I simply couldn't do this better myself, even if I had a kick-ass graphics background and a pet bear to help me with the pauses. I might even say the comic is perfect; however, I do realize it supposes that people can understand the term "independent clause."
For all of you who want to help others find their semicolon happy places, use this link to spread the joy.
How To Use A Semicolon--The Oatmeal
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Moving Home
I'm currently reading Barbara Kingsolver's Animal Dreams in stolen hours. I swear Kingsolver writes for a reader like me--one who is going to spend the time to really taste all of the images and themes, like rolling a piece of sugar-coated chocolate in your mouth instead of just chewing. Either that or she just can't help but write dense poetry every few pages, even when she's trying to write a novel. This is why it's taken me a month to get to this point in the book, and I'm only on page 235. This is not a complaint.
In the story Loyd is a Pueblo-Apache man with a half-coyote dog. At one point he explains that Apaches are wanderers and Pueblo are homebodies. Cosima, the point of view character, asks him which he is. Without hesitation, he says Pueblo. When he turns the question on her, Cosima makes a joke about how her friend once called her a "home-ignorer." It is pretty clear that Cosima is at least in her mind a wanderer. But ultimately she is neither. Home for her isn't the apartment she keeps now or the life of transitions and moving; home isn't in any of the versions of herself she's created over the years. For some reason she feels she isn't worthy or capable of home.
On an early date, Loyd and Cosima visit some "ancient condos" of adobe, and eventually during Christmas, the couple stay at Loyd's mother's home on the Pueblo reservation and watch the all-day dancing festival from the rooftop. I love how the architecture of houses, both literal and figurative, is such a diverse and detailed observation of Kingsolver's in this book. Cosima has been planning to leave since before she arrived--one year of teaching biology at the high school and she's out. Loyd sees this attitude as part of her life's pattern of running to something (which will inevitably not be the perfection for which you search) instead of creating it wherever you go. On the rooftop between watching the dancers in the village below, Cosima points out some adobe houses in a state of collapse:
[The following dialogue is pulled from a delicate weave of pacing which I didn't want to recreate here--sorry Kingsolver.]
C: How come those houses over there near the edge of the cliff are falling down?
L: Because they're old.
C: Thank you. I mean, why doesn't somebody fix them up? You guys are the experts, you've been building houses for nine hundred years.
L: Not necessarily in the same place. This village was in seven other places before they built it here.
C: So when something gets old they just let it fall down?
L: Sometimes. Some day you'll get old and fall down.
C:Thanks for reminding me.
L: The greatest honor you can give a house is to let it fall back down into the ground. That's where everything comes from in the first place.
C: But then you've lost your house.
L: Not if you know how to build another one. All those great pueblos like at Kinishba--people lived in them awhile, and then they'd move on. Just leave them standing. Maybe go to a place with better water, or something.
C: I thought they were homebodies.
L: The important thing isn't the house. It's the ability to make it. You carry that in your brain and in your hands, wherever you go...We're like coyotes, get to a good place, turn around three times in the grass, and you're home. Once you know how, you can always do that, no matter what. You won't forget.
In the book, this gets Cosima recognizing her own rationalizations as such for leaving at the end of the school year. In my life, it makes me think about the places I've lived since I left my mother's house. In this way, I relate to Cosima. If you were to look at the record of residences I'd have to put down in applying for a lease, you would most likely call me a wanderer.
In a span of 6 years, I will have moved 9 times and that's counting the 2-years of staying in one place. I can relate to Cosima, but I am not her. I feel her ease with moving and mine are of two different energies. I don't see any of my moves, except maybe the 3rd, as a "running away" from something. And, perhaps unlike Cosima, I do truly feel I've been at home in these places (except the 7th). I carry home in my brain and in my hands. I may move more frequently than others, but I don't wander.
And yet, the large summer move coming up is a scary one. It will be the first time I move for which my plans aren't completely solid. Yes, I already know where I'm moving to--I know which town, the physical building; I know it will be a new space with D, a kitten, a colder winter, a place with good cheese. I know all of this, and I know I will feel at home when I am in our apartment. But what I don't know yet is what Cosima does--she moves when and where she has work. She moves back to Grace--her childhood town--to check on her ailing father and teach at the high school for a year when the school is desperate for someone. I understand this type of moving. It is indeed the type of move that D is doing. But for me, this move will not be for work. Right now, without the promise of work, it is a move solely for love, for happiness.
I think I am not the only one who has nerves about this kind of move. American idealism may say freedom and the pursuit of happiness, but US culture says be street smart, have financial security, make decisions based on logic not emotion. In my heart of hearts, I believe that D and I will be together for a long time to come. I know that she is my favorite person and my favorite place. I know that I am hers as well. We already live together. There is nothing to indicate that moving this summer will change any of these things. But no one can read the future. And this is why Cosima is truly scared of staying in one place, making it work with Loyd. She is scared that what she loves will disappear. She speaks about a recurring nightmare wherein she hears a loud pop and is suddenly blind. She comes to realize that this dream is not just about losing her sight, but about her context. One chapter closes with "What you lose in blindness is the space around you, the place where you are, and without that you might not exist. You could be nowhere at all." Moving for something ethereal as joy, or in Cosima's situation not moving, is scary because it has no set shape. We cannot map its perimeter or its parameter.
In the story Loyd is a Pueblo-Apache man with a half-coyote dog. At one point he explains that Apaches are wanderers and Pueblo are homebodies. Cosima, the point of view character, asks him which he is. Without hesitation, he says Pueblo. When he turns the question on her, Cosima makes a joke about how her friend once called her a "home-ignorer." It is pretty clear that Cosima is at least in her mind a wanderer. But ultimately she is neither. Home for her isn't the apartment she keeps now or the life of transitions and moving; home isn't in any of the versions of herself she's created over the years. For some reason she feels she isn't worthy or capable of home.
