Jump
Jump. Is how I feel right now.
There's a story about the desert that people should know. I'd never quite felt that absolute stillness before. I love the way heat settles--it's as if air itself were a dog twirling in tight circles before sitting down for a nap. I admired how tenacious the heat was, and how little it discriminated between person and plant.
Laurel, Oscar and I hiked the Pukara de Quitor, Incan ruins that lead up the hillside and into the sky. We wandered up the hillside to a large monument in the shape of a cross, which read: "Dios Mio, Dios Mio, por que me has abandonado?" (My God, My God, why have you abandoned me?) We were surrounded by a half-circle of face sculptures, and a plaque commemorating the indigenous people who were beheaded there. It was a bright, clear, eerie place with a 360 panorama of salt flats, jagged valleys and neighboring mountains. The sky was impeccably clear, and the sun happily fierce. The three of us were bound there, up above all the rocks, above our bicycles in the sand, above the bullshit of cell phones and health insurance and purposeful enterprise. Serenity itself made its home here, in the desert.
This was the Valle de la Luna. This was our Great Wall of Chile. We biked through the sand and climbed uphill just before the sun began its descent. The air was finally cool, quiet, and the stars were blossoming like late night flowers, bright and powerful. The air is so potent when you stop and realize it's there. We followed a narrow path along the hill's spine, practically running to keep up with the darkening sky. The sides of the valley shivered with excitement, with a shudder of orange, yellow and blue. What a privilege it was to be there, witnessing. How many other ways can we witness the world in a new way?
Fast forward to my last night in Chile. Laurel and I were staying in a tiny cabin in Cajon del Maipo, a village near the Andes about an hour outside of Santiago. Her friend Marcelo had driven us up the night before to stay in the little place he himself had helped build. The house was small and compact, with two little bedrooms and a snug living room. It relied mainly on a few battery-operated bulbs and a wide main window -- otherwise, no electricity. Marcelo dropped us off, leaving us with an expanse of countryside and a pack of friendly outdoor dogs. We were so unbelievably removed, I felt my body and mind completely used, stretched out, drawn to their limits. And yet it was a wonderful feeling, a sensation of having really lived to see something, and done it completely.
We made a small dinner of avocado and cheese sandwiches and grilled them over the stove, finding our way around the cabin in candlelight. The sun sank earlier here, where winter was slowly maturing. We could hear the dogs outside in the cold.
Later that evening, around three am, the most wonderful thing happened. It began to snow.
"Nieve! Nieve! Mira, chicas!" Marcelo and his friend Cesar ran into our room, hair dripping wet. Laurel and I threw on our coats and boots and ran outside, where the snow fell in thick chunks, like ripe fruit. It was all the endings of all the movies I've ever seen all thrown into one tight little ball: mountains, snow, best friends, remembered twilights, long bus rides to faraway destinations. And the occasional curveball, thrown in for good measure.
It made me want to jump.
Cachai?
One week ago I was in the San Pedro de Atacama desert in northern Chile with the one and only Laurel Brittan. Two extraordinary things to know: San Pedro de Atacama, and Laurel Brittan. At its very essence, my trip to Chile was an exciting, bilingual exile from the world of programmed daily ritual; a reminder that there is so much more to see when you are not seated behind a desk. To distill everything we did and everywhere we went into one simple summary is about as easy as sifting through two thousand photos for the best thirty.
In fourteen days, we went from the city of Santiago (engaging, active, albeit polluted) to the port town of Valparaiso (stunningly colorful series of hills by the beach) to the jaw-droppingly desolate Atacama desert, and finally to the Cajon del Maipo, where we stayed in an electricity-less cabin about a dozen yards from the Andes mountains.
I learned a few Chilenismos. Vacan = cool. Hueyon / hueyona = dude. Palta = avocado. Pololo / polola = boyfriend/girlfriend. Cachai? = Got it?
We met artists. Single dads. Fellow travelers. Friends of friends who introduced us to their friends. And Oscar Montecino, the rare traveling Chileno who we met in the desert and instantly became the glue that held us together. The three of us rented bicycles and hiked Incan ruins. We watched the sunset over the Valle de la Luna and the sunrise over the Geyser del Tatio. Things happen when you meet gentle strangers in beautiful places. Meaning comes from surprising sources. Best friends develop when sharing close quarters.
The desert inspires. I feel stories growing up my spine, not quite ready yet, but hopefully soon. Now that I'm back home, where we have easy access to hot water, where the beds are warm and clean, reality awaits. School. Insurance. Work. Growing up.
Vacan.
On Maturity
Transitions. I forgot about those.
It is official now. I quit my job. I'm going to visit my best friend in Chile in about four days. I will be starting a graduate program in creative writing a week after I get back. There are moments when this feels like the best decision in the world, and moments when it feels like I just shed about ten years of maturity, lost and unsure of myself.
Last night, while at a dinner party in my parents' neighborhood, I met a young man who is doing an MFA at the Iowa Writer's Workshop, perhaps the most prestigious graduate program for writers in the country. I asked him what his experience has been like, and he asked me what my goals were. I sputtered like an old gas pipe and started to repeat the feeble little mantras that have been rolling around in my brain for the last three years.
"I want to write," I said first. "I mean, I want to be better. I want to know what I'm doing, and know what to do next. I want to know how to submit work properly. I like teaching. I could teach. I want to learn about publishing and editing. Journalism's cool too."
He looked at me blankly. I cringed. It sounded like I was reading the back of an educational leaflet and highlighting all the words in bold. That's kind of what this application experience has been like. But I've got to start somewhere, right? The reason I quit my job was the same reason I am going back to school: somehow I've learned how to do whatever work I am assigned, but I never manage to get around to what I feel is important. This sudden invitation to write what I want, and to work creatively, is so open that I find myself missing the confines of a 9-5 job.
And then I blinked, and he pushed a glass of red wine across the table to me, and I remembered where I was, and how these are the internal ramblings of a truly lucky person. It was just past midnight, and we were sitting at a long table in my neighbor Lizzy's dining room. Lizzy had just prepared a gourmet organic meal for twenty people. Almost all of the guests were kids I had grown up with, a band of tall, loud and happy siblings who have since scattered across the globe and come back. I watched them all in the dimmed white lights, many of them bearded, nearly all of them over six feet, all of them grinning. All of them, from my high-school-science-teacher brother to the Lizzy, the event-planner-turned-chef, had made their careers piece by piece. There's no one way to be. I knew that, and I know that, but sometimes it's easier to allow others the freedom you can't (or won't) allow yourself.
Freedom, eh? I guess freedom starts with a ticket to Santiago, Chile...
NerdFest 9000
I had a moment of startling self-realization yesterday when it struck me that I listen to (on average) probably about 10 hours of podcasts per week. Ten hours?! That's ten hours that I'm not actively engaged in communicating with other people, or writing, or exercising, or working, for that matter. I feel less guilty when I consider that the first five are usually my early-morning-coffee hours before leaving the house to bike to work Monday through Friday. But the other five? Generally, those are my cooking hours, or my BART- and MUNI-riding hours, the occasional lunch break or stroll over Bernal Hill.
