Actual conversation with cab driver yesterday.
Us: Hello. Hadda Street Please. Do you know it?
Him: Um...sure!
Us: (unsure) Ok. Yalla.
Him: HONK. HONK. HONK HONK HONK HONNNNNK HONKhonkhonkhonkhonkhonk
Us, to each other: Well, that's just unnecessary.
Him: HONKhonkhonkhonk. HONK.
Liza: Seriously, this guy...
HONK HONK HONK HONK HONK
Me: So excessive with the honking!
HONK HONK honk honk honk honnnnnnk honk
He slides through an intersection, gesturing to the traffic guard that he has TWO WHITE GIRLS in the back of his taxi, which in his world, gives him right of way.
Honkhonkhonkhonk HONK HONK HONK honnnnnnk honk
Liza: Excuse me, I have a headache, could you please stop honking?!"
Him: Of course, I am just trying to drive through all this crazy traffic! It's so crazy! Look, crazy!
Us: *nod*
Him: How many years have you been in Yemen?
Us: A month and a half.
Him: ...You mean, a year?
Us: A MONTH and a HALF.
Him: Like, ten years?
Us: A MONTH AND A HALF.
Him: Are you Lebanese?
Us: Americans.
Him: You mean, you are from America?
Us: WE ARE AMERICANS.
Him: Not Arabs?!
Us: NOT ARABS. AMERICANS.
Him: But you speak Arabic!
Us: *silence*
15 minutes later
Him: How many years have you been in Yemen?
Us: ...um...what?
Him: How many years?
Us: A MONTH. AND. A. HALF.
Him: And you're Arab?
Us: AMERICAN.
Him: Your nationality is American?
Us: OF COURSE.
Him: Drivers here are crazy!
Us: *silence*
We arrive at our destination
Us: This is the place.
Him: Is this the place?
Us: Yes, just turn here and we'll get out
Him: Straight, or turn?
Us: TURN HERE. LEFT.
Him: Left or right?
Us: LEFT. TURN. LEFT. HERE.
Him: Turn?
Us: OMG TURN.
Him: You can call me anytime, I can give you a ride anywhere, anytime, just call me! Here, let me give you my number!
Us: Bye!
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Yemen, Week One
While I was making my summer plans, I heard many conflicting reports about Yemen. Some said it was very, very dangerous. Some said it was very, very boring. Some guaranteed that I'd get kidnapped. Some said I would have to wear the niqaab. Some said I wouldn't have to wear the niqaab. Some said that Yemeni schools were inaccessible and my efforts would be wasted; some said the program looked great, and what better place to get experience with development. As week #1 draws to a close, I thought I'd share some of my first impressions. These are subject to change as my experience here develops, but I thought I'd address first the major pre-trip concerns expressed by friends, family, and mostly, me. Arranged in order of frequency.
It is indicative of the people with whom I associate that we talked more often about the food than the real possibility of kidnapping...
1. Isn't Yemen Really Really Dangerous? Don't Terrorists Hang Out There? They Totally Do! OMG!
I guess they do. On a daily basis, though, we don't encounter them. Nor do, I imagine, most of the Yemeni population. Everywhere in the world is dangerous these days, and maybe there are more al-Qaeda members per capita than some other places, and there might be more firearms per capita than most places (except the US) but daily life is just normal. Boring, even. People take taxis and call their friends and go to the supermarket and buy mangos. At night, the streets get quiet at around 9. If you are picturing Sana'a as a hotbed for political activity, or similar to Beirut circa 1985, or with a City of God style gun battles, then I'm afraid you've been misled. The streets look like this:
All the time. Is it more dangerous than, say, Des Moines? Maybe. So is Washington, DC, though.
On a similar note, we live and work within about a five block circumference. We take reliable taxis and have everyone's phone numbers in our mobiles, which are always charged. We're not chewing qat in the mountains with al-Qaeda.
2. Dude, You Will Have to Wear the Niqaab.
This is a picture of me in Yemen.
Most women do wear the niqaab here, and if they don't, they wear the hijab, and I've seen a handful (exactly three) without a veil at all. I dress modestly in long shirts and loose pants and I don't feel uncomfortable in Sana'a without a scarf. I keep a scarf in my purse just in case. We work with clever and responsible Yemenis who advise us on our dress code, and I imagine some of our travels will take us to less liberal towns in the Yemeni countryside where the niqaab will be mandatory.
3. I am Warning You. Yemen is Really Boring.
I think the key to avoiding boredom is appropriate expectations. Sana'a is not Cairo, and it's not Paris, and it's not DC. There aren't crazy nightclubs. There's not a lot of alcohol. Women don't go out so much after 9 pm. There's no metro. It's hard to walk to the happening Sharia3 Hadda from where we live. It's quite provincial.
But the pace of life is nice and easy, and once you're friends with someone, you've a 100% chance of being invited over for the weekend, for the parties, for some qat, for some sheisha, to meet their sisters and friends and plan future parties. And at night, there's always Al-Jazeera, or your ab workout DVDs, or Arabic verb conjugations. In fact, one night I taught myself how to type in Arabic. So, yeah, it can be a little boring when it's Sunday night at 8 pm and sheisha is too far away and you can't occupy yourself by cooking because you don't have any ingredients, and you can't go shopping for ingredients because it's late for women to go out, and you can't understand what the heck they're talking about on Al Jazeera. But it's not like we're living on the dark side of the moon. There's always something to do if you adjust your expectations.
And if all else fails, spend all your money on international texts from your Yemeni phone. This can be endlessly entertaining.
4. The Food Is Great, Though!
The food is great. So far, we've enjoyed salta, fish, bint al-sa7n, Ethiopian food, kabab balady, tea with milk, sheisha (ok, it's not a food, but it might as well be, for as much as we smoke it), a homemade Yemeni feast, various assortments of salads, and of course, qat. Every meal has been delicious (although I am still out on the qat issue.) Maybe we got lucky and got all the best food in one week, but I think this is just a sample of pretty great, and distinctive, cuisine. I have started taking my camera to restaurants.
5. You Will Probably Get Kidnapped.
I want to get kidnapped. For the story and for the inevitable immersion Arabic lesson. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem like that happens so much anymore, at least not around where we live. I'll keep trying, though, guys, don't worry.
6. No One There Speaks English.
This is sort of true. Arabic is by far the preferred language. But if all you want to do is buy your mangos, you'll get by with English.
7. It's Hard To be a Foreigner There, but I Guess Yemenis Are Supposed to be Very Nice?
If you've never been to the Middle East before, Yemen is maybe not the best place to dive in. It's relatively inaccessible, its closest neighbor is Saudi Arabia, and it just helps to already know your way around the culture and language a bit. In a more Westernized country (Egypt, Jordan...) you will probably find someone to explain the nuances to you in fine English, or you will be forgiven because they have experienced Foreigners Like You before. In Yemen, I'm not sure you would, unless you were living with a sympathetic Yemeni who understood where you are (literally) coming from and could guide you through social situations.
While Yemenis themselves are wonderful, warm, generous people, the city and infrastructure is not particularly tourist-friendly. A first-timer asking for help and/or explanations in English might find only confusion. Moreover, there are not a lot of good tourbooks about Yemen; I found one in Borders and the same one in Barnes and Noble and didn't buy it. It's really just better to get there and ask around when you arrive. This is, of course, intimidating and requires stamina, conversational Arabic, and lots (and lots) of patience.
But let me reiterate how wonderful Yemenis are. They're kind and generous and gentle. Once you're in, once you make friends, they'll take care of you and show you around and feed you and you'll never have to worry about anything. It's just a little harder than most places to get in. Unless you have a built in social structure, like work or school, it's hard to meet people randomly, particularly if you're a woman.
It is indicative of the people with whom I associate that we talked more often about the food than the real possibility of kidnapping...