On an early date, Loyd and Cosima visit some "ancient condos" of adobe, and eventually during Christmas, the couple stay at Loyd's mother's home on the Pueblo reservation and watch the all-day dancing festival from the rooftop. I love how the architecture of houses, both literal and figurative, is such a diverse and detailed observation of Kingsolver's in this book. Cosima has been planning to leave since before she arrived--one year of teaching biology at the high school and she's out. Loyd sees this attitude as part of her life's pattern of running to something (which will inevitably not be the perfection for which you search) instead of creating it wherever you go. On the rooftop between watching the dancers in the village below, Cosima points out some adobe houses in a state of collapse:
[The following dialogue is pulled from a delicate weave of pacing which I didn't want to recreate here--sorry Kingsolver.]
C: How come those houses over there near the edge of the cliff are falling down?
L: Because they're old.
C: Thank you. I mean, why doesn't somebody fix them up? You guys are the experts, you've been building houses for nine hundred years.
L: Not necessarily in the same place. This village was in seven other places before they built it here.
C: So when something gets old they just let it fall down?
L: Sometimes. Some day you'll get old and fall down.
C:Thanks for reminding me.
L: The greatest honor you can give a house is to let it fall back down into the ground. That's where everything comes from in the first place.
C: But then you've lost your house.
L: Not if you know how to build another one. All those great pueblos like at Kinishba--people lived in them awhile, and then they'd move on. Just leave them standing. Maybe go to a place with better water, or something.
C: I thought they were homebodies.
L: The important thing isn't the house. It's the ability to make it. You carry that in your brain and in your hands, wherever you go...We're like coyotes, get to a good place, turn around three times in the grass, and you're home. Once you know how, you can always do that, no matter what. You won't forget.
In the book, this gets Cosima recognizing her own rationalizations as such for leaving at the end of the school year. In my life, it makes me think about the places I've lived since I left my mother's house. In this way, I relate to Cosima. If you were to look at the record of residences I'd have to put down in applying for a lease, you would most likely call me a wanderer.
- I graduated college and moved back to my mother's place in May, 2004.
- In July I drove what I could carry in my car and moved to Bethesda, MD, into a group house with 3 men.
- 7 months later, I moved again, to a grad student apartment with a friend.
- 8 months later, we moved into a DC apartment, closer to school.
- 7 months later, we split up and both got our own apartments within the same building.
- 8 months later, I moved back to Maryland, into an apartment with another friend.
- 7 months later, my friend's woman was moving in with her--which meant I moved out of that apartment and into another in the same complex.
- 1 year later, I moved to Long Island.
- This summer, I will move again, after nearly two years here, in the same apartment.
In a span of 6 years, I will have moved 9 times and that's counting the 2-years of staying in one place. I can relate to Cosima, but I am not her. I feel her ease with moving and mine are of two different energies. I don't see any of my moves, except maybe the 3rd, as a "running away" from something. And, perhaps unlike Cosima, I do truly feel I've been at home in these places (except the 7th). I carry home in my brain and in my hands. I may move more frequently than others, but I don't wander.
And yet, the large summer move coming up is a scary one. It will be the first time I move for which my plans aren't completely solid. Yes, I already know where I'm moving to--I know which town, the physical building; I know it will be a new space with D, a kitten, a colder winter, a place with good cheese. I know all of this, and I know I will feel at home when I am in our apartment. But what I don't know yet is what Cosima does--she moves when and where she has work. She moves back to Grace--her childhood town--to check on her ailing father and teach at the high school for a year when the school is desperate for someone. I understand this type of moving. It is indeed the type of move that D is doing. But for me, this move will not be for work. Right now, without the promise of work, it is a move solely for love, for happiness.
I think I am not the only one who has nerves about this kind of move. American idealism may say freedom and the pursuit of happiness, but US culture says be street smart, have financial security, make decisions based on logic not emotion. In my heart of hearts, I believe that D and I will be together for a long time to come. I know that she is my favorite person and my favorite place. I know that I am hers as well. We already live together. There is nothing to indicate that moving this summer will change any of these things. But no one can read the future. And this is why Cosima is truly scared of staying in one place, making it work with Loyd. She is scared that what she loves will disappear. She speaks about a recurring nightmare wherein she hears a loud pop and is suddenly blind. She comes to realize that this dream is not just about losing her sight, but about her context. One chapter closes with "What you lose in blindness is the space around you, the place where you are, and without that you might not exist. You could be nowhere at all." Moving for something ethereal as joy, or in Cosima's situation not moving, is scary because it has no set shape. We cannot map its perimeter or its parameter.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Fish Lover
I'll admit it. I'm attached to my goldfish, Guy. [Disclaimer: the fish actually started as my partner's alone, but it came to stay with me one summer and then of course, I came to stay with him when I moved in with my partner a year later.] He's got a great personality. He recognizes our voices when we come home and knows when to act cute so we second-guess ourselves about if he's already eaten. (He likes to eat, a lot. Note picture of tiny Guy, followed by picture of Guy now.)
Most people who have experience with cats or dogs or other furry creatures you can hug or hold in your arms don't understand how people become attached to fish. People assume correctly that it is harder to build a connection with something you can't touch--so much of the traditional idea of intimacy in our lives comes from our experience of touch sensation. However, I think if we thought about it a little longer we would also agree that many of us have the ability to create intimacy without touch. If you've ever started a relationship with the help of online networking sites, or if you've ever sustained a long distance relationship with family or a love interest, then you know it isn't all about touch.