I start feeling better when I realize how supremely QUALITY these shows are, and even though I'm too broke to actively support any of them (at this point in time!), I do listen to them obsessively. I can't help it. These are my stories, my soap operas, the intellectual conversations I have with my coffee mug or the train station. And, in the tradition of my favorite podcast nerd-celebrities, I am going to make a TOP 10 list of my favorites and post them here:
1. This American Life
Okay, so this is a cult classic now, but I have been a loyal fan of Ira Glass and his band of microphone-wielding journalists since 1997, when I inherited an 8-track tape of the show "Music Lessons." This show was actually taped live in San Francisco, and featured David Sedaris, Sarah Vowell and Anne Lamott, three writers that I later saw speak at UCSB. The radio show has just gotten better with the years, and I'll grudgingly admit that its new television series is quite good too. Not the same, but also good.
2. Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me
Another NPR classic, this weekly news quiz show offers some of the best and most current satire out there. This captures my love for old-timey radio shows a la Prairie Home Companion, although it's punchier, more progressive, and not quite so Lutheran. I had the opportunity to see a live taping of Wait, Wait at UC Berkeley last spring, and it was even funnier in person. There's nothing quite like Peter Sagal making penis jokes in between interviewing prominent senators.
3. Radio Lab
This is THE BEST RADIO SHOW EVER PRODUCED, hands down. Jad Abumrad and Robert Krulwich literally make science the coolest thing in the world. They only produce about 12 shows a year, but every show is fascinating, hilarious, poignant, dutifully researched, and truly, amazingly original. My physicist friend Melina turned me on to them, and these babies are staying on my laptop until it bites its digital dust.
4. Sound Opinions
Think Chuck Klosterman meets Carl Kasell meets MTV for adults. Jim DeRogatis and Greg Kot host this great weekly podcast where they interview contemporary musicians of all genres, deconstruct musical movements such as disco, punk, and heavy metal, and break down the legal side of the music industry. I've become addicted to music criticism thanks to them, and find that this is podcast in particular is my favorite one to work out to, maybe because it makes me think and plays good music at the same time. They recommend music based on a "Buy It, Burn It, Trash It" scale which is at times hilarious. The show itself is Buy It all the way.
5. The Sound of Young America
Jesse Thorn hosts this hip and thoughtful podcast, which he updates regularly on his awesome blog, MaximumFun.org. This guy is my hero. He has interviewed all of the people I have ever wanted to meet (Janeane Garafalo, Gift of Gab, Neil Gaiman, Mike Birbiglia, Louis C.K., Ira Glass, and so so many more), and asks really thought-provoking and never patronizing questions. Perhaps my favorite part about him (aside from the fact that he's crazy talented) is that he started this show as a student at UC Santa Cruz, and his nonprofit podcast and radio empire has just multiplied since then. He also co-hosts Jordan, Jesse, Go!, which is the goofier, more casual side to Young America. A Plus to Jesse Thorn and his cronies for putting together a really fabulous DIY network.
6. The Moth
The Moth is a storytelling and open mic series that is hosted in New York City and Los Angeles. These stories are told by comedians, actors, writers, and really anyone with a fifteen-minute story who comes to the stage. The shows are organized by theme (a.k.a. "Loss," or "Animals," etc.), and are always insightful. Some of the best recordings I've ever heard were only about ten minutes long, from people I'd never heard of, but their words stayed with me. I heard a rumor that the Moth will be starting an hour-long public radio show soon, and I can't wait.
7. New Yorker Fiction Podcast
The New Yorker fiction editor Deborah Treisman hosts this monthly podcast which features a prominent writer reading his or her favorite story. The genres and styles of the stories vary greatly, as do the readers themselves, but these are the podcasts that remind me why I was a literature major, and what I could look forward to, if I ever achieve any success as a writer. The discussions before and after are really interesting, too. I first heard of Junot Diaz through a reading of one of his stories by Edwidge Danticat, and was so thrilled to find a writer who captures where I'm at right now. A great show.
8. Selected Shorts
Another great radio show out of WNYC--this one showcases live recordings of literary readings at New York City's Symphony Space. Isaiah Sheffer helps produce these evenings of short story brilliance, selects actors to perform the stories, and sometimes interviews performers and writers afterward. This is one of the shows that inspires me as a writer and reader, and sharpens my vocabulary as well. Would be a fun place to work...although I'd work for any of these podcasts for free!
9. To the Best of Our Knowledge
This Wisconsin-based PRI show tackles topics of many natures--anything from Military Identity in America to Atheism and its Critics. One of the best, most poignant radio stories I've ever heard was about how to parent transgender children. This radio could be the one thing that convinced me to move to Madison, one day.
10. NPR Live in Concert
For those broke music nerds who can't afford to see their favorite bands in concert, but do have the two hours to burn en route to and from work, this is the perfect podcast. I've used this podcast to check out bands whose work I'm not familiar with, but whose live performances seem absolutely transformative. There are a few concerts whose sets I've practically memorized--Bon Iver, Andrew Bird, the Ting Tings, Mates of State. Now this is a job I would love to have: recording and meeting all these bands. Sweet.
I thought I was exaggerating when I said ten hours of podcasts per week, but really that might be a conservative estimate. Maybe this is what happens when you grow up on PBS and NPR: maybe you have nerdy cravings for people with soothing voices deconstructing science or critiquing an old John Cheever story. Regardless, I love these podcasts in part because they make that part of the day mine, all mine, whether I am brushing my hair before work or walking up the hill home.
Oh, it feels good to be nerdy.
I start feeling better when I realize how supremely QUALITY these shows are, and even though I'm too broke to actively support any of them (at this point in time!), I do listen to them obsessively. I can't help it. These are my stories, my soap operas, the intellectual conversations I have with my coffee mug or the train station. And, in the tradition of my favorite podcast nerd-celebrities, I am going to make a TOP 10 list of my favorites and post them here:
1. This American Life
Okay, so this is a cult classic now, but I have been a loyal fan of Ira Glass and his band of microphone-wielding journalists since 1997, when I inherited an 8-track tape of the show "Music Lessons." This show was actually taped live in San Francisco, and featured David Sedaris, Sarah Vowell and Anne Lamott, three writers that I later saw speak at UCSB. The radio show has just gotten better with the years, and I'll grudgingly admit that its new television series is quite good too. Not the same, but also good.
2. Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me
Another NPR classic, this weekly news quiz show offers some of the best and most current satire out there. This captures my love for old-timey radio shows a la Prairie Home Companion, although it's punchier, more progressive, and not quite so Lutheran. I had the opportunity to see a live taping of Wait, Wait at UC Berkeley last spring, and it was even funnier in person. There's nothing quite like Peter Sagal making penis jokes in between interviewing prominent senators.
3. Radio Lab
This is THE BEST RADIO SHOW EVER PRODUCED, hands down. Jad Abumrad and Robert Krulwich literally make science the coolest thing in the world. They only produce about 12 shows a year, but every show is fascinating, hilarious, poignant, dutifully researched, and truly, amazingly original. My physicist friend Melina turned me on to them, and these babies are staying on my laptop until it bites its digital dust.
4. Sound Opinions
Think Chuck Klosterman meets Carl Kasell meets MTV for adults. Jim DeRogatis and Greg Kot host this great weekly podcast where they interview contemporary musicians of all genres, deconstruct musical movements such as disco, punk, and heavy metal, and break down the legal side of the music industry. I've become addicted to music criticism thanks to them, and find that this is podcast in particular is my favorite one to work out to, maybe because it makes me think and plays good music at the same time. They recommend music based on a "Buy It, Burn It, Trash It" scale which is at times hilarious. The show itself is Buy It all the way.