1. Isn't Yemen Really Really Dangerous? Don't Terrorists Hang Out There? They Totally Do! OMG!
I guess they do. On a daily basis, though, we don't encounter them. Nor do, I imagine, most of the Yemeni population. Everywhere in the world is dangerous these days, and maybe there are more al-Qaeda members per capita than some other places, and there might be more firearms per capita than most places (except the US) but daily life is just normal. Boring, even. People take taxis and call their friends and go to the supermarket and buy mangos. At night, the streets get quiet at around 9. If you are picturing Sana'a as a hotbed for political activity, or similar to Beirut circa 1985, or with a City of God style gun battles, then I'm afraid you've been misled. The streets look like this:
All the time. Is it more dangerous than, say, Des Moines? Maybe. So is Washington, DC, though.
On a similar note, we live and work within about a five block circumference. We take reliable taxis and have everyone's phone numbers in our mobiles, which are always charged. We're not chewing qat in the mountains with al-Qaeda.
2. Dude, You Will Have to Wear the Niqaab.
This is a picture of me in Yemen.
Most women do wear the niqaab here, and if they don't, they wear the hijab, and I've seen a handful (exactly three) without a veil at all. I dress modestly in long shirts and loose pants and I don't feel uncomfortable in Sana'a without a scarf. I keep a scarf in my purse just in case. We work with clever and responsible Yemenis who advise us on our dress code, and I imagine some of our travels will take us to less liberal towns in the Yemeni countryside where the niqaab will be mandatory.
3. I am Warning You. Yemen is Really Boring.
I think the key to avoiding boredom is appropriate expectations. Sana'a is not Cairo, and it's not Paris, and it's not DC. There aren't crazy nightclubs. There's not a lot of alcohol. Women don't go out so much after 9 pm. There's no metro. It's hard to walk to the happening Sharia3 Hadda from where we live. It's quite provincial.
But the pace of life is nice and easy, and once you're friends with someone, you've a 100% chance of being invited over for the weekend, for the parties, for some qat, for some sheisha, to meet their sisters and friends and plan future parties. And at night, there's always Al-Jazeera, or your ab workout DVDs, or Arabic verb conjugations. In fact, one night I taught myself how to type in Arabic. So, yeah, it can be a little boring when it's Sunday night at 8 pm and sheisha is too far away and you can't occupy yourself by cooking because you don't have any ingredients, and you can't go shopping for ingredients because it's late for women to go out, and you can't understand what the heck they're talking about on Al Jazeera. But it's not like we're living on the dark side of the moon. There's always something to do if you adjust your expectations.
And if all else fails, spend all your money on international texts from your Yemeni phone. This can be endlessly entertaining.
4. The Food Is Great, Though!
The food is great. So far, we've enjoyed salta, fish, bint al-sa7n, Ethiopian food, kabab balady, tea with milk, sheisha (ok, it's not a food, but it might as well be, for as much as we smoke it), a homemade Yemeni feast, various assortments of salads, and of course, qat. Every meal has been delicious (although I am still out on the qat issue.) Maybe we got lucky and got all the best food in one week, but I think this is just a sample of pretty great, and distinctive, cuisine. I have started taking my camera to restaurants.
5. You Will Probably Get Kidnapped.
I want to get kidnapped. For the story and for the inevitable immersion Arabic lesson. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem like that happens so much anymore, at least not around where we live. I'll keep trying, though, guys, don't worry.
6. No One There Speaks English.
This is sort of true. Arabic is by far the preferred language. But if all you want to do is buy your mangos, you'll get by with English.
7. It's Hard To be a Foreigner There, but I Guess Yemenis Are Supposed to be Very Nice?
If you've never been to the Middle East before, Yemen is maybe not the best place to dive in. It's relatively inaccessible, its closest neighbor is Saudi Arabia, and it just helps to already know your way around the culture and language a bit. In a more Westernized country (Egypt, Jordan...) you will probably find someone to explain the nuances to you in fine English, or you will be forgiven because they have experienced Foreigners Like You before. In Yemen, I'm not sure you would, unless you were living with a sympathetic Yemeni who understood where you are (literally) coming from and could guide you through social situations.
While Yemenis themselves are wonderful, warm, generous people, the city and infrastructure is not particularly tourist-friendly. A first-timer asking for help and/or explanations in English might find only confusion. Moreover, there are not a lot of good tourbooks about Yemen; I found one in Borders and the same one in Barnes and Noble and didn't buy it. It's really just better to get there and ask around when you arrive. This is, of course, intimidating and requires stamina, conversational Arabic, and lots (and lots) of patience.
But let me reiterate how wonderful Yemenis are. They're kind and generous and gentle. Once you're in, once you make friends, they'll take care of you and show you around and feed you and you'll never have to worry about anything. It's just a little harder than most places to get in. Unless you have a built in social structure, like work or school, it's hard to meet people randomly, particularly if you're a woman.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Stealth Moving
I bought my ticket for Thursday, May 28th, Dulles to Doha to Sana'a. I had a week to prepare, which i thought would take approximately one hour. How hard is it to pack for a summer in Yemen? A few loose shirts, some sunscreen, some deodorant. One afternoon, max.
But then I heard that my landlord's "mutually beneficial" summer arrangement was not going to be so mutually beneficial. I thought he meant that his kitchen repairs, during which I would not be charged rent, would take 2 - 3 months. He thought that they would take 2 - 3 weeks and I would pay for the remainder of the summer. This is not mutually beneficial. There are many, many other things I can do with $2500.
I let him know on Thursday that I'd be out in a week. We planned a Big Packing and Moving Day on Saturday and Sunday. On Sunday we rented a studio-sized UHaul and drove it up to the back of my first-floor apartment. My strong father began loading the biggest boxes into the UHaul using a very big, very practical dolly while my mother and I continued to pack or discard those random things that you tend to accumulate no matter how long you've lived in a place: random coasters, shoes that don't really fit, papers from five years ago that have somehow survived two previous moves.
Then there was a knock on the door. We opened it to find the very nice Sunday desk clerk with an apologetic smile. There's a policy against moving out on the weekends.
Us: What?
Her: Yes, there's a policy against moving on Sundays. I'm so sorry.
Us: Well...ok, we can just move tomorrow.
Her: ...but it's Memorial day which means that there won't be anyone at the desk, so you can't move out then, either.
Us: But we rented this truck and if we don't turn it in Monday by 3 PM, we'll get charged for an extra day.
Her: Well, um...did you schedule the move out with the front desk?
Us: ...no. Were we supposed to?
Her: Your landlord didn't tell you that?
Us: No...
Her: Oh, dear. Yes, you're supposed to schedule it so that they can put the padding up in the elevator.
Us: Oh! Well we're not using the elevator!
Her: Hmm, well, I'm not looking, but some people here care a lot about the rules, so ... just be careful. There's a fine if you move out on weekends or when there's no one at the desk.
Us: So we should move the truck?
Her: Well, I don't think the truck matters, but you shouldn't use the dolly. So, don't move boxes or furniture.
Us: What about suitcases and bags?
Her: That's ok, just no boxes or furniture.
Se we walked down to Astor Mediterranean and got some kebab. It was unacceptable to keep the truck longer than a day. And it was a stupid rule that we didn't mind breaking, but for the fine. We'd have to wait at least until the front desk lady left that night since she'd already warned us. What time during Memorial Day weekend was the quietest? Sunday night? Monday morning? So we came up with a plan: early morning, Memorial Day, we'd drive the truck up, pack it up as quickly as possible, and take off before anyone was awake. Meanwhile, on Sunday night we nonchalantly took out some pieces of furniture and bags of pillows, 30 minutes apart, just as casually as you'd please so no one would suspect, but this eventually seemed fruitless, painfully slow, and ultimately silly.