I don't have romantic feelings for my fish, by the way. But I have been observing him, caring for him, watching him grow for nearly two years. He has certainly become a part of the life I live with D. We enjoy trying to persuade him of who his better "mom" is almost daily. There was a point last year when we weren't on a good communication schedule about his feeding, and he got too big around the middle to swim between the side of his tank and the black filter tube and cut himself. The glowing red wound in the middle of his iridescent body scales reminded me of the animated Hobbit movie from the 70s. It looked like that one weak area on the soft underside of the dragon. I wondered if something else hit him there before he healed if it would be the end. I wondered if he would have the wound for a long time and whether or not fish wounds get infected. The scale grew back but it's a few shades lighter than the rest, evidence of his battle.
Then there was this random weeknight when I was sitting on the couch and D was working at the table on classwork when Guy was playing with his rocks--literally--and sucked one back into his throat. I looked over and his mouth was open wider than I'd ever seen it, his gills were pumping hard. He was choking and there was nothing I could do about it. I had the urge to put my hand in there and try some form of the Heimlich Maneuver. In 30 seconds or so, he'd managed to work it out himself and was back to his usual swimming. It was one of the most anxiety-ridden moments of my life. Watching him struggle gave me a flashback to the time when my parents were out of town and our dog Ginger had pneumonia and collapsed in my arms.
So, you can imagine that a week or so ago, when we realized Guy's tank filtration system wasn't working anymore, we were concerned and planned to get him a new system and/or new tank asap. We put him in the new tank last Sunday, and he seemed delighted--his usual outgoing self, showing off for our friends who'd come over to hang out. But Tuesday when we came home we found him not swimming but resting at the bottom of his tank, not wanting to move or eat. I thought he'd be dead within a few hours. So we took the new tank, rocks, filtration system, and plants back to store, not knowing exactly what the problem was/is. Guy is still alive, now Friday, but his tail and fins have started bleeding and deteriorating. What was once a much larger fin with soft, rounded edges like sugar cookie dough rolled out is now scallopped with loss, as if someone came along the edge with a cookie cutter and took deep cresent-shaped bites out of it. He has been living in the large bucket that is usually only a temporary home for tank cleanings. I don't know which is more difficult at this point: knowing that it must have been something I did in the set-up of the new tank that made him sick or having to watch his fins bleed and unravel before our eyes, slowly, without answers or solutions.
On top of these issues though, it sucks that Guy is a fish because I used to be one of those people who didn't get it, so I assume that when I tell people I'm sad about him, that they are rolling their eyes on the inside because I used to do that. I am different now. I am a fish lover.
Most people who have experience with cats or dogs or other furry creatures you can hug or hold in your arms don't understand how people become attached to fish. People assume correctly that it is harder to build a connection with something you can't touch--so much of the traditional idea of intimacy in our lives comes from our experience of touch sensation. However, I think if we thought about it a little longer we would also agree that many of us have the ability to create intimacy without touch. If you've ever started a relationship with the help of online networking sites, or if you've ever sustained a long distance relationship with family or a love interest, then you know it isn't all about touch.
I don't have romantic feelings for my fish, by the way. But I have been observing him, caring for him, watching him grow for nearly two years. He has certainly become a part of the life I live with D. We enjoy trying to persuade him of who his better "mom" is almost daily. There was a point last year when we weren't on a good communication schedule about his feeding, and he got too big around the middle to swim between the side of his tank and the black filter tube and cut himself. The glowing red wound in the middle of his iridescent body scales reminded me of the animated Hobbit movie from the 70s. It looked like that one weak area on the soft underside of the dragon. I wondered if something else hit him there before he healed if it would be the end. I wondered if he would have the wound for a long time and whether or not fish wounds get infected. The scale grew back but it's a few shades lighter than the rest, evidence of his battle.
Then there was this random weeknight when I was sitting on the couch and D was working at the table on classwork when Guy was playing with his rocks--literally--and sucked one back into his throat. I looked over and his mouth was open wider than I'd ever seen it, his gills were pumping hard. He was choking and there was nothing I could do about it. I had the urge to put my hand in there and try some form of the Heimlich Maneuver. In 30 seconds or so, he'd managed to work it out himself and was back to his usual swimming. It was one of the most anxiety-ridden moments of my life. Watching him struggle gave me a flashback to the time when my parents were out of town and our dog Ginger had pneumonia and collapsed in my arms.
So, you can imagine that a week or so ago, when we realized Guy's tank filtration system wasn't working anymore, we were concerned and planned to get him a new system and/or new tank asap. We put him in the new tank last Sunday, and he seemed delighted--his usual outgoing self, showing off for our friends who'd come over to hang out. But Tuesday when we came home we found him not swimming but resting at the bottom of his tank, not wanting to move or eat. I thought he'd be dead within a few hours. So we took the new tank, rocks, filtration system, and plants back to store, not knowing exactly what the problem was/is. Guy is still alive, now Friday, but his tail and fins have started bleeding and deteriorating. What was once a much larger fin with soft, rounded edges like sugar cookie dough rolled out is now scallopped with loss, as if someone came along the edge with a cookie cutter and took deep cresent-shaped bites out of it. He has been living in the large bucket that is usually only a temporary home for tank cleanings. I don't know which is more difficult at this point: knowing that it must have been something I did in the set-up of the new tank that made him sick or having to watch his fins bleed and unravel before our eyes, slowly, without answers or solutions.