5. The Sound of Young America
Jesse Thorn hosts this hip and thoughtful podcast, which he updates regularly on his awesome blog, MaximumFun.org. This guy is my hero. He has interviewed all of the people I have ever wanted to meet (Janeane Garafalo, Gift of Gab, Neil Gaiman, Mike Birbiglia, Louis C.K., Ira Glass, and so so many more), and asks really thought-provoking and never patronizing questions. Perhaps my favorite part about him (aside from the fact that he's crazy talented) is that he started this show as a student at UC Santa Cruz, and his nonprofit podcast and radio empire has just multiplied since then. He also co-hosts Jordan, Jesse, Go!, which is the goofier, more casual side to Young America. A Plus to Jesse Thorn and his cronies for putting together a really fabulous DIY network.
6. The Moth
The Moth is a storytelling and open mic series that is hosted in New York City and Los Angeles. These stories are told by comedians, actors, writers, and really anyone with a fifteen-minute story who comes to the stage. The shows are organized by theme (a.k.a. "Loss," or "Animals," etc.), and are always insightful. Some of the best recordings I've ever heard were only about ten minutes long, from people I'd never heard of, but their words stayed with me. I heard a rumor that the Moth will be starting an hour-long public radio show soon, and I can't wait.
7. New Yorker Fiction Podcast
The New Yorker fiction editor Deborah Treisman hosts this monthly podcast which features a prominent writer reading his or her favorite story. The genres and styles of the stories vary greatly, as do the readers themselves, but these are the podcasts that remind me why I was a literature major, and what I could look forward to, if I ever achieve any success as a writer. The discussions before and after are really interesting, too. I first heard of Junot Diaz through a reading of one of his stories by Edwidge Danticat, and was so thrilled to find a writer who captures where I'm at right now. A great show.
8. Selected Shorts
Another great radio show out of WNYC--this one showcases live recordings of literary readings at New York City's Symphony Space. Isaiah Sheffer helps produce these evenings of short story brilliance, selects actors to perform the stories, and sometimes interviews performers and writers afterward. This is one of the shows that inspires me as a writer and reader, and sharpens my vocabulary as well. Would be a fun place to work...although I'd work for any of these podcasts for free!
9. To the Best of Our Knowledge
This Wisconsin-based PRI show tackles topics of many natures--anything from Military Identity in America to Atheism and its Critics. One of the best, most poignant radio stories I've ever heard was about how to parent transgender children. This radio could be the one thing that convinced me to move to Madison, one day.
10. NPR Live in Concert
For those broke music nerds who can't afford to see their favorite bands in concert, but do have the two hours to burn en route to and from work, this is the perfect podcast. I've used this podcast to check out bands whose work I'm not familiar with, but whose live performances seem absolutely transformative. There are a few concerts whose sets I've practically memorized--Bon Iver, Andrew Bird, the Ting Tings, Mates of State. Now this is a job I would love to have: recording and meeting all these bands. Sweet.
I thought I was exaggerating when I said ten hours of podcasts per week, but really that might be a conservative estimate. Maybe this is what happens when you grow up on PBS and NPR: maybe you have nerdy cravings for people with soothing voices deconstructing science or critiquing an old John Cheever story. Regardless, I love these podcasts in part because they make that part of the day mine, all mine, whether I am brushing my hair before work or walking up the hill home.
Oh, it feels good to be nerdy.
Comedy with an Edge
I am finally feeling San Franciscan, now that I have gotten the chance to see a live show at Cobb's Comedy Club. Ryan, Tiff and I got tickets last minute to see Wyatt Cenac, a.k.a. Correspondent to the Daily Show.
It's only recently that I've taken a sincere interest in stand-up comedy, although I've always been a huge fan of Eddie Izzard, Mitch Hedberg and Mike Birbiglia. I'd heard of Wyatt Cenac, but knew as much about him as I did the other two performers. Cenac walked onstage in military green and a smart little cap. I've heard him referred to on the Daily Show as its "Senior Black Correspondent," and his ironic coverages of the Obama campaign interspersed over the past several months have spiced up the show. On Friday, my favorite bit was his brief take on gay marriage:
"When I was growing up, my uncle told me that there was nobody more powerful than a white man. So, wouldn't TWO white men be simply unstoppable?"
He did have one bit on dating a Jewish girl that left a weird taste in my mouth:
I should mention that this followed up a particularly funny bit about how sad it is that all the words that begin with the letter N can never lay claim as "the N-word," save the racial slur. I should also mention that the reason I felt weird about the Jewish-American-Princess bit is that it (at times) rings true. I am proud to say that I have never been that girl, nor was the term "JAP" ever part of my vocabulary. However, I have heard the term being used more than once, with a hint of pride, and it made me a bit sick to my stomach.
The summer I turned 16, I had the unbelievable opportunity to spend 6 weeks in Israel. I had just completed a Confirmation class through the local synagogue, and qualified for a modest scholarship to travel with a Jewish youth organization for the summer. It was, without comparison, the best summer I've ever had, partially because it triggered a series of personal epiphanies. One of these was the discovery of the word "Jap," and an intense disgust for the subculture that it brews. The first time I heard it, I was one of about five hundred teenagers backpacking through the Negev Desert. We met a few Israelis, and one or two Arab farmers, but for the most part, the land was pristine, lush in an almost Biblical way. And somehow I felt myself separating more and more from the group of girls with whom I was assigned to travel--the ones who complained about dust and applied makeup over mountain streams.
"Oh, I'm such a Jap!" I remember one of them giggling.
"What is that supposed to mean?" I asked her.
"Oh, you know what a Jap is, you silly," said her friend.
"I know what I think it is, and it's not a good thing," I said.
They both sighed. "Jewish American Princess! Hello!" And then they laughed, kept walking.
Fast forward almost ten years, and I felt a slight chill during Cenac's performance. He's right about many things, and that's why it's important to hear it as comedy. For some reason, hearing the same bit by a white comedian would feel anti-Semitic somehow, but knowing that he himself finds himself representing a minority, whether or not he likes it, makes it better somehow. More real, more meaty, and funnier all around.
One thing's for sure, though: I'm nobody's princess, thank you very much.
It's only recently that I've taken a sincere interest in stand-up comedy, although I've always been a huge fan of Eddie Izzard, Mitch Hedberg and Mike Birbiglia. I'd heard of Wyatt Cenac, but knew as much about him as I did the other two performers. Cenac walked onstage in military green and a smart little cap. I've heard him referred to on the Daily Show as its "Senior Black Correspondent," and his ironic coverages of the Obama campaign interspersed over the past several months have spiced up the show. On Friday, my favorite bit was his brief take on gay marriage:
"When I was growing up, my uncle told me that there was nobody more powerful than a white man. So, wouldn't TWO white men be simply unstoppable?"
He did have one bit on dating a Jewish girl that left a weird taste in my mouth:
I should mention that this followed up a particularly funny bit about how sad it is that all the words that begin with the letter N can never lay claim as "the N-word," save the racial slur. I should also mention that the reason I felt weird about the Jewish-American-Princess bit is that it (at times) rings true. I am proud to say that I have never been that girl, nor was the term "JAP" ever part of my vocabulary. However, I have heard the term being used more than once, with a hint of pride, and it made me a bit sick to my stomach.