At 7 am the next day, four of us arrived with two thermoses of coffee, a little orange juice, a baguette, some butter and jam. The boys tackled the heaviest things first and wheeled them down the hall, down the stairs, through two heavy doors, up the stairs, across the parking lot, and into the UHaul. One of these doors sets off an alarm if it's open longer than 15 seconds. The other is at the bottom of a u-shaped staircase. They did it in absolute silence...well, practically. It wasn't until about 8:45 that we saw someone else up and around, packing their kids into the SUV for a beach trip. By then, we'd loaded up the vital things, the things for which we really needed the truck, so if anyone caught us we could feign ignorance, drive off, and come back later with the Corolla.
We finished just as the morning started to get going, around 9:45. As the garbage truck backed into the alley, we pulled out of it. The holiday morning crowds were just getting out of bed and out to Starbucks. Victory!
Unloading was not nearly so hard. We were done by noon, returned the truck, and never really told the superintendent that we were, or had, moved out. I'll leave that to my landlord, who should have told me about the no moving policy in the first place.
But then I heard that my landlord's "mutually beneficial" summer arrangement was not going to be so mutually beneficial. I thought he meant that his kitchen repairs, during which I would not be charged rent, would take 2 - 3 months. He thought that they would take 2 - 3 weeks and I would pay for the remainder of the summer. This is not mutually beneficial. There are many, many other things I can do with $2500.
I let him know on Thursday that I'd be out in a week. We planned a Big Packing and Moving Day on Saturday and Sunday. On Sunday we rented a studio-sized UHaul and drove it up to the back of my first-floor apartment. My strong father began loading the biggest boxes into the UHaul using a very big, very practical dolly while my mother and I continued to pack or discard those random things that you tend to accumulate no matter how long you've lived in a place: random coasters, shoes that don't really fit, papers from five years ago that have somehow survived two previous moves.
Then there was a knock on the door. We opened it to find the very nice Sunday desk clerk with an apologetic smile. There's a policy against moving out on the weekends.
Us: What?
Her: Yes, there's a policy against moving on Sundays. I'm so sorry.
Us: Well...ok, we can just move tomorrow.
Her: ...but it's Memorial day which means that there won't be anyone at the desk, so you can't move out then, either.
Us: But we rented this truck and if we don't turn it in Monday by 3 PM, we'll get charged for an extra day.
Her: Well, um...did you schedule the move out with the front desk?
Us: ...no. Were we supposed to?
Her: Your landlord didn't tell you that?
Us: No...
Her: Oh, dear. Yes, you're supposed to schedule it so that they can put the padding up in the elevator.
Us: Oh! Well we're not using the elevator!
Her: Hmm, well, I'm not looking, but some people here care a lot about the rules, so ... just be careful. There's a fine if you move out on weekends or when there's no one at the desk.
Us: So we should move the truck?
Her: Well, I don't think the truck matters, but you shouldn't use the dolly. So, don't move boxes or furniture.
Us: What about suitcases and bags?
Her: That's ok, just no boxes or furniture.
Se we walked down to Astor Mediterranean and got some kebab. It was unacceptable to keep the truck longer than a day. And it was a stupid rule that we didn't mind breaking, but for the fine. We'd have to wait at least until the front desk lady left that night since she'd already warned us. What time during Memorial Day weekend was the quietest? Sunday night? Monday morning? So we came up with a plan: early morning, Memorial Day, we'd drive the truck up, pack it up as quickly as possible, and take off before anyone was awake. Meanwhile, on Sunday night we nonchalantly took out some pieces of furniture and bags of pillows, 30 minutes apart, just as casually as you'd please so no one would suspect, but this eventually seemed fruitless, painfully slow, and ultimately silly.
At 7 am the next day, four of us arrived with two thermoses of coffee, a little orange juice, a baguette, some butter and jam. The boys tackled the heaviest things first and wheeled them down the hall, down the stairs, through two heavy doors, up the stairs, across the parking lot, and into the UHaul. One of these doors sets off an alarm if it's open longer than 15 seconds. The other is at the bottom of a u-shaped staircase. They did it in absolute silence...well, practically. It wasn't until about 8:45 that we saw someone else up and around, packing their kids into the SUV for a beach trip. By then, we'd loaded up the vital things, the things for which we really needed the truck, so if anyone caught us we could feign ignorance, drive off, and come back later with the Corolla.
We finished just as the morning started to get going, around 9:45. As the garbage truck backed into the alley, we pulled out of it. The holiday morning crowds were just getting out of bed and out to Starbucks. Victory!
Unloading was not nearly so hard. We were done by noon, returned the truck, and never really told the superintendent that we were, or had, moved out. I'll leave that to my landlord, who should have told me about the no moving policy in the first place.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
A poem dedicated to the Midnight Mug
I am angry
about the latte
that I ordered
twenty minutes ago
and which
you have probably
forgotten about
in your lengthy discussion of Gossip Girl
Forgive me
but your coffee is expensive
so bitter
and so slow.
Inspired by William Carlos Williams
about the latte
that I ordered
twenty minutes ago
and which
you have probably
forgotten about
in your lengthy discussion of Gossip Girl
Forgive me
but your coffee is expensive
so bitter
and so slow.
Inspired by William Carlos Williams
A Poem for my statistics professor
I have not done
the regression
that was on
the syllabus
and which
you are probably
expecting
to receive next Thursday.
Forgive me
it was frustrating
so opaque
and so long.
Inspired by William Carlos Williams
the regression
that was on
the syllabus
and which
you are probably
expecting
to receive next Thursday.
Forgive me
it was frustrating
so opaque
and so long.
Inspired by William Carlos Williams
Undergrads, Seriously, This is Just to Say
I have glared at you
in the Dupont shuttle
as you talk on your phones
about last night's exploits
which you probably
think are clever
or hilarious
despite their obvious stupidity.
Forgive me
but you are immature
so vulgar
and so loud.
Inspired by William Carlos Williams.
in the Dupont shuttle
as you talk on your phones
about last night's exploits
which you probably
think are clever
or hilarious
despite their obvious stupidity.
Forgive me
but you are immature
so vulgar
and so loud.
Inspired by William Carlos Williams.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Thursday, November 06, 2008
This is Obama Country
I watched the election results while eating pizza with my Georgetown classmates on O street. We cheered wildly when Pennsylvania turned blue. We rooted for our Virginia neighbors to push Obama over the edge. Ohio caused another round of celebration. We counted down to 11 PM when the West Coast polls closed: ...5...4...3...2...1...and the West coast lit up blue. Barack Obama is the next President of the United States of America.
It was explosive. There were tears and shouts and champagne. By the time the acceptance speech happened at midnight, the room had emptied a little ( I guess some people wanted to do homework on that night. Whatever.) Those of us who stayed through the speech felt so moved...that we had to, well, move. We went out into the drizzle and watched people pouring out of their houses at the same time, flooding into the streets. We collectively, instinctively pointed ourselves toward the White House.
When we reached M Street, Georgetown's main thoroughfare, the celebration escalated. Bus drivers were beaming. Taxi drivers were honking. A large white man in suspenders was standing triumphantly out of his car sun roof, arms above his head, screaming. A black waiter came out of a restaurant, hugged some of us, strangers, and went back to his shift. Everyone high-fived each other as we walked toward Pennsylvania Avenue. Everyone grinned. Everyone danced. People walked down the middle of the street and waved. People waved their Obama T-shirts in the air. DC votes 95% Democrat every election, which means that there were approximately 3 people here who voted for McCain--that we were all Obama supporters was a sure bet.
What striked me most was that it wasn't vengeful or bitter, despite the chants of "na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, good byyyye" outside the White House. It was joyful. It was hopeful. Until I saw so many people in the same spontaneous celebration, pulled out to Pennsylvania Ave just because it was the most obvious place to go, I hadn't really bought the Hope/Change premise. Hope in what? Change in what? To what? I like hope and change just fine, but I hadn't understood how much we need it, how much we have invested in this vague idea. Hope. But what was in the streets wasn't hope to replace Bush. It was hope that we can be better than we are. That we can be a more perfect union. That you really can, if you work hard, do whatever you want in America. You can be a biracial man with a distant father, far removed from aristocracy, and get to the white house with nothing but merit, maturity, and ambition. We can't change the past, but was can mold the future. It's hard, but you can do it. Yes, we can. Yes, you can.