On top of these issues though, it sucks that Guy is a fish because I used to be one of those people who didn't get it, so I assume that when I tell people I'm sad about him, that they are rolling their eyes on the inside because I used to do that. I am different now. I am a fish lover.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Spring Relationshi[t] Reprise
One of my friends recently wrote an article about being dumped in the spring, which made me reminisce to an earlier time in my life, a time when I too went through a break-up during spring. She had been a grad-school roommate for a moment before we started dating. She became my first live-in girlfriend, and the split was messy. Right before she had started dating me, though, she had met someone online and gone on a date or two with the woman, a woman with whom she would later really hit it off.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Aiming The War
On the way home yesterday, during a one-day fundraising drive of NPR's local station--WSHU, I heard a[nother] news story about Don't Ask, Don't Tell. After Joint Chiefs of Staff Admiral Mike Mullen came out in favor of repealing the law a couple weeks ago, Army Chief of Staff General George Casey is calling for slower movement, based on a future year's worth of researching by the Pentagon on the effects of GLB folk openly serving in the military.
A lot of men in my family have served or are currently serving in various branches of the armed forces. My brother, an Airman First Class, should be coming home from Korea within a month. My grandfather, a retired Major in the Air Force, died while Chris was in Basic Training. I have uncles and cousins who have served or are still serving. I say this because I do not consider my perspective to be only that of a queer woman. Rather I want people to know that my stance in favor of repealing Don't Ask, Don't Tell is more largely from the perspective of one who is connected to the armed forces through loved ones even though I'm not IN the armed forces myself. From this perspective, I find it insulting to the quality of soldier that I know my family members to be to say that GLB people openly serving will create havoc and ruin the focus, drive, and commitment of the various branches.
I'm really sick of hearing the same old argument about not knowing the "impacts on readiness and military effectiveness" (Halloran quoting Casey), as if that is the real hold-up. I mean, kudos, for finding some language that will persuade those who only spend 10 seconds thinking about the issues, but when are we going to stop using the war card to claim why our soldiers aren't ready for change, as if GLBs in the military would be a change anyway?
Casey's words are similar to saying that left-handed painters might not be ready to paint next to openly right-handed painters because they all have a project deadline. It's irrelevant. What does the dominant hand or the sexual orientation of your neighbor really have to do with how well YOU perform, EVEN if it's a group project? Just as painters are trained to paint, soldiers are trained for combat (among other things), and the smaller details of the next person's physique or eye-color or sexual orientation, have very little to do with either person's ability to do the task they are both trained to do. I refuse to believe that our military isn't trained enough to be able to deal with the tiny changes that will occur if some random Joe's and Jane's are now able to say who they are really dating. And likewise, I refuse to let "war"--the soldiers' assignments--be the reason that we can't let everyone answer truthfully about something that has and should have very little to do with war.
I think people are missing the target when thinking that the possibility of growing pains is reason enough to not grow at all. I heard a guy saying once to a reporter who had just reminded him that gays and lesbians are already serving in the military that being openly gay in the military will cause tension and crisis in the living quarters. Unfortunately, no one was there to remind him that it is not being openly gay that causes tension. If one soldier's orientation effects another soldier's performance, it is only indirectly. What is REALLY effecting the performance and focus of the 2nd soldier is his/her/hirs own fear and anxiety surrounding gays in the military. Hello, homophobia.
Instead of trying to sell lying as a virtue to our GLB soldiers and their families and loved ones, why doesn't the military focus on eradicating the homophobia, not the "homo's."
A lot of men in my family have served or are currently serving in various branches of the armed forces. My brother, an Airman First Class, should be coming home from Korea within a month. My grandfather, a retired Major in the Air Force, died while Chris was in Basic Training. I have uncles and cousins who have served or are still serving. I say this because I do not consider my perspective to be only that of a queer woman. Rather I want people to know that my stance in favor of repealing Don't Ask, Don't Tell is more largely from the perspective of one who is connected to the armed forces through loved ones even though I'm not IN the armed forces myself. From this perspective, I find it insulting to the quality of soldier that I know my family members to be to say that GLB people openly serving will create havoc and ruin the focus, drive, and commitment of the various branches.
I'm really sick of hearing the same old argument about not knowing the "impacts on readiness and military effectiveness" (Halloran quoting Casey), as if that is the real hold-up. I mean, kudos, for finding some language that will persuade those who only spend 10 seconds thinking about the issues, but when are we going to stop using the war card to claim why our soldiers aren't ready for change, as if GLBs in the military would be a change anyway?
Casey's words are similar to saying that left-handed painters might not be ready to paint next to openly right-handed painters because they all have a project deadline. It's irrelevant. What does the dominant hand or the sexual orientation of your neighbor really have to do with how well YOU perform, EVEN if it's a group project? Just as painters are trained to paint, soldiers are trained for combat (among other things), and the smaller details of the next person's physique or eye-color or sexual orientation, have very little to do with either person's ability to do the task they are both trained to do. I refuse to believe that our military isn't trained enough to be able to deal with the tiny changes that will occur if some random Joe's and Jane's are now able to say who they are really dating. And likewise, I refuse to let "war"--the soldiers' assignments--be the reason that we can't let everyone answer truthfully about something that has and should have very little to do with war.
I think people are missing the target when thinking that the possibility of growing pains is reason enough to not grow at all. I heard a guy saying once to a reporter who had just reminded him that gays and lesbians are already serving in the military that being openly gay in the military will cause tension and crisis in the living quarters. Unfortunately, no one was there to remind him that it is not being openly gay that causes tension. If one soldier's orientation effects another soldier's performance, it is only indirectly. What is REALLY effecting the performance and focus of the 2nd soldier is his/her/hirs own fear and anxiety surrounding gays in the military. Hello, homophobia.
Instead of trying to sell lying as a virtue to our GLB soldiers and their families and loved ones, why doesn't the military focus on eradicating the homophobia, not the "homo's."
(The first picture is my grandfather in Korea. The second picture is from Vietnam. My grandfather is second from the right--the cowboy stance.)