The summer I turned 16, I had the unbelievable opportunity to spend 6 weeks in Israel. I had just completed a Confirmation class through the local synagogue, and qualified for a modest scholarship to travel with a Jewish youth organization for the summer. It was, without comparison, the best summer I've ever had, partially because it triggered a series of personal epiphanies. One of these was the discovery of the word "Jap," and an intense disgust for the subculture that it brews. The first time I heard it, I was one of about five hundred teenagers backpacking through the Negev Desert. We met a few Israelis, and one or two Arab farmers, but for the most part, the land was pristine, lush in an almost Biblical way. And somehow I felt myself separating more and more from the group of girls with whom I was assigned to travel--the ones who complained about dust and applied makeup over mountain streams.
"Oh, I'm such a Jap!" I remember one of them giggling.
"What is that supposed to mean?" I asked her.
"Oh, you know what a Jap is, you silly," said her friend.
"I know what I think it is, and it's not a good thing," I said.
They both sighed. "Jewish American Princess! Hello!" And then they laughed, kept walking.
Fast forward almost ten years, and I felt a slight chill during Cenac's performance. He's right about many things, and that's why it's important to hear it as comedy. For some reason, hearing the same bit by a white comedian would feel anti-Semitic somehow, but knowing that he himself finds himself representing a minority, whether or not he likes it, makes it better somehow. More real, more meaty, and funnier all around.
One thing's for sure, though: I'm nobody's princess, thank you very much.
The Joys of Science
This is an underwater perspective of the California Academy of Sciences, perhaps the greatest interactive science museum on Earth. Or, at the very least, in San Francisco. My friend Tiff and I made our first visit to the recently renovated center in Golden Gate Park today, and spent the better part of the day there.
First stop was the Rainforests of the World exhibit, a four-story glass globe that has visitors wandering through the layers of a tropical climate. There were butterflies everywhere, and by butterflies, I mean crazy flits of orange, blue and green that would land on your nose if you weren't careful. There were little yellow birds and tiny tree frogs hidden along the way like Easter eggs. For a few short hours I remembered the rush of enthusiasm that I used to feel for the Sacramento Zoo or the Monterrey Bay Aquarium. Science was cool, and you could touch it.
It was a surprisingly sunny afternoon, so our jaunt to the Living Roof was especially nice. I felt a like a Hobbit, or maybe Laura Ingalls Wilder when she describes the house at Plum Creek. From our vantage point we could see the de Young museum, the Japanese Tea Garden and the Shakespeare Garden. We were surrounded in a sea of little purple flowers and circular windows popping out of domes.
As cool as the California Academy of Sciences was, the best part of our day in the park was actually witnessing the California Outdoor Rollerskating Association's tribute to Michael Jackson. There is literally nothing cooler than seeing people in glittery hot pants do the zombie dance on skates.
How to Coach Soccer Without Being Good at It
This is my soccer team. Or rather, this was my soccer team. Friday was my last big soccer game with the international students at Kaplan Aspect, the English language school where I've been working the past two years. In this photo, we represent the following countries: Russia, Spain, Germany, Turkey, Saudi Arabia, Peru, Korea, Brazil, Kazakhstan, France, Switzerland, South Africa, and the U.S. It was a beautiful day at Golden Gate Park, and for once we had the whole field to ourselves.
I started a soccer club at Kaplan about a year ago, when our Activities and Student Services Manager asked me if I could help her out by leading weekly and monthly activities. The group has alternately shrunk and expanded as each subsequent group of students has come and gone; first I had a wave of serious players who wanted to help me rent out Balboa Park, then there were the chill Japanese guys with the fanciest footwork I'd ever seen, and even, when I was the lucky, the occasional girl. For months all we had was a single soccer ball, and then when my friend Itaru left for Japan, he gave me another one. Eventually I bought a pump, and my colleague surprised me for Christmas with a set of bright orange cones.
We've wandered around different parts of the Park--usually Hippie Hill, near Haight St., or behind the baseball field at 7th and Lincoln. Sometimes I could convince them to ride the 5 bus out to Marx Meadows, which added ten minutes to our public transit journey, but afforded us longer, sunnier fields. Once we got kicked off the Polo fields, and once we had to settle for a small patch of land between bramble bushes.
The most amazing thing about soccer is that no matter who came, and how they identified with the sport, once we started the game, everyone relaxed. Those who claimed to be "too good" for our squirrel-studded fields and chastised me for playing without shin guards eventually forgot their complaints and focused on the game. Those who had never played before, and insisted that they had only come to take photos, eventually found themselves gravitating from the sidelines to the field. This last game I felt especially proud because I had finally gotten a Korean girl to play, and she was fantastic.
There are few things more universal than sports, and, at the risk of sounding cheesy, there are few things more gratifying than knowing you've somehow managed to bring an entire community of English-language-learners together. Huzzah.
Falling In --
Every now and then I have one of those absolutely perfect weekends. You know the kind: when you can stay up as late as you feel, and wake up whenever the light hits you right. When you are active and feel all the cells buzzing around inside you with the same electricity as that summer pulse that fills the air. When the moon is just nearly full, and you are just nearly infatuated with it all, or at the very least, the person laying next to you on the lawn. That was the kind of weekend I had.
It helped that it was the Fourth of July, and that Friday was a day off work, and that the Sacramento River was clean and clear just past noon. There are little clusters of swallow nests that bead the underside of the Knights Landing bridge, and they were all absent, empty. Instead, the birds filled the air, swooping in even arcs above us as we passed the fishermen with their lines cutting the water fresh.
It was hot, but not hazy, and the air hummed with cicadas and grasshoppers. Waterskiing is an exercise in defeating gravity. My favorite feeling is when the water is glassy smooth, and while speeding above the water, you can lean over and dip your fingers down into the spray. On days like Friday, clear water makes for a perfect mirror image.
Saturday was just as nice, between the bustling farmer's market and the bicycle races circling downtown Davis. It reminded me of the Triplets of Belleville, watching all these muscled men and women stream by in dizzying pelatons. Ryan and I drove back to San Francisco in time for the fireworks show down by Pier 39. We took the J Church MUNI downtown -- my favorite train, the one that reminds me of Mr. Roger's Neighborhood in the way it snakes over and through Dolores Park.
The Wharf was filled with tourists, vendors selling flashing wands and teenagers barely hiding their bags of alcohol. We wandered out onto the edge of the dock, the smell of churros and bacon-wrapped hot dogs overpowering the wafts of gunpowder. It was, by all means, an extraordinary evening. There were actually two dueling sets of fireworks: one above Pier 39, near the water, and one on the other side of Coit Tower, which we could barely make out on the other side of Telegraph Hill. For every bright explosion, we saw its cousin mirrored in the sky just beyond the hill.
The spirit of the Fourth was no less strong today. I woke up to the sound of firecrackers down the street. We biked down to see the San Francisco Mime Troupe perform "Too Big to Fail" at Dolores Park. The actors and musicians had set up a wooden stage adjacent to the tennis courts, and the sunlight did indeed finally peek through the mid-afternoon fog. The entire play seemed like the unlikely love child of NPR's "Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me!" news quiz and any kid-friendly PBS show. Basically, the writers pared down the 2008 economic meltdown to a greedy frenzy for credit, which was the best explanation of our current market that I've heard. That, and it involved musical numbers and a woman dressed as a huge shark.
And now, somehow, it's Sunday evening, and the spell of summer is beginning to lift. Work again tomorrow. Ryan is back home. The fog has rolled in. Rent due. Grocery shopping. Vacuuming the room, sweeping up remnants of the past few weeks--ticket stubs, photos, programs, postcards from Chile, Greece. I am reminded again of why I must always return to the keyboard: to remember it all, because none of it lasts long.
