “unsubscribes” in my future. But what if everyone cared? What if we all voted. And informed ourselves before we voted. What if we parented our children like responsible human beings. What if we taught our daughters about self-respect and our sons about dignity? What if everyone read the newspaper everyday and allowed themselves the mental capacity to get excited, or better yet, outraged—like full out, red-in-the-face, mad about things. Maybe we could be a better generation of people. Maybe we could stop blaming everyone but ourselves for our bad economy, our sinking school systems, and our serious “communication” errors.
I took a “how millennial are you” quiz the other day and was proud to see I wasn’t one. I mean I was like 10 points short of one, but 10 critical points they were. For starters, I still read the newspaper. Two of them, actually. I read them online, but they get read nonetheless. And yes, I mix my Washington Post and New York Times up with a little splash of USWeekly (for flavor), and I think it’s the perfect balance. I can’t really try and understand health care reform without first understanding why Kate Gosselin got hair extensions, now can I? And I make no money, but I still believe in philanthropy. And the importance of giving back. Which is why I spend 80% of my free time doing things I don’t have to do.
It’s not that I’m ashamed to be a child of the 1980’s, and that I don’t fully appreciate where we are as an iphone, on demand, fiber optic society. I wouldn’t work in higher education if I had something against the charm and flavor of the millennial. I just want, for myself, to be better than what society has claimed as “acceptable” from us. The whole world has given our generation credit for getting Obama elected and from where I sit, I think we’ve sat on thumbs during his first year, hemming and hawing over the things he isn’t doing right and the things he hasn’t gotten to work on yet. Maybe we should think a little bit about what we can also do when we aren’t in an election year. Maybe we should revisit what “civic responsibility” looks like. The Sarah Silverman get-off-your-ass-and-vote video worked, but now I need her to do a new one. Get off your ass and doing something useful.
While I write this little rant of mine, Atticus Finch is in the background talking to Scout about racism, tolerance and letting people be themselves. It couldn’t be a better backdrop to my current state of mind. At least I know some things will never change. To Kill a Mockingbird will always be the same beautiful story (even though I really did think it was called Tequila Mockingbird for at least a month before I actually was handed the book and read the title for myself, thank you middle school English teacher with a borderline-absurd southern accent). Atticus Finch will always be the unfailing southern gentleman, a steadfast reminder of morality, democracy, and civic responsibility (I mean, he shoots the rabid dog. C’mon!?). At least I know when Bravo has really pushed its limits of the newest Real Housewives series (that I will inevitably watch in a marathon, avoiding my homework), AMC will be there for me, keeping it real. It’s like knowing cake will always be good and bourbon will always be better.
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