All of a sudden, we can talk about race. We talked about it before, but that conversation was tired; this is like adrenaline. The African-Americans that I see every day on the street as I go to class, now they are beaming. I hear black students being interviewed on the radio: "I realized that I can be anything I want! I am going to study hard, like Obama." My friend Lori teaches 6th grade: her students have a new role model. Stories abound of black great-grandmothers who have seen segregation, separate-but-equal, civil rights, Martin Luther King, Jr. They can vote now. They are represented. NPR did a story about a woman who is 109, saying, "Jones is the living link between the time when black men were owned as property and the time when a black man has been elected president of the United States." Another one, a 95 year old black woman with 13 children, finally inspired, voting for the first time in her Sunday best. This is incredible, no matter what you think about Obama's policies or politics.
This is what we celebrated in front of the White House: the fact that we can change. The fact that we can hope, even if the finish line is past the horizon. Without a vision, the people perish, and we have sorely lacked any sort of vision over the past 8 years. No matter who you voted for, this is cause to celebrate. We get another chance. We were thirsty, and now we know there is a stream. I love America.
Maybe Obama will be a totally mediocre president; it's possible. But what a thrill it is to think that he might not be, that he might be great. Whether he's great or not, the people have been reinvigorated, and democracy is about the people. We forgot that under Bush, but president-elect Obama reminded us. Let's not forget again.
It was explosive. There were tears and shouts and champagne. By the time the acceptance speech happened at midnight, the room had emptied a little ( I guess some people wanted to do homework on that night. Whatever.) Those of us who stayed through the speech felt so moved...that we had to, well, move. We went out into the drizzle and watched people pouring out of their houses at the same time, flooding into the streets. We collectively, instinctively pointed ourselves toward the White House.
When we reached M Street, Georgetown's main thoroughfare, the celebration escalated. Bus drivers were beaming. Taxi drivers were honking. A large white man in suspenders was standing triumphantly out of his car sun roof, arms above his head, screaming. A black waiter came out of a restaurant, hugged some of us, strangers, and went back to his shift. Everyone high-fived each other as we walked toward Pennsylvania Avenue. Everyone grinned. Everyone danced. People walked down the middle of the street and waved. People waved their Obama T-shirts in the air. DC votes 95% Democrat every election, which means that there were approximately 3 people here who voted for McCain--that we were all Obama supporters was a sure bet.
What striked me most was that it wasn't vengeful or bitter, despite the chants of "na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, good byyyye" outside the White House. It was joyful. It was hopeful. Until I saw so many people in the same spontaneous celebration, pulled out to Pennsylvania Ave just because it was the most obvious place to go, I hadn't really bought the Hope/Change premise. Hope in what? Change in what? To what? I like hope and change just fine, but I hadn't understood how much we need it, how much we have invested in this vague idea. Hope. But what was in the streets wasn't hope to replace Bush. It was hope that we can be better than we are. That we can be a more perfect union. That you really can, if you work hard, do whatever you want in America. You can be a biracial man with a distant father, far removed from aristocracy, and get to the white house with nothing but merit, maturity, and ambition. We can't change the past, but was can mold the future. It's hard, but you can do it. Yes, we can. Yes, you can.
All of a sudden, we can talk about race. We talked about it before, but that conversation was tired; this is like adrenaline. The African-Americans that I see every day on the street as I go to class, now they are beaming. I hear black students being interviewed on the radio: "I realized that I can be anything I want! I am going to study hard, like Obama." My friend Lori teaches 6th grade: her students have a new role model. Stories abound of black great-grandmothers who have seen segregation, separate-but-equal, civil rights, Martin Luther King, Jr. They can vote now. They are represented. NPR did a story about a woman who is 109, saying, "Jones is the living link between the time when black men were owned as property and the time when a black man has been elected president of the United States." Another one, a 95 year old black woman with 13 children, finally inspired, voting for the first time in her Sunday best. This is incredible, no matter what you think about Obama's policies or politics.
This is what we celebrated in front of the White House: the fact that we can change. The fact that we can hope, even if the finish line is past the horizon. Without a vision, the people perish, and we have sorely lacked any sort of vision over the past 8 years. No matter who you voted for, this is cause to celebrate. We get another chance. We were thirsty, and now we know there is a stream. I love America.
Maybe Obama will be a totally mediocre president; it's possible. But what a thrill it is to think that he might not be, that he might be great. Whether he's great or not, the people have been reinvigorated, and democracy is about the people. We forgot that under Bush, but president-elect Obama reminded us. Let's not forget again.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
An open letter to Mr. Obama
Dear Barack Obama,
I have enjoyed getting to know you-albeit via the media, and not face to face- over the past--how long has it been? 21 months? Wow. It's been a while! I feel like we could be best friends now! You are on my radio every night, and your pictures is everywhere, even on my neighbor's jack-o-lantern. That is how you know you have arrived. When you are the subject of a carved pumpkin. Congratulations!
Barack and Joe, I am glad that you are doing well in the polls and that you are trying to offer people hope and change. I love hope and change! But do you know what I don't love? Spam.
I do hope that you beat McCain/Palin on November 4. Unfortunately, I am not available, nor do I intend to be available, to call people in swing states, plaster DC with OBAMA posters, e-mail my friends, begin Facebook political debates, or donate money. Especially donate money. But your e-mails to me revolve around this topic! You mention hope and change a little, but mostly, youp lead with me to part with the money I just earned by watching a 3-year old for 4 hours. This constitutes a large sacrifice on my part.
Barack, I am a student. I do not have money except for beans, books, and coffee. I'm afraid that no matter how many e-mails you send me - nay, even if you up your quota to 3 e-mails per day! - I will not donate to your campaign. I'm sorry. Joe, if you send me e-mails, I will not donate. I will not donate no matter who sends me e-mails; I do not have any money.
I heard that you are in the millions of dollars now, and could even afford a 30-minute commercial during prime time the other day! How nice! I didn't get to see it, since I don't have a TV. But I'm pretty sure that this is a good indication that you don't need my $25, which will instead be spent on the previously mentioned beans and coffee.
Therefore, I have to ask you to stop sending me e-mails, Barack and Joe and David Plouffe and David Axelrod and Mrs. Obama (although I do like you, Mrs. Obama, and I think you have excellent taste in sheaths.) I will be watching you on election night, and I hope that you do well and that a victory does not make you stupid and that a loss does not make you depressed. I think you have done a good job over the past two years, and a lot of my friends feel the same. Hope is not as important as money, I know, but it is the mainstay of your campaign, so please accept my hope for your success instead of my $25.
Thank you, and say hi to Michelle for me!
Catherine
I have enjoyed getting to know you-albeit via the media, and not face to face- over the past--how long has it been? 21 months? Wow. It's been a while! I feel like we could be best friends now! You are on my radio every night, and your pictures is everywhere, even on my neighbor's jack-o-lantern. That is how you know you have arrived. When you are the subject of a carved pumpkin. Congratulations!
Barack and Joe, I am glad that you are doing well in the polls and that you are trying to offer people hope and change. I love hope and change! But do you know what I don't love? Spam.
I do hope that you beat McCain/Palin on November 4. Unfortunately, I am not available, nor do I intend to be available, to call people in swing states, plaster DC with OBAMA posters, e-mail my friends, begin Facebook political debates, or donate money. Especially donate money. But your e-mails to me revolve around this topic! You mention hope and change a little, but mostly, youp lead with me to part with the money I just earned by watching a 3-year old for 4 hours. This constitutes a large sacrifice on my part.