Un ejercicio de idioma
De vez en cuando, me siento la necesidad de practicar espanol. Hace mucho tiempo que he usado el espanol duante mi vida cotidiana. Oigo el castellano en mi oficina, especialmente durante el verano, cuando tenemos muchos estudiantes hispanohablantes aqui para aprender ingles. Mi capacidad para escuchar no ha cambiado mucho durante los dos anos desde que sali de Espana, porque durante el dia estoy rodeada de espanol. Pero la urgencia de expresar, la habilidad de explicar conceptos, y la gramatica fundamantal--estas cosas me han empeorado (sabes lo que te digo?!) un monton.
Hay dias cuando entran un grupo de espanoles hablando muy rapido en espanol, y siempre asumen que no les entiendo. Ya no he decidido si me satisfecho mas si les respondo directamente en espanol, para que no me digan cosas privadas, o si es mejor esperar unos dias para que intenten hablar conmigo en ingles primero. Ayer, dos mujeres hispanohablantes(parecian espanoles, aunque pueden ser latinoamericanas) pasaron por la escuela para preguntar cosas sobre los programas, y me vieron mirandolas.
"Jo, ves que nos esta viendo?" la primera dijo a la segunda.
"Da igual, porque no nos entiende," la segunda respondio.
Estuve sonriendo cuando me vieron, y casi dije algo en espanol, pero decidi que era mas importante esperar. Recorde la escuela donde trabaje en La Cala de Mijas, en el sur de Espana, y los padres britanicos que siempre asumian que nadie les entendian cuando hablaban en ingles. A veces decian cosas terribles a los camareros, los baristas o los camioneros, y cada vez me sentia una verguenza universal. La cortesia debe ser algo universal, internacional, sin frontera, si quieres. Pero la realidad es que todo el mundo hace el mismo error: todo el mundo vive en su propio mundo pequeno, donde las unicas fronteras son los que construye si misma para protegerse de la ignorancia de otros. Ironico, no, como queremos evitar la ignorancia, pero es casi imposible ver la ignorancia en que ya vivimos?
Bueno, al final, no dije nada, pero he creado una nueva manera de responder a los estudiantes que me hablan en espanol. Cuando les veo hablando en la escuela, y cuando ya lo se que realmente hablan y entienden el ingles, les digo: "Por favor!" y sigo trabajando. Lo hice ayer con un grupito de espanolas, y empezaron a reir, deciendo, "Pero hablas espanol, no?" Sonrie, y segui trabajando.
Hay dias cuando entran un grupo de espanoles hablando muy rapido en espanol, y siempre asumen que no les entiendo. Ya no he decidido si me satisfecho mas si les respondo directamente en espanol, para que no me digan cosas privadas, o si es mejor esperar unos dias para que intenten hablar conmigo en ingles primero. Ayer, dos mujeres hispanohablantes(parecian espanoles, aunque pueden ser latinoamericanas) pasaron por la escuela para preguntar cosas sobre los programas, y me vieron mirandolas.
"Jo, ves que nos esta viendo?" la primera dijo a la segunda.
"Da igual, porque no nos entiende," la segunda respondio.
Estuve sonriendo cuando me vieron, y casi dije algo en espanol, pero decidi que era mas importante esperar. Recorde la escuela donde trabaje en La Cala de Mijas, en el sur de Espana, y los padres britanicos que siempre asumian que nadie les entendian cuando hablaban en ingles. A veces decian cosas terribles a los camareros, los baristas o los camioneros, y cada vez me sentia una verguenza universal. La cortesia debe ser algo universal, internacional, sin frontera, si quieres. Pero la realidad es que todo el mundo hace el mismo error: todo el mundo vive en su propio mundo pequeno, donde las unicas fronteras son los que construye si misma para protegerse de la ignorancia de otros. Ironico, no, como queremos evitar la ignorancia, pero es casi imposible ver la ignorancia en que ya vivimos?
Bueno, al final, no dije nada, pero he creado una nueva manera de responder a los estudiantes que me hablan en espanol. Cuando les veo hablando en la escuela, y cuando ya lo se que realmente hablan y entienden el ingles, les digo: "Por favor!" y sigo trabajando. Lo hice ayer con un grupito de espanolas, y empezaron a reir, deciendo, "Pero hablas espanol, no?" Sonrie, y segui trabajando.
Stochasticity, or: RadioLab is the pretty much the best thing since sliced bread
Five Days Later
Eloquence.
I heard an interview with Regina Spektor on Kurt Anderson's PRI show, Studio 360, and found myself humming on the bus this morning. Not only can she sing and play the piano, but she's one of those quietly articulate people who says really intelligent things when provoked.
I want to be one of those people. You know, those eloquent people, who share their strongest opinions in the most convincing and respectful ways. Instead my thoughts often mirror the language pattern of the international students with whom I work: I start the week as a native English speaker, a competent and clear individual, and by Friday I find myself forgetting key verbs or qualifiers.
Today, while waiting for the elevator, my boss asked me about my upcoming trip to Chile.
"When are you going?" she wanted to know.
"Five days later," I said, my voice halting in that oh-so-familiar imitation of an English speaker who is slowly gaining confidence.
"Five days after?" she said.
"Yes." I thought a moment. "I leave for Chile five days after my last day at work."
We both laughed, but I found myself momentarily worried. I claim to be such a good communicator, and yet--I blamed it on the sunny day outside, and the post-lunch blood sugar rise and fall.
Michelle Obama is eloquent. She was in San Francisco recently, at a conference for nonprofits. It is so refreshing to see a strong, intelligent woman role model in the news. A strong, intelligent woman of color in the news. A strong, intelligent, educated woman of color who's going to help change a few things in this confused, multicultural and bizarre land of "plenty." I saw the work she's done with the White House garden and am so thrilled to have a strong, intelligent, educated green woman feeding our country.
Maybe eloquence isn't just about the way you speak or the things you do. Maybe it's about the lifestyle you adopt, the decisions you make, the reasons why you vote. I actually believe that eloquence is the act of remembering to stop before you do anything. And I don't mean stop-and-smell-the-roses; I mean stop, period. Do one thing at a time, and do it entirely. Own who you are, and be proud of it. Ask questions. And then, when you've stopped long enough to accomplish what you're doing, start again.
So, while I might be going to Chile five days later, while I might erupt into low-blood-sugar giggles at inopportune times, while I might not be going to Yale or earning a sizable salary, I am finally learning to stop, breathe, do what I'm doing, and then move on.
I heard an interview with Regina Spektor on Kurt Anderson's PRI show, Studio 360, and found myself humming on the bus this morning. Not only can she sing and play the piano, but she's one of those quietly articulate people who says really intelligent things when provoked.
I want to be one of those people. You know, those eloquent people, who share their strongest opinions in the most convincing and respectful ways. Instead my thoughts often mirror the language pattern of the international students with whom I work: I start the week as a native English speaker, a competent and clear individual, and by Friday I find myself forgetting key verbs or qualifiers.
Today, while waiting for the elevator, my boss asked me about my upcoming trip to Chile.
"When are you going?" she wanted to know.
"Five days later," I said, my voice halting in that oh-so-familiar imitation of an English speaker who is slowly gaining confidence.
"Five days after?" she said.
"Yes." I thought a moment. "I leave for Chile five days after my last day at work."