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
A long post or a short autobiography: My life in slices
Last Friday Drew and I had a play date in NYC to celebrate our three year anniversary. When I got home from work around 2PM, neither of us had eaten anything since breakfast and were quite hungry. The original plan had been to go into the city and straight to sushi happy hour deal before hitting up the MoMA. However, since we needed food at 2PM, we weren't waiting until we drove to the LIRR station, rode the 1.4 hours into the city, and spent another 20-30 minutes finding the restaurant to have a bite to eat.
Instead we changed our plans a little and grabbed a slice at Cataffo's, the nearby pizzeria. It hit the spot. The place is a little more than a shot-gun hole in the wall with a door up front and a door in back and four or so booths in between, across from the counter. And even though the large slice of cheese threatened to ruin my All-You-Can-Eat expectations for sushi, I was having a near perfect moment, sitting across from my favorite person, thawing as an authentic NY slice settled in my greedy belly.
It was such a meaningful start to our date that I thought about it hours later as Drew drove us back home from the train station, our MoMA and sushi and Penn Station tasks all completed. Pizza may be the food I've had more than any other food in my life. Hamburgers and chicken fingers definitely had a head start during my elementary school years when they'd be all I'd order at restaurants, but combined with years of not eating beef, and all those vegetarian years, and I think it's safe to say pizza makes the final cut.
My life seen through pizza's eyes is like a child's activity book page, a sequence of connect-the-dots which together form a crisp, if not rugged, image.
When I was growing up in a small Texas suburb, there was a pizza buffet place a block away--Mr. Gatti's. We lived on a the corner of a T-intersection and the only thing between the Mr. Gatti's and our house was a grown-over field with a baseball diamond. I remember being about as tall as the buffet line I was supposed to push my plate down. The tiny two-room restaurant was kept movie theatre dark because it was a movie theatre of sorts. The entire back wall of each room was screen, usually playing some film channel or sports event. I remember Sunday afternoons with extended family and birthday parties of friends and spontaneous week day nights. It saddened me to see it close after my parents divorced, a couple years before we moved away.
I hadn't known that Mr. Gatti's was a chain at all, but the next and last time I saw one, I was on a road trip to the 1999 State Wide Drama Convention in Corpus Christi with twenty other drama club teens from my high school. We had left the school early that morning, and on our way south out of town, some car stopped at a stop sign thought he had enough time to turn left in front of our bus to get on the freeway. He did not. The bus driver braked hard but we hit him anyway. My face slammed into the seat back in front of me. I thought my nose had fallen off. We all got out, walking slowly past the bloody car, and waited for emergency response vehicles. The teachers called our parents. Some went home, most stayed. We were told later that the man in the car died on the way to the hospital. We got a new bus driver, and since we hadn't planned on such a delay, ended up needing to stop off the highway to eat lunch before we arrived at the convention. There was some kind of chicken place and a Mr. Gatti's. I remember wondering if it had dropped down out of the sky, like Dorothy's house, to be a comfort on such a day.
Even after high school, a slice of zza was still a sign of safety. After a particularly rough school year, the summer between my junior and senior years of college I spent at NYU, reinventing myself as an artist and living off of the Sbarro two blocks away from my E 10th and Broadway apartment. The summer was unbelievably hot without air conditioning on the 9 floor sharing a space with four other women. Most of my roommates were already at internships or in class when I ate lunch. Sbarro offered air conditioning and cheap food outside of the NYU cafeteria, where eating alone was unusual. Sbarro, in that case, also offered me concealment, a way to blend into the city as just another independent on-the-go. Ever since, when I'm in an airport or breaking at an interstate rest stop--I always feel tempted to get the Sbarro, as if paying allegiance to a great mentor.
I ended up going to a small school for college in a town so close to Oklahoma you could drive there and back between classes. The newly manufactured Wal-Mart and the fact that we had KFC and Quizno's meant that Sherman, TX was on the map--the envy of rural towns to the east, west, and south of us. While small college towns are known for quintessential drunken party memories that "prove" college is the "best time in your life," my collegiate highlights are filled with the smell of baked cheese. Papa John's wasn't the only pizza place in town, but it was the closest at .5 miles from campus, and if you were a student, you could always get an $8 large. By the time I was a senior, and lived in a 4 bedroom apartment on campus with my best friend Amanda, the speed dial number for Papa John's was flaking off my cell phone. Our second floor windows always lit up late in the evening, were the frame for me working on a moquette or a Milton paper while Amanda bent over her neurobiology notes at the breakfast table. One of us would look up, decide it was time for a break, and order a thin crust, extra-cheese and green bell pepper pizza. We'd discuss the nerd projects we were so diligently attending and listen to The White Stripes latest CD. I imagine our silhouettes seen from the outside pulling away from the furniture and coming to life at the sound of the doorbell.
Drunken moments with pizza happened way more in graduate school than they did in college for me. And even then, I didn't have them right away. I finally left my home state when I went to graduate school in Washington D.C, and for a while there, I didn't eat much pizza at all. I was the brokest I've ever felt my first semester of graduate school, working part time checking at Balducci's to help pay for the extra class I was taking. Ordering pizza would have been a luxury that replaced grocery money for half a week. However, when a friend from college came to visit for her birthday, we hit the town. After a day on our feet, we had Sangria and tapas for dinner before finding an Irish pub in Georgetown. The night was still young when we wanted to leave, so we went to Adam's Morgan. This is when D.C's famous Jumbo Slice came into my life. Around 3AM the clubs were closing, my friend was even more wasted than I was, and we were waiting on a housemate of mine to pick us up. The light beckoning us like a herald angel lead to single pizza slices equivalent to half of a large pie somewhere else. My friend ended up loosing some of hers on the sidewalk, more in the car, and the rest in my bathroom, but I'm still a fan.