Barack, I am a student. I do not have money except for beans, books, and coffee. I'm afraid that no matter how many e-mails you send me - nay, even if you up your quota to 3 e-mails per day! - I will not donate to your campaign. I'm sorry. Joe, if you send me e-mails, I will not donate. I will not donate no matter who sends me e-mails; I do not have any money.
I heard that you are in the millions of dollars now, and could even afford a 30-minute commercial during prime time the other day! How nice! I didn't get to see it, since I don't have a TV. But I'm pretty sure that this is a good indication that you don't need my $25, which will instead be spent on the previously mentioned beans and coffee.
Therefore, I have to ask you to stop sending me e-mails, Barack and Joe and David Plouffe and David Axelrod and Mrs. Obama (although I do like you, Mrs. Obama, and I think you have excellent taste in sheaths.) I will be watching you on election night, and I hope that you do well and that a victory does not make you stupid and that a loss does not make you depressed. I think you have done a good job over the past two years, and a lot of my friends feel the same. Hope is not as important as money, I know, but it is the mainstay of your campaign, so please accept my hope for your success instead of my $25.
Thank you, and say hi to Michelle for me!
Catherine
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
The Gods of the Copybook Headings
When I was a freshman or sophomore in college, I went to my dear (now-soon-to-be-a-mom!) friend Anne's house for Thanksgiving. Her mother had a personality test that we took for curiosity's sake. I buzzed through it and checked in heavily as an ISTJ: Intuitive, Sensing, Thinking, Judging. What does that mean? Well, in the explanation of this personality type, there were many useful nuggets. For instance:
ISTJs have tremendous respect for facts. They hold a tremendous store of facts within themselves, which they have gathered through their Sensing preference. They may have difficulty understanding a theory or idea which is different from their own perspective. However, if they are shown the importance or relevance of the idea to someone who they respect or care about, the idea becomes a fact, which the ISTJ will internalize and support.
So true! And this:
ISTJs tend to believe in laws and traditions, and expect the same from others. They're not comfortable with breaking laws or going against the rules. If they are able to see a good reason for stepping outside of the established mode of doing things, the ISTJ will support that effort. However, ISTJs more often tend to believe that things should be done according to procedures and plans. If an ISTJ has not developed their Intuitive side sufficiently, they may become overly obsessed with structure, and insist on doing everything "by the book".
Reading these descriptions assured me that I was not alone and in fact fit comfortably into a box, which was wonderful. I love boxes! More importantly, though, it taught me that...get ready...not everyone thinks like I do. I know. This was a revelation. I always thought that other people didn't follow rules and traditions just because they were, I don't know, rebellious. Or stupid. Or something. It never occurred to me that their relationship with rules and tradition was entirely different from mine. It, for instance, makes me extremely uncomfortable to vary from tradition, whether that means not celebrating Christmas the same way every year or not filling out the correct paperwork on time or using correct grammar. (Granted, this tendency has been mitigated by spending time in the Middle East where "by the book" has different...interpretations and consequences. Sometimes there is no book, and sometimes the book is flat out inefficient. I can appreciate that.)
This is perhaps one reason I have such a love for old things. I majored in history. I like old poetry with rhyme, meter, and patterns. I think old furniture is better made and prettier than that new stuff. I am always tut-tutting when I hear newfangled ideas. I am hopeful about progress but also believe that there is nothing new under the sun. Progress is a misleading idea. I prefer to think of this perspective as "realistic." Some prefer the word "pessimistic." Whatever.
So when I run across instances when history repeats itself or comments on our current struggles, I feel somehow vindicated, as if I could legitimately say, "I told you so!" Even though I didn't actually tell anybody so.
Here is an old thing which makes me feel particularly vindicated. It's another Kipling. And needless to say, I believe in the usefulness of copy book headings.
AS I PASS through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.
We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.
We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.
With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.
When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."
On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."
In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."
Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.
As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began.
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;
And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!
ISTJs have tremendous respect for facts. They hold a tremendous store of facts within themselves, which they have gathered through their Sensing preference. They may have difficulty understanding a theory or idea which is different from their own perspective. However, if they are shown the importance or relevance of the idea to someone who they respect or care about, the idea becomes a fact, which the ISTJ will internalize and support.
So true! And this:
ISTJs tend to believe in laws and traditions, and expect the same from others. They're not comfortable with breaking laws or going against the rules. If they are able to see a good reason for stepping outside of the established mode of doing things, the ISTJ will support that effort. However, ISTJs more often tend to believe that things should be done according to procedures and plans. If an ISTJ has not developed their Intuitive side sufficiently, they may become overly obsessed with structure, and insist on doing everything "by the book".
Reading these descriptions assured me that I was not alone and in fact fit comfortably into a box, which was wonderful. I love boxes! More importantly, though, it taught me that...get ready...not everyone thinks like I do. I know. This was a revelation. I always thought that other people didn't follow rules and traditions just because they were, I don't know, rebellious. Or stupid. Or something. It never occurred to me that their relationship with rules and tradition was entirely different from mine. It, for instance, makes me extremely uncomfortable to vary from tradition, whether that means not celebrating Christmas the same way every year or not filling out the correct paperwork on time or using correct grammar. (Granted, this tendency has been mitigated by spending time in the Middle East where "by the book" has different...interpretations and consequences. Sometimes there is no book, and sometimes the book is flat out inefficient. I can appreciate that.)
This is perhaps one reason I have such a love for old things. I majored in history. I like old poetry with rhyme, meter, and patterns. I think old furniture is better made and prettier than that new stuff. I am always tut-tutting when I hear newfangled ideas. I am hopeful about progress but also believe that there is nothing new under the sun. Progress is a misleading idea. I prefer to think of this perspective as "realistic." Some prefer the word "pessimistic." Whatever.
So when I run across instances when history repeats itself or comments on our current struggles, I feel somehow vindicated, as if I could legitimately say, "I told you so!" Even though I didn't actually tell anybody so.
Here is an old thing which makes me feel particularly vindicated. It's another Kipling. And needless to say, I believe in the usefulness of copy book headings.
AS I PASS through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.
We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.
We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.
With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.
When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."
On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."
In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."
Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.
As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began.
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;
And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!
Monday, October 06, 2008
Cities and Thrones and Powers
Cities and Thrones and Powers
Stand in Time's eye,
Almost as long as flowers,
Which daily die:
But, as new buds put forth
To glad new men,
Out of the spent and unconsidered Earth
The Cities rise again.
This season's Daffodil,
She never hears
What change, what chance, what chill,
Cut down last year's;
But with bold countenance,
And knowledge small,
Esteems her seven days' continuance,
To be perpetual.
So Time that is o'er-kind
To all that be,
Ordains us e'en as blind,
As bold as she:
That in our very death,
And burial sure,
Shadow to shadow, well persuaded, saith,
"See how our works endure!"
Rudyard Kipling
Saturday, September 20, 2008
All of a sudden, the internet is only good for Googling IR theory definitions
I am often walking down the street thinking deep thoughts and then thinking, "Dude, I should totally put that on my blog!"
Except that I don't. And do you know why?
Grad school.
I've been in school for three weeks and have read like, 6 books. Maybe 5. Anyway, a LOT. So I haven't been blogging much, or reading many blogs, or really anything blog-y. This is unfortunate.
But I have learned so much! For example: The first week, before class, we read Conoleezza Rice's Foreign Affairs piece on national interest and American realism. I skimmed it and was like, "Yeah, ok, democracy is important, our efforts to democratize make the world better, blah, ok I get it." But now I get it. I read the same article yesterday and it was like putting on 3D glasses: "Whoa! I totally get why she chose the words she chose! And what they mean!" Not that it was unintelligible before, but now it makes so much more sense.
If the rest of my grad school career is equally enlightening, the tuition will be worth it.
Except that I don't. And do you know why?
Grad school.