We both laughed, but I found myself momentarily worried. I claim to be such a good communicator, and yet--I blamed it on the sunny day outside, and the post-lunch blood sugar rise and fall.
Michelle Obama is eloquent. She was in San Francisco recently, at a conference for nonprofits. It is so refreshing to see a strong, intelligent woman role model in the news. A strong, intelligent woman of color in the news. A strong, intelligent, educated woman of color who's going to help change a few things in this confused, multicultural and bizarre land of "plenty." I saw the work she's done with the White House garden and am so thrilled to have a strong, intelligent, educated green woman feeding our country.
Maybe eloquence isn't just about the way you speak or the things you do. Maybe it's about the lifestyle you adopt, the decisions you make, the reasons why you vote. I actually believe that eloquence is the act of remembering to stop before you do anything. And I don't mean stop-and-smell-the-roses; I mean stop, period. Do one thing at a time, and do it entirely. Own who you are, and be proud of it. Ask questions. And then, when you've stopped long enough to accomplish what you're doing, start again.
So, while I might be going to Chile five days later, while I might erupt into low-blood-sugar giggles at inopportune times, while I might not be going to Yale or earning a sizable salary, I am finally learning to stop, breathe, do what I'm doing, and then move on.
In honor of Mark Twain
Summer hangs sweet in the air like honey.
Or it would, if San Francisco had a regular summer like the rest of the world.
Summer in San Francisco has its own alchemy: instead of relying on vitamin d and long outdoor hours, the city lives off social electricity, music festivals and taquerias and cafes and the rare sunny day at Dolores Park. This year the fog doesn't depress me; rather it is the one constant during a time of personal change. I'm finishing my last few weeks as an International Student Advisor at an international school downtown and will begin an M.F.A. program at San Francisco State in late August. I have three weeks between my last day at work and my first day at school, two of which I plan to spend in Chile with my best friend Laurel. I finally got full-size sheets on my first full-size bed. My mother is retiring, most of my friends split their time between grad school, full-time employment, and traveling the world, and we have a fabulous president for the first time since I was twelve years old.
Life is good.
Except Ahmadinejad won (allegedly) the presidential election in Iran. Except for that, and the murder of a Holocaust Memorial guard in D.C., and the rising prices of education, life is damn good. Summer is the best time of year, even when the MUNI lines light up in the damp evening fog, and bikinis are reserved for the rare trip inland. I feel the need to dig deep for the stories that, soon enough, I'll be required to produce, and yet my mind needs tilling. It's time to turn over the sod that two years of admin does to your head.
Last week, we had to say goodbye to a group of thirty students who had completed our longest-offered program, the Academic Year. I've met hundreds, perhaps thousands, of students since I started my job in spring 2008, and there are always a few students in every group that stand out. This particular group, however, were not just students--they were peers. I felt that our school matured with them, as we perfected our customer service and fine-tuned our academics. Many of these students began their English studies in our lowest level, and progressed through the cycles to our more advanced classes. Many of them were in my own classes. One of them was our intern. They were a group of men and women from Japan, Russia, France, China, Korea, and Germany. Both individually and as a group, they made an impression on me, and reminded me that being good at any job, even if it is not your dream job, has its rewards, and they can be overpowering.
In the tradition of all things exciting, the transition from full-time worker to full-time student is a bit daunting. Am I really a writer? I keep asking myself. Is this the right investment? What will I get from this? To be fair, these are all questions I've asked of my current job, and previous ones as well. What is the best way to be professional in this world? Does it even matter?
It helps that, for the first time in many months, I find myself gravitating toward a relationship I hadn't expected. I had forgotten how wonderful it is to learn the little intimate details of another person, the small things that he might not reveal to just anyone, and how all the bullshit tends to fall by the wayside. In many ways, I feel like things are fuller, rounder, and more complete, and those things that are beyond our control are just that -- beyond.
Job ending. Students leaving. Travel planned. Boys with glasses. Sounds like summer.
the coldest winter in my life was a summer in San Francisco -- Mark Twain
Or it would, if San Francisco had a regular summer like the rest of the world.
Summer in San Francisco has its own alchemy: instead of relying on vitamin d and long outdoor hours, the city lives off social electricity, music festivals and taquerias and cafes and the rare sunny day at Dolores Park. This year the fog doesn't depress me; rather it is the one constant during a time of personal change. I'm finishing my last few weeks as an International Student Advisor at an international school downtown and will begin an M.F.A. program at San Francisco State in late August. I have three weeks between my last day at work and my first day at school, two of which I plan to spend in Chile with my best friend Laurel. I finally got full-size sheets on my first full-size bed. My mother is retiring, most of my friends split their time between grad school, full-time employment, and traveling the world, and we have a fabulous president for the first time since I was twelve years old.
Life is good.
Except Ahmadinejad won (allegedly) the presidential election in Iran. Except for that, and the murder of a Holocaust Memorial guard in D.C., and the rising prices of education, life is damn good. Summer is the best time of year, even when the MUNI lines light up in the damp evening fog, and bikinis are reserved for the rare trip inland. I feel the need to dig deep for the stories that, soon enough, I'll be required to produce, and yet my mind needs tilling. It's time to turn over the sod that two years of admin does to your head.
Last week, we had to say goodbye to a group of thirty students who had completed our longest-offered program, the Academic Year. I've met hundreds, perhaps thousands, of students since I started my job in spring 2008, and there are always a few students in every group that stand out. This particular group, however, were not just students--they were peers. I felt that our school matured with them, as we perfected our customer service and fine-tuned our academics. Many of these students began their English studies in our lowest level, and progressed through the cycles to our more advanced classes. Many of them were in my own classes. One of them was our intern. They were a group of men and women from Japan, Russia, France, China, Korea, and Germany. Both individually and as a group, they made an impression on me, and reminded me that being good at any job, even if it is not your dream job, has its rewards, and they can be overpowering.
In the tradition of all things exciting, the transition from full-time worker to full-time student is a bit daunting. Am I really a writer? I keep asking myself. Is this the right investment? What will I get from this? To be fair, these are all questions I've asked of my current job, and previous ones as well. What is the best way to be professional in this world? Does it even matter?
It helps that, for the first time in many months, I find myself gravitating toward a relationship I hadn't expected. I had forgotten how wonderful it is to learn the little intimate details of another person, the small things that he might not reveal to just anyone, and how all the bullshit tends to fall by the wayside. In many ways, I feel like things are fuller, rounder, and more complete, and those things that are beyond our control are just that -- beyond.
Job ending. Students leaving. Travel planned. Boys with glasses. Sounds like summer.
the coldest winter in my life was a summer in San Francisco -- Mark Twain
What independence feels like, again
I moved to a different apartment last weekend, and perhaps my favorite thing about it is my fire escape. Fire escape. That just might be the most poetic combination of English words I can imagine. Fire. Passion. Power. Energy. Escape. Freedom. Possibility. Potential. And the two together: the best possible place to sit in the evening, watching the buses as they pass, listening to the pops and whirs of the Chinese restaurant just downstairs, admiring the moon as it rises.
I forgot how much I like the quiet. How nice the evenings are in early spring. How green Glen Park is, and how promising it is to be alone, but not lonely.