A few years after this first D.C. pizza experience, Drew, our friend Jean, and I get kicked off the penultimate Red Line train out of the city to Silver Spring because Jean took a bite of her (Dupont) Angelo's slice on the train. A literal bite. I still have a few pictures somewhere of us waiting on the platform for what we hoped would be another train. I've never been kicked out of a club, a bar, or even a party, so being kicked off the public transportation vehicle supposed to take me home was quite a shock. I remember planning the logically superior letters I was going to write about how unfairly we were treated and thinking I just needed to finish my pizza first.
After graduating with my MFA, living in Silver Spring, MD was cheaper than living in D.C, but I still had to find multiple jobs to help pay for bills. At one point, I was teaching three college courses, tutoring four hours a week, giving myself to Johns Hopkins research studies on malaria, and working as a hostess for a local Italian restaurant chain who sold pizza by the slice. The Germantown branch may have been in trouble for money laundering, and the place may have warranted my friends nicknaming it my Mob Job, but the food--as long as you stayed away from the salad--was excellent. I had a slice of pizza most nights I worked there and even got to take some extra pizza and rolls home. The chefs had crushes on me and the gelato maker was a sweet white haired Sicilian who smoked a cigar, sometimes inside the restaurant as we cleaned. At this time I was still broke, and I was a little scared of the men I worked for, but while it lasted, the smell of day old pizza warming in the oven was enough to make me feel content.
I left Silver Spring for Long Island, where most of my pizza experiences are Papa John's, with friends and games. These are all good memories, but the best two pizza moments so far since I've lived here have been the Brooklyn play date Drew and I had late last year randomly on a Monday--where we ate at a pinwheel, knish, and pizza joint near the base of the Brooklyn Bridge (photo above)--and last Friday's lunch right here near home. Maybe it's not so rare to have good pizza memories when the food has become number one in America for slumber parties, school day treats, and quick order meals. The vision of the USA that is touted on the TV is one where pizza is always eaten with a group. It brings a family together, it celebrates a little league victory, it takes the pressure off cooking and cleaning for a friends-night-in. And in my case, it can reveal illusions of family closeness, conceal temporary loneliness, and be a key part in celebrating my love of being in love. Once the memories are connected, the full image makes me thankful for having such a food staple in my life. Through thick and thin pizza will always be here.
Do you have a pizza memory to share? I'd love to read it!
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Harmless Office Supply Or Identity?
I'm slowly coming to grips with my newly purchased planner.
I finally went to Staples and bought a 2010 planner. I'd asked for an academic one from work back in September but kept forgetting to follow up with the guy who does the shopping. And by November's end, an academic year planner just seemed silly. And then New Year's came and went, and with each passing work day, I've been using that teeny-tiny "future planning" yearly spread in the back of my 2009 planner. This past Sunday was the day I finally decided things had to change.
Even though my old planner was a mere 'weekly' calendar with no bells or whistles, I had gotten used to it--used to not having the monthly spreads every four weeks or so, used to not having the super helpful month tabs on the side, used to the pre-printed meeting hours not matching up with my usual workday/week. If I was going to spend my own money on 2010 planner, though, I wanted to get the planner of my dreams.
So after about 10 minutes of ogling the aisle, I am deciding between a small brown weekly/monthly and a tall handsome green weekly [only], and I decide to go with "size." Saying that I went with vanity makes it sound like I am a beauty-over-brains kind of girl, but I knew that by choosing the green one, I'd get both vanity and size. I'd get to be business but not boring. And that makes me practical, right? A more-bang-for-my-buck thing.
And then I notice a smaller, same shade of green, monthly [only]. I'm thinking: I could get both weekly and monthly [yes], have vanity [yes!] , and spend twice the money for the inevitability of not wanting to lug TWO planners around [no]. So I tell myself again that I'm being practical and decide to take the weekly green planner up to the register.
And yet, three feet before the register is a small table touting a bunch of planners for the new year. I owe it to myself to look. I skim over everything quickly, still clutching my green goddess, and then I see the words "weekly/monthly" printed on one of the larger ones. I flip it open, and it has monthly tabs as well. Examining the 'week' pages, I see that a workday goes from 7am to 9pm--good enough hours for my unusual schedule. Everything about this new planner is screaming "I'm The One!" Every thing, except for the hot pink cover. It's Staples brand, so I quickly go back to the aisle, surmise that yes, indeed this planner is one of only two Staples weekly/monthly's left in the store--both 'pank'--said in my thickest Texan.
Part of me, a large part, doesn't want to look at a hot pink planner for an entire year. I don't want to see it on my desk, I don't want to pull it out of my otherwise sophisticated Timbuk2 during meetings with school principals or intern interviewees. In short, I don't want to be the girl with the pink planner. I don't want everyone in 2010 who sees me to think I chose pink, and what a shade it is, over all the other possible colors available to me, as if I'm some sorority princess turned law school student. I may have once been blond, but I am not that girl.
I wanted the muted, olive green planner.
But my shame in my own vanity made me buy the pink one. Who am I to care what other people think (perhaps my biggest character flaw)? I don't have to fall prey to the simple gender binary. So what if I'm not a girly-girl. By owning one thing that's pink, even owning and loving one pink thing, I am not redefining my gender. It's just a pink planner.
(If you've read this far, then you probably understand why this detail has turned into a blog entry. No matter how many times I think it, this post is evidence enough that this pink planner is not just a pink planner.)