I've been in school for three weeks and have read like, 6 books. Maybe 5. Anyway, a LOT. So I haven't been blogging much, or reading many blogs, or really anything blog-y. This is unfortunate.
But I have learned so much! For example: The first week, before class, we read Conoleezza Rice's Foreign Affairs piece on national interest and American realism. I skimmed it and was like, "Yeah, ok, democracy is important, our efforts to democratize make the world better, blah, ok I get it." But now I get it. I read the same article yesterday and it was like putting on 3D glasses: "Whoa! I totally get why she chose the words she chose! And what they mean!" Not that it was unintelligible before, but now it makes so much more sense.
If the rest of my grad school career is equally enlightening, the tuition will be worth it.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Fall To-Do List
Hi! It's August. I know. Things got crazy.
So here's an easy blog to get back into the swing of things: a list stolen from a fabulous cooking blog, Chocolate and Zucchini. To quote: The Omnivore's Hundred is an eclectic and entirely subjective list of 100 items that Andrew Wheeler, co-author of the British food blog Very Good Taste, thinks every omnivore should try at least once in his life.
So here's an easy blog to get back into the swing of things: a list stolen from a fabulous cooking blog, Chocolate and Zucchini. To quote: The Omnivore's Hundred is an eclectic and entirely subjective list of 100 items that Andrew Wheeler, co-author of the British food blog Very Good Taste, thinks every omnivore should try at least once in his life.
He offered this list as the starting point for a game, along the following rules:
1. Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
2. Bold all the items you’ve eaten
3. Cross out any items that you would never consider eating. I am going to italicize these.
4. Optional extra: post a comment on Very Good Taste, linking to your results.
1. Venison
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos Rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile (Not yet, but I ate Cayman in Peru, which is practically the same thing.)
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J Sandwich
14. Aloo Gobi (I...don't know what this is.)
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes (I tried Cherry.)
19. Steamed pork buns (...don't know what this is, either.)
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper. (No, thank you.)
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna caude
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar (I don't condone smoking. But maybe one day, if offered, I would try this.)
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo (eaten in New Orleans)
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects (I would try them, but they'd have to be dead, and cooked.)
43. Phaal (Again like Clotilde, I'd try a forkful, but wouldn't order it for myself)
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/€80/$120 or more
46. Fugu (Absolutely not.)
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut (I have had it, but I did not like it, not one bit. In fact, I hated it. That's right.)
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly Pear
52.Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S'mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin (Um...)
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake (all of the above)
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill (No.)
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess fruit pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant (Someday...)
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse (I don't know if I could do this one.)
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam (Ew.)
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa (ooh, sounds yummy!)
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain Coffee
100. Snake
My score: 55/100. Looks like I have some tasting to do.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Cornmeal Muffins
My dear friend Anne visited DC last November when I was, unfortunately, in Jordan. The plus side for them: she and her (equally dear) husband Jasen got to use my apartment instead of getting a hotel. The plus side for me: a thoughtful gift of blue cornmeal from New Mexico.
I hadn't opened it until last night when I was wondering what one does with a lot of souring milk. The answer: mix it with blue cornmeal, some eggs, and some baking powder for blue corn muffin deliciousness:
I hadn't opened it until last night when I was wondering what one does with a lot of souring milk. The answer: mix it with blue cornmeal, some eggs, and some baking powder for blue corn muffin deliciousness:
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Everyone needs some Prada, if only in haiku format
Go to the superfabulous blog Daddy Likey, pen a quick haiku about your favorite/most hated/most coveted designer, and see if you win some Prada.
At the very least, you get some amusing poetry. Go now!
At the very least, you get some amusing poetry. Go now!
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Hamming It Up
I am not an extrovert.
Extroverts are those people who thrive in large groups. They are not the people whose faces flush at the thought of making three brief announcements at a staff meeting. They are not the people who forget to breathe in the middle of a speech, thus making their voices quaver and break. They are not the people who have to collect themselves after a walk on stage in front of a crowd, no matter how small. And usually, they don't understand those of us who do.
That's a broad generalization, of course. Some extroverts probably do, on some level, understand the sheer terror of the introvert upon being pushed into a public situation. But for the most part, I've found the opposite: extroverts who nod politely and/or stare blankly when I say, "... No ... I hate public speaking." The response is usually, "Yeah, me too!" But the introvert can see in the extravert's eyes that it is a lie. He doesn't hate it. He is just saying that because it seems appropriate. Everyone is supposed to hate publicity. I've found far more introverts who can at least comprehend that someone - not them, of course, but someone - enjoy the heat of the limelight.
Last time I was in Istanbul, we took our group to a dinner-and-show called Karavanserai. It was dark and seedy and in a basement. There were hard-edged belly dancers who never cracked a smile, inedible desserts, and an emcee who delighted in passing the microphone to unsuspecting audience members. It was, in short, sort of a personal hell. So I sat in the dark corner and tried to remain inconspicuous. Just as I was getting to enjoy myself, or at least, the company around me, I heard my name being called by the emcee.
Now, when this happens-my name called unexpectedly, bidding me to get up on stage and perform, my heart quickens, my face reddens, and I lose my voice. I said, "No," firmly and numerously. So he moved on to my co-worker, who gladly got out of her seat and went up on stage. Greeeeeat, she goes, now I have to go too. I don't mind being a party pooper and have little trouble saying "No," but this was a work event, and she was my colleague, and now I had to get up. So I got up and tripped toward the stage. Fellow introvert and partner in embarrassment, Jenn, joined us.
What I remember most about those brief minutes on stage is our extroverted colleague singing Proud Mary, complete with "Rollin'! Rollin'! Rollin on the river!" hand motions. I also remember looking out to the blurry audience and feeling sort of like my insides had caved in. I suppose we made it through the song, and I remember tripping back to my seat, face burning, tears welling up in my eyes. The combination of the surprise element + not knowing the words + already sort of hating that song + performing in front of colleagues and strangers + work event, for Pete's sake was too much for my shy inner child. She was traumatized.
So on this trip to Istanbul, I told Alp (who is a wonderufl person but also the person responsible for our Proud Mary rendition), "OH NO, NEVER AGAIN, UH UH I AM NOT GETTING ON A STAGE AGAIN, NOT IF YOU PAID ME."
Below are some pictures of me on stage, wearing a harem hat, being fed watermelon by a pretend sultan, and later, mimicking (in front of approximately 150 people, strangers and friends) the belly dancer, despite the fact that she had said to me, "No dance, just sit!" while coaxing me up on stage. You will note that Samia, because she is The Awesome, came up with me for moral support. Samia is pretty much my favorite person.
The things I do for my job.
Extroverts are those people who thrive in large groups. They are not the people whose faces flush at the thought of making three brief announcements at a staff meeting. They are not the people who forget to breathe in the middle of a speech, thus making their voices quaver and break. They are not the people who have to collect themselves after a walk on stage in front of a crowd, no matter how small. And usually, they don't understand those of us who do.
That's a broad generalization, of course. Some extroverts probably do, on some level, understand the sheer terror of the introvert upon being pushed into a public situation. But for the most part, I've found the opposite: extroverts who nod politely and/or stare blankly when I say, "... No ... I hate public speaking." The response is usually, "Yeah, me too!" But the introvert can see in the extravert's eyes that it is a lie. He doesn't hate it. He is just saying that because it seems appropriate. Everyone is supposed to hate publicity. I've found far more introverts who can at least comprehend that someone - not them, of course, but someone - enjoy the heat of the limelight.
Last time I was in Istanbul, we took our group to a dinner-and-show called Karavanserai. It was dark and seedy and in a basement. There were hard-edged belly dancers who never cracked a smile, inedible desserts, and an emcee who delighted in passing the microphone to unsuspecting audience members. It was, in short, sort of a personal hell. So I sat in the dark corner and tried to remain inconspicuous. Just as I was getting to enjoy myself, or at least, the company around me, I heard my name being called by the emcee.