Passover starts this week. Passover has always been one of my favorite holidays because it requires its observers to worship storytelling itself. Everything we eat and everything we do is a symbol of something mythical, something legendary, something worthy of retelling. Perhaps my most recent interpretation of religion can be summed up in the way I eat: matzoh ball soup with a side of applewood bacon, green salad and oranges. And yet everything I eat has a story behind it: the butcher's shop down the block with its retro decor, the avocadoes that remind me of my Haitian friends in Spain.
My life right now is that awkward moment between decisions. Do I go to grad school this year? Do I wait it out? Do I work? Do I travel? Is it possible to do all of the above? Waiting is hard for me, and yet I find peace in indecision. It's a bit like waiting for a flower to open. I'm still stuck as a bud.
Stay tuned...
I forgot how much I like the quiet. How nice the evenings are in early spring. How green Glen Park is, and how promising it is to be alone, but not lonely.
Passover starts this week. Passover has always been one of my favorite holidays because it requires its observers to worship storytelling itself. Everything we eat and everything we do is a symbol of something mythical, something legendary, something worthy of retelling. Perhaps my most recent interpretation of religion can be summed up in the way I eat: matzoh ball soup with a side of applewood bacon, green salad and oranges. And yet everything I eat has a story behind it: the butcher's shop down the block with its retro decor, the avocadoes that remind me of my Haitian friends in Spain.
My life right now is that awkward moment between decisions. Do I go to grad school this year? Do I wait it out? Do I work? Do I travel? Is it possible to do all of the above? Waiting is hard for me, and yet I find peace in indecision. It's a bit like waiting for a flower to open. I'm still stuck as a bud.
Stay tuned...
Mills College!
I got in!
To Mills!
College!
For writing!
I am using this space to indicate a level of excitement that supercedes my need to write properly.
My mom bought me these Shepherd-Ferry-Obama-"Change" earrings back in October. I think finally that message has seeped into my personal life, and that, my friends, is long-awaited.
:)
To Mills!
College!
For writing!
I am using this space to indicate a level of excitement that supercedes my need to write properly.
My mom bought me these Shepherd-Ferry-Obama-"Change" earrings back in October. I think finally that message has seeped into my personal life, and that, my friends, is long-awaited.
:)
The joys of Engrish
I am helping produce an ESL newsletter for our school. Every Wednesday I teach a study club for an hour and a half, where I perch on tables in our fifth-floor lunch room with a cluster of would-be journalists to talk about writing. Each month we produce one issue for the following month.
The longer I work with international students, the bigger kick I get out of the way we all (not just ESL learners) communicate. Here's a sampling of our current headlines and stories:
DUSTIN: MMM, HIS STUDENTS, AND JUICY
(an "in-depth" interview with a teacher about March Mustache Madness, with a reference to a Dating Game play we performed a few weeks ago, in which a fellow male coworker dressed in drag as a girl named 'Juicy')
RUSSIA: WELCOME TO OUR 11 TIME ZONES
THE ART OF CORALINE
DR. NICK & HIS NURSE
(this is our version of "Dear Abby," as written by a Chinese kid who wants to be a psychologist, and his sarcastic Brazilian friend)
and, one of my personal favorites, a student comic which depicts a group of pigeons trying to speak English.
I forgot how much of a better human being I am when I get to do creative things. Our newsletter has been a big success, and I have learned so much by the sheer force of student enthusiasm. Not only that, but in between registering students in classes, grading level tests, organizing orientation materials, and answering the phone, I can also devote a healthy amount of time to a group project that actually students together, in English.
Writing has always been my indoor bird, the fierce and forgotten passion that keeps banging itself against the window. Maybe one day it will open. I want to write and be inspired and offer creative ideas. It's taken me a little while to realize that banging my head against my own windows--comparing myself to others, worrying about the rent, failing to find the time to write and read--is the act of creative expression itself. I'm so grateful to recognize that there's a window there in the first place.
In the meantime, I inadvertently pick up ESL grammatical mistakes, and get to show students exactly how expressive they are, and can be.
The longer I work with international students, the bigger kick I get out of the way we all (not just ESL learners) communicate. Here's a sampling of our current headlines and stories:
DUSTIN: MMM, HIS STUDENTS, AND JUICY
(an "in-depth" interview with a teacher about March Mustache Madness, with a reference to a Dating Game play we performed a few weeks ago, in which a fellow male coworker dressed in drag as a girl named 'Juicy')
RUSSIA: WELCOME TO OUR 11 TIME ZONES
THE ART OF CORALINE
DR. NICK & HIS NURSE
(this is our version of "Dear Abby," as written by a Chinese kid who wants to be a psychologist, and his sarcastic Brazilian friend)
and, one of my personal favorites, a student comic which depicts a group of pigeons trying to speak English.
I forgot how much of a better human being I am when I get to do creative things. Our newsletter has been a big success, and I have learned so much by the sheer force of student enthusiasm. Not only that, but in between registering students in classes, grading level tests, organizing orientation materials, and answering the phone, I can also devote a healthy amount of time to a group project that actually students together, in English.
Writing has always been my indoor bird, the fierce and forgotten passion that keeps banging itself against the window. Maybe one day it will open. I want to write and be inspired and offer creative ideas. It's taken me a little while to realize that banging my head against my own windows--comparing myself to others, worrying about the rent, failing to find the time to write and read--is the act of creative expression itself. I'm so grateful to recognize that there's a window there in the first place.
In the meantime, I inadvertently pick up ESL grammatical mistakes, and get to show students exactly how expressive they are, and can be.
2.10.01
Every year it's a bit different.
The first year, it was tragic. Every detail of February 10 was etched so clearly in my mind: the hard calluses on my palms from rowing competitions, the uncanny thirst in the back of my throat, that sinking feeling that I'd be doomed to adolescence forever. There were details that I'd attributed as somehow significant: the tulip painting on the hospital wall, the blue lights of the Tower Theatre mirroring the scene from the Sacramento River, the haunting chords of a Dave Matthews song. Everything is epic at 16 years old. What boys think is important. What teachers say could influence career choices. And what a body feels like--there are few things that dictate puberty more than the clash of control and instinct.
The second year, the memory was no less vivid. The illusion of control followed me to a more adult life--my freshman year of college. I circled the Lagoon that day, watching the gulls hem the coastline, realizing with a sudden finality that growing up meant taking ownership over imperfect organs.
Every year it changes. Those first three years, February seemed so mournful. I wrote poems to cells. I was still angry. I explained everything all the time to anyone who so much as blinked in my direction.
The fourth year I was abroad. That was the year I decided an anniversary didn't have to be sad. We landed on Tenerife, in the Canary Islands, at midnight, and the minute it was February 10, I felt something new: defiance, in the form of optimism. And then I got dressed for Carnaval and learned how to relax in Spanish.
This eighth year, February 10 means something entirely different. February 10 is pancreas day, Julia day, adulthood day. I feel extraordinarily lucky. Not everyone can pinpoint the loss of idealism to one specific day. There are so few moments of perfect drama in our lives--of actual, novel-worthy frustration, unembellished, random crises of faith. For so many people, personal tragedy is not something so easily calculated: how does one quantify depression? Or the injustice of homophobia? Of lost opportunity to some invisible, imperfect law of human nature?
Mine is an unfairness I can chart, plot, and review. Mine is a plague of minimal pain. Mine is never a solitary journey. Mine is the confusion that actual life plots for all of us--the rearrangement of meals, the reminder that nobody is invincible, that there are consequences to every decision. Diabetes has always been a lesson in opportunity cost and effect, and while I never really appreciated my high school economics class, these things are more easily understood when one measures them in the form of a finger prick.