Maybe I have it wrong. Maybe my choices weren't spurred by vanity after all but by self identity (probably both), and I've been giving vanity all the credit. Maybe I needed to write about my Elle Woods planner to confirm for myself that my gender identity is not made by things that surround me, that I can still feel and be the girl who likes green even though I'm also the girl who sports pink.
And then somewhere in this thought I can't help but see this analogously, minutely, to how some people feel all the time. Some people, whether they identify as transgender or not, feel consistently let down by their circumstances. Maybe the clothes they have to wear match society's views about how they should dress but don't match their internal sense of self. And once I'm here in my thought process I start to fester about how crappy society's gender prescriptions can be and about how I support folks being true to themselves as frequently as they can. And then that thought of course leads me back to feeling bad about my pink planner purchase. Pink isn't me, so why did I let myself not follow my self? And then I feel doubly the schmuck because now I've tried to liken my trivial office supply list to a person's experiences with gender variance or gender nonconformity. Will the self shame ever end?
So, as I'm trying to come to grips with my purchase of the hot pink planner, I am forced to remind myself just how deeply Gender effects confidence.
* * * * *
I used to think my planner said I was stressed but well time-managed, organized and yet fun. Now, I'm not so sure. What does your planner look like? What features are a "must?" What does your planner say about you? Is this an accurate description?
I finally went to Staples and bought a 2010 planner. I'd asked for an academic one from work back in September but kept forgetting to follow up with the guy who does the shopping. And by November's end, an academic year planner just seemed silly. And then New Year's came and went, and with each passing work day, I've been using that teeny-tiny "future planning" yearly spread in the back of my 2009 planner. This past Sunday was the day I finally decided things had to change.
Even though my old planner was a mere 'weekly' calendar with no bells or whistles, I had gotten used to it--used to not having the monthly spreads every four weeks or so, used to not having the super helpful month tabs on the side, used to the pre-printed meeting hours not matching up with my usual workday/week. If I was going to spend my own money on 2010 planner, though, I wanted to get the planner of my dreams.
So after about 10 minutes of ogling the aisle, I am deciding between a small brown weekly/monthly and a tall handsome green weekly [only], and I decide to go with "size." Saying that I went with vanity makes it sound like I am a beauty-over-brains kind of girl, but I knew that by choosing the green one, I'd get both vanity and size. I'd get to be business but not boring. And that makes me practical, right? A more-bang-for-my-buck thing.
And then I notice a smaller, same shade of green, monthly [only]. I'm thinking: I could get both weekly and monthly [yes], have vanity [yes!] , and spend twice the money for the inevitability of not wanting to lug TWO planners around [no]. So I tell myself again that I'm being practical and decide to take the weekly green planner up to the register.
And yet, three feet before the register is a small table touting a bunch of planners for the new year. I owe it to myself to look. I skim over everything quickly, still clutching my green goddess, and then I see the words "weekly/monthly" printed on one of the larger ones. I flip it open, and it has monthly tabs as well. Examining the 'week' pages, I see that a workday goes from 7am to 9pm--good enough hours for my unusual schedule. Everything about this new planner is screaming "I'm The One!" Every thing, except for the hot pink cover. It's Staples brand, so I quickly go back to the aisle, surmise that yes, indeed this planner is one of only two Staples weekly/monthly's left in the store--both 'pank'--said in my thickest Texan.
Part of me, a large part, doesn't want to look at a hot pink planner for an entire year. I don't want to see it on my desk, I don't want to pull it out of my otherwise sophisticated Timbuk2 during meetings with school principals or intern interviewees. In short, I don't want to be the girl with the pink planner. I don't want everyone in 2010 who sees me to think I chose pink, and what a shade it is, over all the other possible colors available to me, as if I'm some sorority princess turned law school student. I may have once been blond, but I am not that girl.
I wanted the muted, olive green planner.
But my shame in my own vanity made me buy the pink one. Who am I to care what other people think (perhaps my biggest character flaw)? I don't have to fall prey to the simple gender binary. So what if I'm not a girly-girl. By owning one thing that's pink, even owning and loving one pink thing, I am not redefining my gender. It's just a pink planner.
(If you've read this far, then you probably understand why this detail has turned into a blog entry. No matter how many times I think it, this post is evidence enough that this pink planner is not just a pink planner.)
Maybe I have it wrong. Maybe my choices weren't spurred by vanity after all but by self identity (probably both), and I've been giving vanity all the credit. Maybe I needed to write about my Elle Woods planner to confirm for myself that my gender identity is not made by things that surround me, that I can still feel and be the girl who likes green even though I'm also the girl who sports pink.
And then somewhere in this thought I can't help but see this analogously, minutely, to how some people feel all the time. Some people, whether they identify as transgender or not, feel consistently let down by their circumstances. Maybe the clothes they have to wear match society's views about how they should dress but don't match their internal sense of self. And once I'm here in my thought process I start to fester about how crappy society's gender prescriptions can be and about how I support folks being true to themselves as frequently as they can. And then that thought of course leads me back to feeling bad about my pink planner purchase. Pink isn't me, so why did I let myself not follow my self? And then I feel doubly the schmuck because now I've tried to liken my trivial office supply list to a person's experiences with gender variance or gender nonconformity. Will the self shame ever end?
So, as I'm trying to come to grips with my purchase of the hot pink planner, I am forced to remind myself just how deeply Gender effects confidence.
* * * * *
I used to think my planner said I was stressed but well time-managed, organized and yet fun. Now, I'm not so sure. What does your planner look like? What features are a "must?" What does your planner say about you? Is this an accurate description?
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Head versus heart: When does passionate explanation go too far?
One of the most rewarding parts of my job is getting to speak about GLBT human rights issues and with Long Islanders at school and in their places of work. I am always excited to see faces that had been stern or questioning come out on the other side of a workshop with smiles and understanding--even if the understanding isn't complete and some of the smiles are semi-forced. This happens often, but not always.