Now, when this happens-my name called unexpectedly, bidding me to get up on stage and perform, my heart quickens, my face reddens, and I lose my voice. I said, "No," firmly and numerously. So he moved on to my co-worker, who gladly got out of her seat and went up on stage. Greeeeeat, she goes, now I have to go too. I don't mind being a party pooper and have little trouble saying "No," but this was a work event, and she was my colleague, and now I had to get up. So I got up and tripped toward the stage. Fellow introvert and partner in embarrassment, Jenn, joined us.
What I remember most about those brief minutes on stage is our extroverted colleague singing Proud Mary, complete with "Rollin'! Rollin'! Rollin on the river!" hand motions. I also remember looking out to the blurry audience and feeling sort of like my insides had caved in. I suppose we made it through the song, and I remember tripping back to my seat, face burning, tears welling up in my eyes. The combination of the surprise element + not knowing the words + already sort of hating that song + performing in front of colleagues and strangers + work event, for Pete's sake was too much for my shy inner child. She was traumatized.
So on this trip to Istanbul, I told Alp (who is a wonderufl person but also the person responsible for our Proud Mary rendition), "OH NO, NEVER AGAIN, UH UH I AM NOT GETTING ON A STAGE AGAIN, NOT IF YOU PAID ME."
Below are some pictures of me on stage, wearing a harem hat, being fed watermelon by a pretend sultan, and later, mimicking (in front of approximately 150 people, strangers and friends) the belly dancer, despite the fact that she had said to me, "No dance, just sit!" while coaxing me up on stage. You will note that Samia, because she is The Awesome, came up with me for moral support. Samia is pretty much my favorite person.
The things I do for my job.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Sometimes My Life Surprises Even Me
So, in my previous post I listed the plusses and minuses of various grad school experiences and how I would be happy to go to any of them, but of course I had my favorites, and one of those favorites (or, the favorite) was Columbia University because, guys, it's Columbia and then I would have a very good reason to move to New York. When I posted that, I also had a long conversation with two of my Favorite People about how I will probably go to SOAS (London) or SAIS (Italy/DC) if I don't get into Columbia because blah blah blah London! and blah blah blah Italy! and Georgetown ... well, not so much, maybe.
Except then I didn't get into Columbia. I read the e-mail in an internet cafe in Lima, Peru, and didn't break into tears but felt a little hollow and sad and then a little mad at Columbia because in their previous rejection they said, and I quote:
In your case, unlike that of many other applicants who were not accepted to the program, we feel confident of your academic potential. Rest assured your application was among less than five percent of all applicants whom we strongly encourage to reapply to the program after acquiring relevant job experience. We think this will greatly enhance your chances of admission in the future.
And what had I done? I had gone out and gotten me some relevant job experience.
So the rest of my Peruvian vacation, while I floated down the Amazon and fed monkeys and marvelled at Machu Picchu, I mulled the whole thing over in the back of my mind. I made no decisions until my 12 hour turnaround in DC: 12 hours to land at Dulles, go home, sleep, re-pack, drive to Dulles and get on a plane bound for Athens, Greece. My always-helpful mother came over at about 10 am and was greeted more or less by me yelping, "WHERE SHOULD I GO TO SCHOOL?!" (At least I waited to yelp after I'd given her her alpaca shawl.)
And then I raced around my studio, half-dressed and in hot rollers, listing for my alpaca-draped mother my various feelings on the subject of grad school. It went sort of like this: "I mean, SOAS is a good school, but is it good for what I want to study? The lady said...And SAIS is nice, and maybe I should just GO TO ITALY because who doesn't want to live in Italy and that would be kind of stupid to turn down, right? Right?...but I really think Georgetown has the best program of them all, and it's very competetive and if you get into the best school, maybe you should just go to the best school even if you would rather live in Italy and I WOULD be making new friends so it wouldn't be exactly the same..."
And by the time I had packed my carry-on and unrolled my curlers and put on my black travel trenchcoat, I had answered my own questions: Georgetown it was. (Thanks for listening, Mom!) My reasons are very good, and I was surprised at how comfortable I was with my own decision given that not a month earlier my general attitude toward Georgetown could be thusly summed up: "Meh." No, not comfortable; excited. There's nothing like a good, confident decision to turn your whole world a little sunnier. I'm excited about the program, about my future classmates, about my change in lifestyle come August, and about being a Georgetown grad student, and about what I will learn.
I sent in my $500 (unnngh) matriculation fee, joined the Georgetown MSFS 2010 facebook group (Hoyas!) and politely declined the other schools. And then I went to New York to visit Vera Who Lives in Brooklyn because even if Columbia doesn't want me, I'm still only 4 hours - and $3 - away from the Big Apple.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Something Old, Something New
It's about that time, of life and of year, when the wedding bells start a-ringing. The snow has melted, the sun is shining, couples are beginning to emerge from their dens holding hands. Some have even ditched their winter scarves.
Many of my high school classmates, at least, the ones I've managed tostalk keep in touch with via everyone's favorite application, Facebook, are married, about to get married, or are thinking about getting married. When the first of us signed up for the Other Side of singledom, it was nary two weeks out of high school, and I'm not sure what happened to him/them. It seemed very rash and dangerous because we were just beginning our adult lives and was he even dating anyone?! What?
But now we are older and many of us are wiser, and now Decent Men have started appearing, which means that those single friends are venturing to the edge of singledom, peering over the ledge, and shrugging that it's not nearly so scary when you're a grown up.
I've been in one wedding, when my friend, the wonderful Anne, married Jasen, also wonderful, in the hills of Rancho Cucamonga, California. We wore long pink dresses and the day was hot and deserty. Now, make that two weddings, because weekend before last, Vicky up and go herself hitched, too, and to a fine man.
As Maid-o-Honor, I suspected I was supposed to do real work for the wedding preparations. Bridesmaids are not that important, work wise. They just show up and look pink. But Maids-o-Honor, they do things. The interwebs told me that I was supposed to plan a bachelorette party and also "provide support for the new bride." Well, I'm in DC, and she's not, so no bachelorette party without substantial travel bills. But Anthony and I DID give a lovely party, complete with Samia-cake (Have you had a Samia-cake? You need to have one.) At least I know that when I get married, I have a good cake-provider, assuming that Samia is not rich and famous by then, with her own Beverly Hills-based bakery. Even then, maybe she'll give me a discount? Vicky and Dave and the rest of the DC contingent came to my parent's grand house and had a lovely evening, complete with salami. Maid-o-Honor duty #1: check.
Many of my high school classmates, at least, the ones I've managed to
But now we are older and many of us are wiser, and now Decent Men have started appearing, which means that those single friends are venturing to the edge of singledom, peering over the ledge, and shrugging that it's not nearly so scary when you're a grown up.
I've been in one wedding, when my friend, the wonderful Anne, married Jasen, also wonderful, in the hills of Rancho Cucamonga, California. We wore long pink dresses and the day was hot and deserty. Now, make that two weddings, because weekend before last, Vicky up and go herself hitched, too, and to a fine man.
As Maid-o-Honor, I suspected I was supposed to do real work for the wedding preparations. Bridesmaids are not that important, work wise. They just show up and look pink. But Maids-o-Honor, they do things. The interwebs told me that I was supposed to plan a bachelorette party and also "provide support for the new bride." Well, I'm in DC, and she's not, so no bachelorette party without substantial travel bills. But Anthony and I DID give a lovely party, complete with Samia-cake (Have you had a Samia-cake? You need to have one.) At least I know that when I get married, I have a good cake-provider, assuming that Samia is not rich and famous by then, with her own Beverly Hills-based bakery. Even then, maybe she'll give me a discount? Vicky and Dave and the rest of the DC contingent came to my parent's grand house and had a lovely evening, complete with salami. Maid-o-Honor duty #1: check.