Eight years later, I no longer wonder who I'd be without diabetes. I'd be someone else, with some other Trojan horse, accomplishing other things. It doesn't matter. I am who I am just as a tree is just a tree, and a dog is just a dog. There is comfort to be found in identifying as something or someone. I am a diabetic, but I am also a woman, and a professional, a friend, a daughter, a sister, a person with opinions and aspirations. And, at times, catapulting blood sugar.
February 10. I look forward to the year that there are even more important anniversaries than this one.
The first year, it was tragic. Every detail of February 10 was etched so clearly in my mind: the hard calluses on my palms from rowing competitions, the uncanny thirst in the back of my throat, that sinking feeling that I'd be doomed to adolescence forever. There were details that I'd attributed as somehow significant: the tulip painting on the hospital wall, the blue lights of the Tower Theatre mirroring the scene from the Sacramento River, the haunting chords of a Dave Matthews song. Everything is epic at 16 years old. What boys think is important. What teachers say could influence career choices. And what a body feels like--there are few things that dictate puberty more than the clash of control and instinct.
The second year, the memory was no less vivid. The illusion of control followed me to a more adult life--my freshman year of college. I circled the Lagoon that day, watching the gulls hem the coastline, realizing with a sudden finality that growing up meant taking ownership over imperfect organs.
Every year it changes. Those first three years, February seemed so mournful. I wrote poems to cells. I was still angry. I explained everything all the time to anyone who so much as blinked in my direction.
The fourth year I was abroad. That was the year I decided an anniversary didn't have to be sad. We landed on Tenerife, in the Canary Islands, at midnight, and the minute it was February 10, I felt something new: defiance, in the form of optimism. And then I got dressed for Carnaval and learned how to relax in Spanish.
This eighth year, February 10 means something entirely different. February 10 is pancreas day, Julia day, adulthood day. I feel extraordinarily lucky. Not everyone can pinpoint the loss of idealism to one specific day. There are so few moments of perfect drama in our lives--of actual, novel-worthy frustration, unembellished, random crises of faith. For so many people, personal tragedy is not something so easily calculated: how does one quantify depression? Or the injustice of homophobia? Of lost opportunity to some invisible, imperfect law of human nature?
Mine is an unfairness I can chart, plot, and review. Mine is a plague of minimal pain. Mine is never a solitary journey. Mine is the confusion that actual life plots for all of us--the rearrangement of meals, the reminder that nobody is invincible, that there are consequences to every decision. Diabetes has always been a lesson in opportunity cost and effect, and while I never really appreciated my high school economics class, these things are more easily understood when one measures them in the form of a finger prick.
Eight years later, I no longer wonder who I'd be without diabetes. I'd be someone else, with some other Trojan horse, accomplishing other things. It doesn't matter. I am who I am just as a tree is just a tree, and a dog is just a dog. There is comfort to be found in identifying as something or someone. I am a diabetic, but I am also a woman, and a professional, a friend, a daughter, a sister, a person with opinions and aspirations. And, at times, catapulting blood sugar.
February 10. I look forward to the year that there are even more important anniversaries than this one.
Poem I Like
Keeping Things Whole
by Mark Strand
In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.
When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.
We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.
by Mark Strand
In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.
When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.
We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.
two thousand nine
There's a certain ring to it, isn't there? As a child, I always preferred odd numbers. I love the fact that numbers can be imperfect, like the universe. This will be a good year.
I wish I had something prophetic to say. I wish I were wise. My body has more wisdom than my brain does, and it's rare that the two communicate. I can say that there is a looming momentum to this particular year, with the promise of a new administration.
Here's what I hope to see in 2009:
1. More, not less, jobs. I'd love to join the forces of Obama's version of the New Deal--if he's reading this, I'll up and move to Tennessee if that means I can get a job recording oral histories of our first Work Progress Administration.
2. Mobilization, on both the grass-roots and corporate levels, for guaranteed civil liberties. For once, I'd like to see the government pass amendments that grant rights, not deny them.
3. I want a continuous blood glucose monitoring system--yet another piece of diabetic hardware that could help pinpoint the times of day when my body flips over inside.
Here's my open invitation to the new year:
1. 2009, I'm offering you my open palms, blossoming confidence, my willingness to work, unadulterated opinion and indiscreet expression, and a damn fine promise to avoid skepticism.
I'll try. You try too. Maybe everyone will. Maybe this will be the year global warming doesn't accelerate quite so fast, that the world sees the United States as just that -- an entity of diverse opinions. Maybe we'll all get ponies. I don't really want a pony. I just want an incentive, a carrot at the end of my stick.
two thousand nine. Good things will happen. Let's see.
I wish I had something prophetic to say. I wish I were wise. My body has more wisdom than my brain does, and it's rare that the two communicate. I can say that there is a looming momentum to this particular year, with the promise of a new administration.
Here's what I hope to see in 2009:
1. More, not less, jobs. I'd love to join the forces of Obama's version of the New Deal--if he's reading this, I'll up and move to Tennessee if that means I can get a job recording oral histories of our first Work Progress Administration.
2. Mobilization, on both the grass-roots and corporate levels, for guaranteed civil liberties. For once, I'd like to see the government pass amendments that grant rights, not deny them.
3. I want a continuous blood glucose monitoring system--yet another piece of diabetic hardware that could help pinpoint the times of day when my body flips over inside.
Here's my open invitation to the new year:
1. 2009, I'm offering you my open palms, blossoming confidence, my willingness to work, unadulterated opinion and indiscreet expression, and a damn fine promise to avoid skepticism.
I'll try. You try too. Maybe everyone will. Maybe this will be the year global warming doesn't accelerate quite so fast, that the world sees the United States as just that -- an entity of diverse opinions. Maybe we'll all get ponies. I don't really want a pony. I just want an incentive, a carrot at the end of my stick.
two thousand nine. Good things will happen. Let's see.
Thoughtlets
I am transcribing journals from my year spent teaching in Spain. There are three bulky ones, the day-to-day ones, and four slim pocket-size libretas, the ones for expressions and new vocabulary words. Transcription is a tiring process, but rewriting--that's a process I really enjoy. Many times, when rereading old journal entries, I'll find these little tidbits, thoughtlets, really, that could easily replace pages of foreign-correspondent-description. Here's one I just found tonight:
When I left I split your mirror in half
I keep my half in my pocket
And when I look down to see you
There I am, reflected back
Across an ocean, a year, a novel, a song.
I might have been thinking about a boy I left behind in California. It could have been Santa Barbara, or university life in general, or even my country as a whole. The truth is, I still feel that way, about most anyone and anything that has ever meant anything to me.
In a way, so much of our lives are defined by cleaving things into pieces. Cells divide. People meet, fall in love, drift apart. Decisions are made, cities change, things grow and die. What do we actually remember, and stays remembered inside us?
When I left I split your mirror in half
I keep my half in my pocket
And when I look down to see you
There I am, reflected back
Across an ocean, a year, a novel, a song.
I might have been thinking about a boy I left behind in California. It could have been Santa Barbara, or university life in general, or even my country as a whole. The truth is, I still feel that way, about most anyone and anything that has ever meant anything to me.
In a way, so much of our lives are defined by cleaving things into pieces. Cells divide. People meet, fall in love, drift apart. Decisions are made, cities change, things grow and die. What do we actually remember, and stays remembered inside us?