Last December I went to a faculty training, which went so well, that they invited me back for their next meeting. That was this past Monday. It was again an awesome meeting, one where hard questions were asked and discussions between thoughtful adults ensued. However, as with many workshops, we didn't have time to discuss ALL the questions. So, I've decided to email to the school my written response to the last question. As it is, I'm worried that it's a bit sharp, so, before I send it to an albeit 95% supportive school faculty/staff, I'd like to test the waters here.
Is the following question and answer set-up too "I used to teach argumentative writing for college students" in a bad way or a good way? The question originally in paragraph form, broken up into parts, reads:
1 Why are we addressing human sexuality issues with 10, 11, and 12 year old children?
2 Should we not give these children a chance to figure this out for themselves without putting labels on them and putting them into a situation that could cause them to be harassed and humiliated?
3 Are we not defeating the whole purpose of trying to protect these children from such [harassment and humiliation]?
In response to part1, part of reminding ourselves of heterosexual privilege means we need to remind ourselves of the pitfall of reducing GLBT issues to simple sexuality. Each straight person knows that his/her relationships and families are a HUGE part what we call our “lives.” GLBT people have spouses, mothers, and children too. GLBT people, as well as their family members no matter their ages should not be ignored or left out of times when it is expected or anticipated that we share about our families. And to speak specifically to 10, 11, and 12 year olds, don’t those children of GLBT parents have the right to see their own family structures represented and supported in school and society as well as the children of straight parents? So, we are not exactly talking about human sexuality, in terms of sexual acts. Indeed, I’m hard pressed imagining a time when middle school GSAs or classroom discussions of GLBT issues need to discuss acts of sex in any way, although I allow that there might be.
Last December I went to a faculty training, which went so well, that they invited me back for their next meeting. That was this past Monday. It was again an awesome meeting, one where hard questions were asked and discussions between thoughtful adults ensued. However, as with many workshops, we didn't have time to discuss ALL the questions. So, I've decided to email to the school my written response to the last question. As it is, I'm worried that it's a bit sharp, so, before I send it to an albeit 95% supportive school faculty/staff, I'd like to test the waters here.
Is the following question and answer set-up too "I used to teach argumentative writing for college students" in a bad way or a good way? The question originally in paragraph form, broken up into parts, reads:
1 Why are we addressing human sexuality issues with 10, 11, and 12 year old children?
2 Should we not give these children a chance to figure this out for themselves without putting labels on them and putting them into a situation that could cause them to be harassed and humiliated?
3 Are we not defeating the whole purpose of trying to protect these children from such [harassment and humiliation]?
In response to part1, part of reminding ourselves of heterosexual privilege means we need to remind ourselves of the pitfall of reducing GLBT issues to simple sexuality. Each straight person knows that his/her relationships and families are a HUGE part what we call our “lives.” GLBT people have spouses, mothers, and children too. GLBT people, as well as their family members no matter their ages should not be ignored or left out of times when it is expected or anticipated that we share about our families. And to speak specifically to 10, 11, and 12 year olds, don’t those children of GLBT parents have the right to see their own family structures represented and supported in school and society as well as the children of straight parents? So, we are not exactly talking about human sexuality, in terms of sexual acts. Indeed, I’m hard pressed imagining a time when middle school GSAs or classroom discussions of GLBT issues need to discuss acts of sex in any way, although I allow that there might be.
In response to part 2: First of all, I find the idea of letting the children fend for themselves, without guidance or support, is a very odd suggestion from an educator. Many people would agree that we shouldn’t just let a small child try to learn her ABCs or try to tie her shoes the first time, or try to brush her teeth for the first time without ANY assistance, support, or role models. As a society we don’t generally for anything let our children just fend for themselves (at least not right away). My experience shows that children understand faster when they receive encouragement and support and basic knowledge from adult models.
Secondly, GSAs (and classroom discussions around GLBT topics) are not places to LABEL the gay students as to separate them from others. I teach that every one has the right to label or not to label him/her/zie self; in fact, by definition and NAME, a Gay-Straight Alliance is a safe space where we come together and enjoy our differences and our similarities in a judgment free, harassment free zone. Most middle school GSAs are not political discussion groups or worked up about making waves in a school district. Middle school GSAs across the nation tend to be more socially focused. They are similar to other clubs: a space where friends with common interests and values can learn socialization and leadership skills by hanging out and or planning and implementing events together as a team. GSAs focus on eradicating the isolation and harrassment many students feel in adolescence.
(In response to part 3:) So no, I don’t think silence or ignoring the identities of students or their families is the way to promote an open honest space in which to grow and learn. NOR do I think that silence is the way to “protect” children from harassment or humiliation. This is how the world has been doing it, and it hasn’t worked yet. The truth is that we cannot protect children from their own inevitable sexuality. At this point in time, children are harassed and humiliated every day whether we ignore the GLBT issues or not. And yet, we have seen across the nation, that schools with GSA clubs and faculty/staff trainings tend to have more positive campus climate perceptions than schools without clubs or faculty/staff trainings. It is only with education, open minds, and visibility that we can begin to undermine the ignorance that causes people to harass and humiliate children based on some GLBT-related idea.
I am used to being asked questions that in most situations would be offensive (and sometimes are intended to be offensive), but these workshops are set up as safe spaces so that people CAN ask questions like this. It's better to get an answer instead of stewing in silence, hardened. Normally though, I get to respond in person with my own inflection and pacing. But I wonder, might this written response do a disservice to what attempts at helping this question-asker understand? Is possibly putting him on the defensive worth helping possibly numerous others?
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