The maid-o-honor, the bride, the best man, and, most importantly, the cake.
And the rest was basically *talk*, but important talk about men and relationships and weddings and shoes and undergarments and honeymoons and expectations and babies and mothers-in-law and fathers and tuxes. And then the weekend came, and I put on my Girl Friday hat and got on the direct flight to LAX with Best Man Anthony.
We clean up real good.
Vicky, incidentally, is the Lowest Key Bride Ever. Any fears of a Bridezilla attack or a sudden sob of emotion five minutes pre-aisle were quickly put aside. She was chill. Except at 5 AM, wedding day, when we had to get up for our hair. That was not so much fun. But dang if we didn't look good afterwards.
Beautification at 5 am
We are grateful for Becca's cosmetology skills
It's strange to look at a newlywed couple, even if they've been dating a while, and really think about what they're jumping into together, hands held. They're jumping into an ocean. And even if you both know how to swim, the ocean is big. There are storms. Ships are wrecked on oceans. I look at the wedding pictures and wonder, in 20 years when they look back on these photos, what will they feel? Where will they be? What will they say about their wedding day when they were so young and new to life and each other?
I hope they'll say that their love has put down roots so deep that they will never be torn up, and I hope they look back on this day with wisdom and sweet nostalgia.
To the Nicks!
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Ahem...long time, no see.
Much like … everything else in my life, once I get out of the habit of blogging and Thinking About Writing, I tend to stop doing it because I find that I vastly prefer, say, eating chocolate chips on my bed while surfing YouTube. But I realized that I have not updated for two months, thus alienating my loyal audience of approximately 4 people.
While I was away, when I was not eating chocolate chips and surfing YouTube, I applied to graduate schools. It costs a lot of money to apply to graduate schools. I am not sure how this is fair, since I am applying not only for a place in their incoming class, but also for the opportunity to give them more money. The applications should be free. In fact, if I get in, they should pay me as a thank-you for applying. Here is The List of Schools I Would Be Happy To Go To, in order of preference:
Columbia SIPA and/or Journalism (dual masters)
University of London School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS)
Johns Hopkins SAIS
London School of Economics
Georgetown MSFS
I mean, I’m happy to go to ANY of them, particularly if they give me money (unlikely) but I guess if I had to choose, it’d be Columbia. And they did tell me three years ago that I should reapply after gaining some professional experience, which I did. But hey, London is also not a bad choice, and if I went to SAIS, I could stay in DC...
In other news, Lori, who is awesome, came and visited me for Christmas break. It is very nice to have a visit from a former roommate. There is no, "I hope she doesn’t mind that I don’t do the dishes every night" or trying to impress with my glamorous lifestyle, or…whatever. We lived together for two and a half years in college, and I mean, what bond is stronger than that, besides maybe the parental bond, or the bond you get with someone with whom you have sat, naked, in the Turkish baths in Istanbul? We had many low-key adventures, such as touring the Aquarium in Baltimore and the USS Constitution and also opening Christmas presents. And to top it all off, we celebrated our friendship/vacation/roommate bond/francophilia with a dinner, including wine and dessert, at Bistrot du Coin, which was heart-breakingly delicious.
Upcoming events: Vicky and Dave’s wedding in California in LESS THAN ONE MONTH, w00t! And a trip to Peru for another wedding/vacation in less than two months. And also, a work trip to Greece, probably. And trying to figure out how to pay for grad school. And more blogging.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
The Weather Outside is Frightful
I appreciate glittery frost on the cobwebs and the beauty of leaves blown about in a winter gale, individually chaotic yet corporately streamlined as they whip around the barren trees; I love the clean softness of freshly fallen snow, the way it muffles the world for a few hours until it is inevitably sullied by warmth and humanity. I love that the change of weather changes the sound of the air from lush and deep to tinny and thin, that the cool, refreshing breezes of summer turn gradually into whistling - and later howling - blusters that pull at scarves and prod errant litter down the empty, echoing streets.
Warmth is something I understand. It makes me want to breathe deeply and go conquer the world. But I hate being cold. I hate the prospect of being cold. I hate, hate the sudden streaks of hard goose bumps that rush up my legs as soon as the wind licks my jeans. I hate the hot sensation of truly cold fingers; the numb nose; the red, raw eyes. I hate the wooden, stiff feeling that permeates my muscles as I attempt to thaw. I hate the feeling that I am one thermostat, one winter coat, one fireplace away from death.
When I lay in bed, warm under my comforter, next to my radiator (which is usually dressed in tomorrow’s clothes so that they are warm when I put them on,) I usually can’t help but think, “…But for these walls…I’d be dying or dead, frozen somewhere in a corner, unable to move.” It’s a bit ridiculous because, of course, there ARE walls there, and I DO have a radiator, and I am not dead or near-dead because of the cold. But those walls are a thin separation, psychologically and physically, between me and that numbing temperature. And a jacket and gloves, although effective, are an almost comical boundary between my skin and the elements: how easy it would be to be stripped of that protection and be rendered helpless, my thin skin against the cruel winter.
When my brother lived in Alaska, he got frostbite because his ear was not sufficiently covered as he walked between his dorm and the library. This would not happen in Hawaii. You would not be this frighteningly close to frostbite, hypothermia, and death from exposure if you lived in San Diego, where when you walk outside, you are not a potential victim of the weather itself. One is not afraid, during the summer months, of being stripped of one’s sundress and sandals because (save for the possibility of being extremely embarrassed) it’s not a life-threatening possibility. Naked threats like illness, boredom and dehydration are benign until paired with looming, billowing cold that rushes down your neck, paralyzing you even as you attempt to defend yourself from illness, dehydration, boredom.
Cold makes everything harder, slower, more laborious. Cold is confident that, given enough time, he could permeate even your most carefully planned layers of clothing. Cold wants you to recognize his tyrannical presence and bow to him as he passes. Cold and I are not on speaking terms.
Warmth is something I understand. It makes me want to breathe deeply and go conquer the world. But I hate being cold. I hate the prospect of being cold. I hate, hate the sudden streaks of hard goose bumps that rush up my legs as soon as the wind licks my jeans. I hate the hot sensation of truly cold fingers; the numb nose; the red, raw eyes. I hate the wooden, stiff feeling that permeates my muscles as I attempt to thaw. I hate the feeling that I am one thermostat, one winter coat, one fireplace away from death.
When I lay in bed, warm under my comforter, next to my radiator (which is usually dressed in tomorrow’s clothes so that they are warm when I put them on,) I usually can’t help but think, “…But for these walls…I’d be dying or dead, frozen somewhere in a corner, unable to move.” It’s a bit ridiculous because, of course, there ARE walls there, and I DO have a radiator, and I am not dead or near-dead because of the cold. But those walls are a thin separation, psychologically and physically, between me and that numbing temperature. And a jacket and gloves, although effective, are an almost comical boundary between my skin and the elements: how easy it would be to be stripped of that protection and be rendered helpless, my thin skin against the cruel winter.
When my brother lived in Alaska, he got frostbite because his ear was not sufficiently covered as he walked between his dorm and the library. This would not happen in Hawaii. You would not be this frighteningly close to frostbite, hypothermia, and death from exposure if you lived in San Diego, where when you walk outside, you are not a potential victim of the weather itself. One is not afraid, during the summer months, of being stripped of one’s sundress and sandals because (save for the possibility of being extremely embarrassed) it’s not a life-threatening possibility. Naked threats like illness, boredom and dehydration are benign until paired with looming, billowing cold that rushes down your neck, paralyzing you even as you attempt to defend yourself from illness, dehydration, boredom.
Cold makes everything harder, slower, more laborious. Cold is confident that, given enough time, he could permeate even your most carefully planned layers of clothing. Cold wants you to recognize his tyrannical presence and bow to him as he passes. Cold and I are not on speaking terms.
At the Lighting of the National Christmas Tree, Freezing. December 6, 2007.
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